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every other day


23 OCT 06

Dear light you are blood from me a vein through sky a conspiracy theory you are making me move with my writing you are making my fingers broken sticks you are saying alone as if this word is soft and cool you will trash my machine box, bite my wire.

[Text from the limited-edition chapbook from Flashes by Jennifer Firestone, out recently from Sona Books. See the cover, read excerpts, & find purchase information here. Don't wait too long.]

 

21 OCT 06

cover of The Wash


2 poems from The Wash by Adam Clay:


[Our Hands Sailing]


Our Hands sailing all day--
the night, a blanket gone black,
The night never known until one is waist-deep in it.

It stains my eyes--the water looks bruised.

 

Of the faces seen drifting in the wake of our boat,
My Father's stare is the deepest.

 

This river does strange things to men.

My hands are not my own,
                                     The blood runs purple
In my veins--no birds in sight--the Weather quite rough, all day,
We have made a bad Landing according to my ideas--

 

Dream of the Path from Essex


Four days with no birds, empty nests everywhere,
and I expect the void to stretch farther
than sound into the next year. The idea of a bird
will not come near either, but the sky falls nightly
around my voice and this song is mine no more.

 

19 OCT 06
Adam Clay


I am so looking forward to reading again with Adam Clay: a wonderful poet, a beautiful reader, a genuinely good person with whom to talk and travel. Okay, I like him, I admit it. Adam is coming all the way from Michigan to read in Matt and Katy Henriksen's Burning Chair this Saturday night in Williamsburg--don't miss the opportunity to hear him. He'll be packing copies of his new book, The Wash, hot off the press. (I'll have mine too.)

The details:

The Burning Chair Readings
presents a night of the ordinary & mysterious
w/ Adam Clay & Kate Greenstreet

in celebration of their first books
The Wash & case sensitive

Saturday, October 21st, 8PM
@ The Pierogi Gallery
177 North 9th Street
Between Bedford & Driggs

Take the L to Bedford from Manhattan or the B61 Bus,
or take the G to Lorimer, head north on Union to
Withers/N. 9th and turn left.

More complete directions here.

FREE
BYOB

 

17 OCT 06

How has your first book changed your life?

39.  Rachel Loden

cover of Hotel Imperium


What do you remember about the day when you saw your finished book for the first time?

Well, this is a little embarrassing, but I recall saying that I wanted to sleep with it under my pillow. I never actually did that. Really my most vivid memories are of receiving a print of the cover from designer Erin Kirk New. I remember tearing open the UPS package and being thrilled to smithereens. She had Lichtensteined my man Nixon, as she put it in an email. I can't imagine a better cover for my book.

But given the fact that the Georgia series has been axed in the wake of the whole Foetry dust-up--though not because of it, at least on the record--probably what some people would like to know is how did I win this contest, and was anything sinister involved?

I'd resisted publishing a book for decades, and (in retrospect) am very grateful for that. Shudder to think what those books of juvenilia would have been like. Finally I made a manuscript and started sending it out to contests--fourteen in all, over the space of a little more than a year (says my check register). Georgia was number eleven. When I got the call from Bin Ramke, with whom I'd never previously spoken, I thought I'd entered some kind of twilight zone, a happy but amazing one. Neither he nor the judge, James Galvin (also a complete stranger), had anything to gain from giving a book to an agoraphobic housewife in Palo Alto, California. But that's exactly what they did.

One of the exquisite ironies of the recent contretemps is that now the wife of the founder of Foetry has a book in a nonexistent series, because she, too, won the competition. One thinks of the law of unintended consequences--a cruel law for her, perhaps, because (like so many of us) she suffers the consequences without being a player in the game.

Before that day, did you imagine your life would change with its arrival?

Not so much with its arrival, but with the realization that if others were going to take me seriously, and expend time and resources on my work, perhaps it behooved me to do more than sew up my little packets and leave them in a shoebox under the bed.
 
How has your life been different since?

I still go back and forth on "Auction of the Mind" (as Dickinson called it) and sometimes long for the days of writing in delicious isolation. But I think that's like longing for a place you've lived, and (in truth) will never live again. It's very similar to the way I feel about Vermont--I'm married to a Finn, and he's had enough snow for a lifetime! But that doesn't stop me from pining for the place. So there's a lot of snow in the poems.

Were you involved in designing the cover?

I sent Erin some pictures of Nixon, and probably chattered a bit about his primacy in the book. But what she did--blowing up a shot of him, cropping it in the eerie way she did, using that faux-Cyrillic font--was all her own genius.

Were there things you thought would happen that didn't? Surprises? Did Hotel Imperium lead to the publication of your chapbook, The Richard Nixon Snow Globe?

My expectations were low, so pretty much everything that happened was surprising--the fact that the book was reprinted, for instance, that it was shortlisted for a BABRA (Bay Area Book Reviewers) award along with books by Michael McClure, Adrienne Rich, and Philip Levine (McClure won), that it was both reviewed in the San Francisco Chronicle and later selected for their best-of-year list, that Poetry Daily featured the book three times, that Contemporary Authors did an entry, that I had a letter from the mysterious Fund for Poetry, that there were so many reviews, and such generous ones.

Randolph Healy and I got acquainted through the POETICS list, I think, or perhaps some combination of lists. We exchanged books--he's a brilliant poet as well as a publisher of beautiful chapbooks--and he asked me back in 2002 whether I'd like to do a chap with Wild Honey Press. I said yes (and was very happy) but then proceeded to do nothing about it for a very long time, as is unfortunately my wont re: book publishing.

Finally, late in 2004, I sent him a manuscript and, luckily, he still wanted to publish it, so The Richard Nixon Snow Globe came out last year. Randolph's one of the most sterling individuals I've had the good fortune to meet on the net and it was a thrill to publish a book in Ireland, which is one of the places my people come from.

I'm sad that I wasn't able to send either book to my mother, that (due to her illness) it would simply have confused and frightened her. That's a real loss for me, but not exactly a surprise.

What have you done to promote Hotel Imperium and what have those experiences been like for you?

I sent the book to some people who weren't on Georgia's list, and probably should have sent it to more. Learned how to make a postcard, bought a mailing list, sent that around. Made a website, very rudimentary, should have updated it more often. Tried to be part of the life of my times on the various lists and blogs. Am establishing a blog of my own, although I won't be active on it till some other projects are complete.
 
What advice do you wish someone had given you before your book came out? Or what was the best advice you got?

The best advice came from poet Wendy Battin, quoting Don Marquis, who said that "Publishing a volume of verse is like dropping a rose petal down the Grand Canyon and waiting for the echo."

To which I would add, I guess, that in the world of the poem, dawdling can be productive, so you might as well take the time to be really pleased with the trail of rose petals you leave.
 
What influence has the book's publication had on your subsequent writing?

There was an unsettling period right after the book came out when I felt somewhat torn by my various responsibilities. It wasn't fun, but I found my footing again. During that time, I often fantasized about a list for first-book authors, a place to compare notes and commiserate--something like what you've done on your blog, actually! It's wonderful that you had the wherewithal (and the common sense) to do this.
 
How do you feel about the critical response and has it had any effect on your writing?

It's been mostly bracing and terrific, from the first review in Publishers Weekly to more than a dozen that followed. I was lucky. I learned things. Even when I wasn't on the same page with the reviewer, it was psychedelic to have my work upended like that, to realize that I could be read that way.

I guess my only possible complaint, in the midst of a lot of happiness, is that occasionally people's takeaway is a kind of caricature of what I do, involving (say) Nixon or a partisan view of the U.S. political scene, when actually I think and hope that I'm after much bigger game--even and especially when I'm writing about those things.

I don't think it's an influence except in that I stubbornly continue to write various sorts of poems and am delighted when people notice, as when The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror mentions "My Secret Flag," a recent poem that includes fairies.

What direction is your current work taking?

One fun thing recently was a microplay, "A Quaker Meeting in Yorba Linda," based on my prose poem of the same name. It was performed in New York in May as part of PLAYS ON WORDS: a Poets Theater Festival curated by Tony Torn, Lee Ann Brown and Corina Copp, produced in association with the Ontological-Hysteric Incubator and the Poetry Project. The amazing Tony Torn starred as "a scarily comic version of Richard Nixon," as Charles Bernstein wrote later on his blog. When I have a chance I'd like to look at poems like "Last W & T" (from Hotel Imperium), which is based on Nixon's will, and see whether there's more dramatic potential to be plumbed, or even the beginnings of a larger project.

Lately I've also been inhabiting poems by people like Desnos, Stevens, Eliot, and Rilke, and then turning them (as spies are sometimes turned) towards an enemy, or towards my own ends. Nixon sometimes has a nefarious role in this--and bursts through in all sorts of forms, like a hideous baby alien. But for the most part I just try to be there when the poems come through and not send them away, which is always a temptation when people are dying and the world seems to be going to hell in a handbasket.

I've had an offer to publish a second full-length book but haven't even put the manuscript together. At the moment, I'm editing "The HumPo Files"--which is to say the record of my conversation with D.A. Powell, Gabriel Gudding, K. Silem Mohammad, Maxine Chernoff, George Bowering, Gary Sullivan, Ron Silliman, and (in early stages) Ange Mlinko and Katie Degentesh, about poetry and humor. That will likely appear in Jacket in 2007.

Do you want your life to change? Is there something you're doing now that you think will bring about a change that you seek?

Yes. I need tweaking. But organized stupidity is also on the march and it's easy to feel like the sorcerer's apprentice, trying to keep up.
 
Do you believe that poetry can create change in the world?

What's that phrase in chaos theory, the butterfly effect--the notion that (in Wikipedia's words) "the flapping of a butterfly's wings over Tokyo might create tiny changes in the atmosphere, which could over time cause a tornado [in] Texas." I like that. If it's true, it's also remotely possible that somebody read a poem today--and if so, it would be hugely arrogant of us to think we knew in advance exactly what the effect of this reading might be. I say we don't and that's what's so mysterious and pleasurable and even (intermittently!) satisfying about the project.

:

3 poems from Hotel Imperium by Rachel Loden:


Glasburyon

No one is counting in the bedclothes tonight.
No calling cards left on the silver tray.
No stray trolls, snoring beneath a street sign.
No daughter sits down
with a sharp knife and a pomegranate.
Let the old roan whinny in the barley,
the cinder-boy sleep just as his brothers slept.
Nothing is coming. You can hear it
in the slowness of this St. John's night
as it eats through the fields and levitates
the barn. Nothing is waiting
in a suit of mail out in the summer dawn:
no horse, no rider. No hill of shimmer-glass.
Three golden apples, tumbling . . . then none.

 

My Exchange

          "irrational exuberance"    
             --Alan Greenspan on the markets

Still, the path of the tango was not strewn
with roses.  Five thousand years

might pass without a single dance, the dejecta
of great cities rolled out on a plain like dice

or jewels.  And on my roof
the sleighbells of the gods, their tchotchkes

curled inside a broken jar at Qumran, painted
standing armies in the vaults of heaven.

                      ~

See also: TIMELINESS/UNTIMELINESS.
Was it some corporate Sturmführer

saw a need for spreadsheets
in a town like this, with seven central bankers

to look at; the sweet sea air buffeting
the NASDAQ?  Oh irrational exuberance,

you make me weak!  Let me lie among
the fallen orders, vermilion petals at my feet.

 

The Killer Instinct

No one can quite

get over it.  It is summer and revenge
lies sweetly in the fields
with her legs open,
                             her Bo Peep
petticoats in ribbons.
                              Et tu,
cutie?  Not

far away, alternate worlds
queue up
to be auditioned,
                         chatting
despairingly among themselves,

but nobody's called back.  Revenge,

our wretched darling, shakes the straw
out of her hair
                      and shines herself
into the reddest apple
on the highest bough.
                                Hanging tough
through hundreds of such afternoons,
worried into life
                       by lightning's play
on elemental soup, her stalwart heart

will rise again, slough off
loose brilliance
                      like a firecracker,
and pack more melodies than Mozart.

Love, revenge, remaindering . . .
is this the end?
                      --The world pumps on,
with all its gently pitiless muzak.


. . .

read more first-book interviews

. . .



15 OCT 06

How has your first book changed your life?

38.  Kazim Ali

cover of The Far Mosque

What do you remember about the day when you saw your finished book for the first time?

It's the question of "finished" that interests me. So I'll avoid answering this question two different ways, and then (maybe) I will answer it.

I had been working on the poems in the manuscript for so long, reading them out loud at events, writing and rewriting, that I think I lost the capacity to even see them as works separate from my own desires and attachments. In October 2003 I put the poems away and in February of the following year I began writing new poems. That summer, I was planning on going to California for a month to teach a Food and Wine Seminar (I was on the faculty of The Culinary Institute of America at the time) and decided I would like to take the manuscript with me. I had corrections all over the last hard copy and so I tried to find the computer file of the manuscript. It had disappeared and so I had to sit down one morning and over the course of eight hours re-type the entire manuscript.

In the course of the re-typing I sliced lines out of poems, pulled poems out of the manuscript, and completely rewrote other poems. It was a radical revision and when I was finished the manuscript had dropped from 74 pages to 55 pages. That's the version I took with me to California and edited. That was the first "finished" version of the book and I honestly felt, before sending it out to publishers that fall, that it had arrived at a form I was proud of and could stand behind and would not need to revisit and edit again and again as I had been doing the previous four years.

It felt really good to be "separated" from the work, that they were poems on their own and could live without my personality illuminating them, that they didn't need me to breathe into them to make them alive but that anyone could read them--that breath was in them. Well, that's the hope anyhow.

The book was accepted very quickly by Alice James Books and I entered into the AJB's legendary editing process, which involves first working with a member of the collective on the book (I worked with Sarah Gambito and later Catherine Barnett) (and then in my second year in the collective had the pleasure of working with Jean Paul Pecqueur on his collection The Case Against Happiness which will be published by AJB in November 2006), and then working with April Ossmann, executive director of the press. Working with April was like doing post-grad in revision and re-reading. She really forced me to look at nearly every single line, every single poem. Her edits were from the profoundly structural to the minute (e.g. "You use the word 'the' way too often in this book!").

I went away from my sessions with April unsure that any book could be "finished" regardless of whether it is set in print or not. In particular I had ghastly trouble with one poem that was later singled out for criticism in a review of the book. It made me think that I needed to head back to the earliest versions of the poem and see what I might have excised out that needed to be there.

When the book was finally printed, AJB sent me 10 copies of the book in a brown envelope. When it arrived in the mail, I knew exactly what it was, but I threw it in the back seat of the car while I drove around town running errands. I felt like it was my last chance to be "barefoot," as Emily Dickinson put it. It was an important state for me, to be innocent, to not-know, to have that poverty of expression I always felt before my book was accepted (Why am I doing this? Who will ever read these poems?), to have the purity of hunger. I felt I was going to turn a corner when I opened the envelope, that I would leave one state for another--I am not sure this actually happened or not, and in fact one of the issues I am wrestling with now is how to return that to that state of beginningness, doubly challenging since I make my living as a teacher and am supposed to know what to say about poetry.

So I drove around town for eight hours, and didn't open that envelope until the end of the day.

Were you involved in designing the cover?

Alice James Books is a great press to work with. Since it is a collective we have a lot of input into how our book looks and its cover design. Mike Burton is the guy who designed my book and did it beautifully I think. I chose Centaur font because the bottom like of the "e" is slanted, because the dots over the "i" and "j" are not round, and because the tails of the "y" etc. are really carved. There was a quality of handwriting to the whole enterprise that appealed.

I told AJB that I didn't mind too much about the cover but that I didn't want an actual mosque on the cover--it felt too literal to me. I kept sending images which the designers were ruling out for various reasons--they didn't want it too abstract, I didn't want to use a photograph--so we were going back and forth and then I sent AJB a series of images of my own paintings. They loved them and really convinced me that the one painting was perfect.

It's ironic because several weeks earlier I had been home visiting my parents and I was telling my Mom that I was having a hard time choosing a cover image and she said, "Didn't you do a painting once that had just the outlines of a mosque on a red background?"

It speaks a little bit to the elusiveness of the actual "far mosque" in the poems of the book. I was happy that my own art could be used on the cover of this book as it was also on the cover of my novel Quinn's Passage. Perhaps my new publisher will let me use my art on the next cover too, though if that happens I will have established a pattern that I will never be able to get out of!

How has your life been different since?

My life has certainly changed. I accepted a teaching position, I've been doing lots of readings and events in connection with the book, and I've had my second book of poems accepted by an amazing publisher, BOA Editions. The critical question for me is now that I have two things I had sought after for so long (a first book and an accepted second book) how do I generate the emptiness of spirit necessary for poems to find their way to beginning? I don't want to become dependent on outside validation, but of course I can already sense it happening. The fact that I even ask these questions speaks to what has been taken away from me through the publication of the book. Is it true it is the "auction of the mind of man"?

At the same time, it is lovely and makes me feel brave to have to consciously work towards the blankness and lack. It is harder now because I actually have people who tell me they have read the work or like it, there have actually been a few reviews here and there, some attention has been given to this book, and so it is important for me to go back to my feeling at the beginning before it was printed, which was that these poems are not mine anymore, do not require me, though I myself may go back to them and love them and breathe them or read them.

What have you been doing to promote the book, and what are those experiences like for you?

I have always enjoyed doing readings and having a book to promote is a perfect excuse to be bolder than usual. I was pretty lucky in that I got several invitations that semester and I love saying yes to things. I read in the Academy of American Poets' Bryant Park series, read in a couple of different places around New York City and Beacon, NY, where I was then living, and then in the winter, Eve Grubin, Katie Ford, and I read together as "Young Poets of Faith" at the Auburn Theological Seminary and then at the Folger Library.

After the Folger reading, Jorie Graham moderated a question and answer period. It was an amazing experience because we all got to exchange thoughts with one another and with the audience itself. Katie had pretty much just come from a three-month stint in "exile" from her apartment and job in New Orleans post-hurricanes. Eve, a follower of Orthodox Judaism, was writing these incredibly complex and problematic poems about belief, human nature, morality, etc. And Jorie Graham was asking these brilliant, painful questions that I didn't want to answer. At one point she was asking about what it means to be "incarnate," i.e. a spirit made into flesh, and I started talking about my belief that every object in the world lives and speaks with a divine voice. An audience member challenged my belief saying that this sort of thought is what gets you into trouble--thinking that you are hearing the spirit speak and you know what the spirit wants. Rather than try to resist that or further clarify what I meant, I chose to be shaken. I chose to allow my belief to buckle under his idea. I carried his comment around with me in my head for weeks (and clearly it's still there since I am recounting it you!).

It was a nice (and terrifying) feeling to suddenly think: what if everything I wrote about was wrong? What if what I believe about god/universe is completely wrong?

What advice do you wish someone had given you before your book came out? What was the best advice you got?

My thesis advisor in graduate school, Mark Doty, was always telling me to mix up the book--make it stylistically uneven, you know: long poems, short poems, narrative poems, lyric poems, abstract, specific. He said something about thinking about a book like musical composition or architecture. Because I was writing a little experimentally, he gave me books like Ronald Johnson's ARK to see how a book could sing. I tried to get some of that disorder into The Far Mosque.

When I was initially trying to decide what was going to go into the book, I gave a folder with the same one hundred pages into it to two different friends. One friend, Kathy Graber, warned me that she was the wrong person to read my work--our aesthetics are different, our favorite poets are different, she honestly didn't think she was going to be fair to my work. Well she picked less than thirty pages out of the stack I gave her--eighteen poems I think, and that's the core of what became the book manuscript.

It's nice to think of the book as a record album--it's a compendium of all the writing that went on at that time but you know there are lots of other ghost-poems hovering behind and underneath the poems that made it into the book.

What influence has the book's publication had on your subsequent writing (or other artistic pursuits)?

The book's acceptance forced a rupture or interruption in my writing of the new poems I began in February 2004. It wasn't until nearly April of 2005 (the submission of the final manuscript to the designer) that I was able to go back to the earlier work. After several more months of working, I began submitting that second manuscript to publishers and it was accepted in February 2006. So perhaps that "interruption" of the process is important to my creative process of being able to have distance from the work and hence being able to finish it.

As a matter of fact, in February 2006 I started writing long-hand poems on loose-leaf notebook paper (my regular writing process). As usual I did not save anything to the computer in the beginning. By summer I had roughly forty pages of work in a folder I was carrying around with me on my travels. Well, you guessed the end of the story: the end of summer comes around and no folder. It has just disappeared somewhere. I had to start writing again from scratch, memory, and very occasionally an earlier draft. That new manuscript is now cheerfully called "Dear Lostness."

I type things up on the computer now as soon as they are done. If I were Freudian I might say I was writing those poems just so I could lose them.

Do you want your life to change?

That's a beautiful question though currently phrased it only wants a "yes" or a "no." And is change a question of individual desire?

Do you believe that poetry can create change in the world?

Nothing can "change" the world the way you think it can. The world changes all on its own, all on its own accord. It's not "random" but the result of decisions and actions of countless eons past. If you are of a certain religious persuasion you can say this lifetime is an accumulation of choices made in past lifetimes, but even if you aren't inclined to that form of spirituality you can still agree that our current state of mind and body is determined by choices and decisions that go back years and decades, often to before we can even remember.

This is what Oracle was talking to Neo about on the park bench in Matrix Reloaded.

But the American government definitely showed you could change the world through language and quickly in the years between late 2001 and early 2003. I was thinking about a dear friend who I met for the first time in late August 2001 and the subsequent course of our relationship through the beginning of the "war" "on" "terror." How different our private friendship would have been had we as a polity chosen constructive action and not fear and revenge in that moment. So that's the smallest part of the world being affected by the biggest part of the world. I think it must work the other way around too.

I think we have to do what we do. Poetry (to me) can certainly be an influence for humanizing, for awakening the spirit to the present moment, which I think is critical. I have tremendous respect for poets like June Jordan, Mahmoud Darwish, Fanny Howe, Rachel Tzvia Back--it could be a long list if I keep going!--who are all political, some of them directly political as activists, others who address political situations in their work, and still others who act politically by tackling in art some of the eternal human situations and questions. Rachel Back's poem "Notes from the Wait" is going to stand as one of the great artistic statements about life in Israel in the last part of the 20th century/beginning of the new century. Will our world(s) be changed because of that poem? Yes, in a million different ways. But it is impossible to say how or see it happen.

:

A poem from The Far Mosque by Kazim Ali:


Event

Eight white birds, wings tipped with black, flying away. Snow stretches below from dark to darkness.

This is the image of the soul leaving, says Catherine. I sent this postcard to my friends to announce the death of my sister.

Dusty blue above the pyramid of Saqqara. The kingdom ends here and the desert begins.

Near a carved doorway, a guard lurks. For five pounds he lets me go down into the cold inner tombs.

There, the ancient etchings have been defaced by hieroglyphic graffiti. "First dynasty ruffians," the guard explains, in pieces.

The roof is missing from the temple at the gate. Only the pillars attest to it.

There is a consonant in the middle of my Arabic name that my tongue cannot manage.

I mispronounce myself.

In a room full of shards at the museum, realizing the Egyptian artists practiced. Over and over again: a human figure from the side. Two feet evenly placed.

No attempt at approaching or retreating figures.

I love this painting of the cathedral by Van Gogh, says Catherine. There is no door, no way to get in.

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