invisible

for his part
the fish was faced
as if he wished to drown,
down the imagined green
running through nothing.

when the words stop...

...you know that you've gotten too busy for your own good.

being too busy is what most people i know do very well -- their layers of busy build up out of need, then out of desire for distraction, then simply out of routine. it happens to everyone, obviously, and i'm no exception. but being too busy is a sure way to crush poetic instinct, or any other artistic expression.

i know that i haven't been practicing writing regularly for very long, but after i tried to take just a few days away (which became 2 weeks), it really hit me that there is a reward for everyday practice -- the words will not abandon you.

when i don't write every day, words devolve into lists, a sense of freedom lapses into the default of routine -- and it gets more and more difficult to practice poetry again. we all know there is some peace to living with head full of white noise.

it's not writer's block. it's a very delicate scale that weighs experience + sensation against expression. and when one side is too heavy the other side has to battle for balance.

poetry to come soon...
love, bree

new posts coming your way wednesday and friday

hello there*
we're in the process of buying our first place, and wow, there's a lot to do! all of the paperwork hasn't left a lot of time for other work i should be doing...poetry, of course. so please check back tomorrow and friday for new posts. ciao!

[overlapping]

thoughts were not overlapping
just light ending,
looping back around,
the world a swirl of freed fireworks.

the self not overlapping.
the self completely contrary.

the world never seen by me,
it has been busy looping,
being something other that it seemed,
and so content, outsmarting.

and every digit i count on
not mine but a sculptor's,
a stand in.
more powerful.

living is so common,
given to me and to you, denied
to another we never knew
but forgot and grieved

without a gift.
life, it's just like you to say
i am nothing true,
i taste like a doll or a meal.

this is a moment.
who cares if it's not, or if it's now.
they say something,
to have it despite them.

[i opened the door]

i opened the door
and in with me came a soft moth,
clinging secretly,
along for a ride through the night.

a secret pulse
latched to my spring jacket,
delicately camouflaged
as the dusk is.

it part of me,
it hidden from me,
it part of me,
it hidden from me.

until it let go from me,
and i could feel it --
the flutter and the flight
lifting as if from me, outside of me.

a soft self,
its silent exclamation of freedom,
flight mastering its volume ,
suspended in the blue of nightfall.

[be gentle, don't tell me]

be gentle, don't tell me
that five is too many,
that forgetting's not helping,
my heart is this empty.

it was supposed to be dark here,
a place to dream,
to skulk into and make places,
witness the rumor of my future.

your eyes were fall's long shadow.
bar stools may be better than bed --
depends on the company, we said,
there in the center of it all.

shadowing my darkness,
your tenderness a pale test.
your heart there save mine
from direct sunlight.

while the broken are mending
they are still broken.
and so we played together,
sometimes with the idea of us.

of course i was no good for you,
you were so good for me,
so good to me,
a grand man on a blue horizon.

unlike the oracle,
in a blank trance in between
i loved the lick of raindrops
forgot the weight of water on you.

for matthew.

[we are what was]

the blue haze of her,
a silver cool shower
from her wrists and ears and neck,
chime in wake of her walk.

her easy smile,

cheeks like

a smoothed bed

fitted with flannel.

she's someone's daughter,
someone's mother,
someone's gran,
living these many lives at once.

all of her
became the world she walks,
the conduit of time and creation,
her bravery seems reckless.

i try her softness on,
the way she hums along,
another way to breathe,
and to be.


[about this poem]
this poem was inspired by a woman i saw walking down the street in our old neighborhood. a lot of older folks live in the area, and are not always as at ease with the speed and tone of city life. the woman i saw seemed really satisfied with the world around her, which made me think of her as taking a tour of the world she orchestrated into being.

stay tuned for new posts wednesday and thursday this week

hello all,

traffic school came between us yesterday, and for that a million pardons.

look for fresh posts tomorrow and thursday*

love, 

bree

reading a poem

i think you might agree with me here -- read a poem under the wrong conditions, and it's just a turn-off.

i'm not sure about you, but the only times i really enjoy reading poetry is when i'm completely focused on it (forget multi-tasking), and expect nothing of the poem itself. that way, i can really read line by line and eventually come out of it understanding or feeling something. of course there's never a guarantee you will get anything out of a poem, but when you do, it feels a little like meeting your best friend for the first time. it's really grounding, really gives you a sense of belonging.

one of my favorite places to read poetry is at peet's coffee, where all the rumblings and classical music make the poem seem like a part of the world. total silence also works -- it depends on my mood. i've learned to take one poem at a time, and never try to read a whole book in a sitting. i can't make myself read poems that i don't respect or language that feels wrong. but when i find a writer's voice that i really love, i can sit down an read 48+ pages in a sitting...no problem. and when that happens, it's really exciting!

which brings me to my writer's crush on the poet mark ford. (don't tell my husband; i don't think he ever reads my blog! ha!) he's the only british person, place or thing that i've liked in a long time. click here to read one of his poems. hopefully i'll get you started on a mad crush, too.

what i love about his work: he takes me by surprise, and always choses the unique path in his word choice. he's humble about his cleverness, and doesn't abuse it. the meanings of words and metaphors are layered, so a bodega is also a woman's pregnant belly and a state of mind. (wow!) it's really difficult to do this kind of writing well. his adjectives are dark, and sometimes sort of gothic -- "wax-like drops and pools," "webby darkness" -- which suits his subject matter...the birth experience that haunts the narrator. 

to read a good poem feels like you're getting closer to someone else, when you're actually just closer to yourself.

*thanks to nytimes.com writer david orr for his recent article "oprah's magazine adventures into poetry", which inspired this post. it's funny, and got me thinking!

shapeless destination

i'm catching you a little later than planned today; i hope your monday was a good one.

mine started off slow, but ended with some exciting news -- one of my poems has been accepted in Welter, the university of baltimore's literary magazine! i'm not yet sure of the print date, but i'm very proud.

here's a new, short poem:
[shapeless destination]

rare to keep its sheen,
love's dimensions bend
until it's stronger.
we know,
we can feel it through our hands --
our beginning's over --
but its residue on every day,
that path of smoke,
that leads us closer
to some shapeless destination.

about this poem:
speaking of lit magazines, this poem was originally written as a response to a prompt, the word "beginnings," provided by a lit magazine. i missed the call for submissions deadline, so i'm working on extending it into a poem about love. the poem takes place once the narrator is past her initial understanding of love, and learning slowly about what she doesn't understand. and, since that information never comes to us in a convenient package, her impressions will be kaleidescopic...

my uncle, published author

i'm not the only writer in my family.

my uncle dicky (otherwise known as author richard chaffer) has written several books over the past 15 years. last year, he met a publisher at a local book festival who was really interested in his work. since then, he's been working with them, and they've decided to publish not one...but three of his books!

his fiction focuses on a subject close to him that most people aren't brave enough to talk about -- schizophrenia. his first book, walkabout, runabout, is an honest account of his experience living with the disorder.

more than 24 million people in the world have schizophrenia. so, it's likely you know someone who has it, too. if you'd like to know what your friend or family member is going through, then walkabout, runabout might really help. it's now available on amazon.com.

needless to say, i'm really proud of him for his tenacity through this whole process. though i worked for years in the publishing industry (and am sort of a book geek besides), i've learned a lot from talking to him about the publishing process and seeing him work through revision after revision with his editor.

congratulations, uncle dicky!

there is room for you

there is room for you
filled now with sun's rays and sighs,
no doors to stop them.

our lives are big, our things are small,
there is room for you.
we sit only in small chairs, eat from small plates --

we're hungry, but waiting chokes the air.
it is big but you would be small.
you would fit, there is room for you.

our home is small,
even your small body
would roll quickly across it

through the open space.
you would be the biggest thing here,
except our smiles.

there is room for you,
and a life that fits
whoever you are, and will be.

about this poem:
ray and i are trying to become parents, and having setbacks. today is the day of a big test, so just a little poem of love and positivity. enjoy, and thanks for all of your good wishes!

the 21st century poet

i spend a lot of time reading poetry books, and almost the same amount of time researching online, trying to learn about the poetry world. i feel like i have a lot of catching up to do!

the world is changing, and poetry right along there with it.

*the growing trend in writing twitter poems. take a peek at the poems submitted by four famous poets in honor of world poetry day. i think it's pretty great that poets made up a new form (one of many!) to mirror the latest way to communicate. it's the new haiku, i guess?

*a student at bryn mawr wrote her student thesis about poet marianne moore (who graduated from the college in the early 1900s). the interesting thing her project is available online, and it shows the original poem next to the student's interpretation, plus other relevant historical info about the poem. it's so super nerdy, but i love that the academic world is sharing with the rest of us.

look for some new poetry in next monday's post. 

be well,

b*

do a little dance. it's world poetry day

hello there, 

if it's been a better monday than usual, then it must be because it's world poetry day!

according to the UNESCO site, world poetry day's "main objective is to support linguistic diversity through poetic expression and to offer endangered languages the opportunity to be heard within their communities...to support poetry, return to the oral tradition of poetry recitals, promote teaching poetry, restore a dialogue between poetry and the other arts.. support small publishers and create an attractive image of poetry in the media so that the art of poetry will no longer be considered an outdated form of art but one." 

OK. so if you're confused about that last sentence, it is actually incomplete on their website.

yes, even their own copywriter couldn't get past the thought that poetry is an outdated form of art. either that, or they fell asleep while writing.  (oh dearest UNESCO copywriter, i know how you feel. i've been there, i really have.)

enjoy this fine holiday. i know i'm going to...

b*

new poem + a schedule

i've missed you! i've been on the road, and unfortunately out of touch.

i'm so new to blogging, but this already seems to be my pattern. i know no one likes being left hanging, so i'll ask for your forgiveness, and finally set some rules for myself.

look for posts every monday and wednesday from now on. if there's some change to my schedule, i'll be sure to let you know!

i've been working on new pieces. give this one a read, and let me know what you think...

[cavities, potholes]
our self-restraint
wears away the roads,
day's beginning and end
form cavities, potholes.

without work, then what?
if not this way, then how?
axed the inside animal,
made reality felt by remote.

a world wild without impulse,
arranged in its vase every gory pulse,
our vague strains a crime
against ourselves or the world.

what are we?
we may risk knowing by feel
those first seconds in the dark closet,
with so few defenses.

routine is unity, or war for space.
to fit together without violence
in cars, on trains, in lines
on freeways fast to our trance.

about this poem:
only recently, i stopped working a commercial-type writing job and started writing poetry full time. my first few months without routine were really difficult, and i had to work to find a comfortable definition of what a productive day outside the office could be. watching commuters driving home one day, i expanded on the feeling and tried to answer the question, "what does a routine do for us, or how does it fail us?"

clip it

the poet robert hass (a bay area poet and professor at uc berkeley) uses the term "clippings" when referring to his shorter poems. i'm going to lift the term, and hope he finds it flattering :)

i've just started to notice a very casual creative cycle every month.

most of the month i spend my time writing writing writing. if i'm lucky, at the end of every month i find myself with lots of  things to edit, polish and send away to contests and literary journals.

most pieces need more work, and aren't shown to anyone at all. i work on them when i can handle the disappointment of looking at them and working through the kinks. sometimes, the way to fix those kinks in a poem comes out of nowhere, and sometimes it feels calculated (using the thesaurus, referring to other poems).

then there are clippings like these, which i will use as jumping-off points to make a longer poem some day.

without further ado, here are three of february's clippings!
b*

[the enjoyer]
let me know something like joy,
to be anonymously joined,
to be seen by you,
my thoughts like your prize!

about this clipping: my reaction to the comment sections of many websites.
***************************
[the town square]
seniors from school and of life may
take this town yet, the square
it's full of their blue, their neon pink hair.

about this clipping: come to castro valley, and see for yourself.
****************************
[super natural]
ducks bobbing in the full tub of sharp glitter
connect me to the horizon of houses there.

about this clipping: written at the beach in alameda, on the same day i wrote the poem [membrane or mechanism].

typos and tidepools

last week, me and ray turned 36.

we were born 6 days apart so sometimes we celebrate with a little getaway. this year, we went to the tide pools in cambria, near san luis obispo. it's a beautiful area, one i've never really explored, and we enjoyed it pretty completely without accomplishing much more than eating and walking.

one day, we went to lunch and sat down right next to ray's cousin and her husband (and their friends), who are from sonoma county. quelle coincidence!

they were vacationing too, so we walked around downtown SLO together, revisiting a few favorite haunts from their college days, including a wall decorated with gum. so much old, grey gum! it was totally great. we were just in time to see a group of kids and their teachers chew some and add it to the wall as they passed through.

between a wall and a sticky place

every morning we walked around the tidepools near our hotel. one day it was windy and freezing, the next it was warm and summery. here's a poem about the windy day -- just a quick little ditty:

[a wilderness of waves on the long horizon]

a wilderness of waves on the long horizon,
endless agitation stirs endless agitation,
nature's spells spun together
form disorder's worn face --

all lunar perversion,
all wind and coercion,
erosion an echo
digging depths for the wind,

tissue my body at the edge of the world.

/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

i could not navigate the tidepools gracefully. i was so awkward at it that the snoozing sea lions 20 feet away didn't seem threatened at all by my presence. ray of course was stealth and at one with nature, didn't wake them for obvious reasons. at least i was wearing a big grey coat, so i probably just looked like one of them. i guess, just another way to be at one with nature?

witness the similarity:

me on rocks (vertical) ...

sea lions on rocks (horizontal)

a top 10 list made me question, then answer

one of sfgate's city brights writers, dean radar, has gotten a significant amount of press for his "top 10 poet project," essentially a spin-off of another list by the nytimes.

i'm usually not interested in top 10 lists, but i was impressed by the number of responses radar got by just asking folks to rank their favorite poets. his blog got hundreds of passionate responses, which made me realize that poetry still really matters to people who are not poets.

as a writer returning to poetry, this was a revelation. and made me wonder more:
>where does poetry fit into people's lives today?
>and, what will make poetry more accessible to people?

i've posed these questions in surveys for you, before you answer them, an embarrassing confession: i've never read as much poetry as i do today. and this is even counting my years as an undergrad studying creative writing!

my obstacles to reading more poetry:
> i was turned off by poets that i'd read in school*
> i've found very few enjoyable, interesting, contemporary poetry books at the library or local bookstores
> i've found poetry readings for contemporary poets to be tedious, self-congratulatory or underwhelming
> and, last but not least: reading poetry after a day at work was too intimate and soul-searching -- hard to do when you're living a life you dislike.

it's taken a lot of involvement -- researching, reading, rejecting, more reading -- to really discover poetry that gets me inspired and that can relate to. so i'd like to refer you to a few poets that inspire me, and a sample stanza of a poem. often the poem is not my favorite, but a strong poem, that will give you a sense of their style.

enjoy them.
b*

Brian Teare

Agorophobia: A Reply

from The Room Where I Was Born

Not yet. Frost hasn't hit. Gripping the branches, only
crabapples last, balled infants' fists, toughest parts turned
inward. No not depressed. Just sick inside all week.
Cars slur by; the windows itch in their panes, crawl
the opposite wall. I watch into drift, liquid fever-shift.
Mother, inside me the room busies your hands.

finish reading this poem 

Chase Twitchell

To the Reader: Twilight

Whenever I look
out at the snowy mountains at this hour 

and speak directly into the ear of the sky, 

it's you I'm thinking of.
finish reading this poem

Reetika Vazirani
The Lover
from World Hotel

I took the train from Patiala,

left the girls with Ayah, and lied, 

I'm with Faye and Daisy.
Had to say what he'd approve of. 

Go then, Kiran said, crushing large rupees in my hand.
finish reading this poem

Seamus Heaney
The Door Was Open and the House was Dark
from Human Chain

The door was open and the house was dark
Wherefore I called his name, although I knew
The answer this time would be silence

e.e.cummings
somewhere i have never traveled, gladly beyond
from 100 Selected Poems

somewhere i have never traveled, gladly 

beyond any experience, your eyes have their silence: 

in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, 

or which i cannot touch because they are too near

finish reading this poem

*obviously with the exception of e.e.cummings, seamus heaney and a few others...

word/nerdfest (part 2)

my second day at the conference was a return to reality. for one thing, i was pretty exhausted. (i know, after just one day of schmoozing!) and then there was the inevitable 180 in my attitude: i went from convention cheerleader to an outsider who wanted something less...conventional.

i arrived in the morning, pretty thrilled that there were three classes that focused on poetry that day, including one called "how to become a successful poet" -- rhetorically appropriate for a conference, also a good joke. i mean, there are very very few successful poets (remember, only 12 that can afford to attend this convention). ha! funny.

i hit the first class of my day. it was all about how to get your poetry published this year, and it was lead by a few of the folks that i'd met the day before. so, i felt very comfortable joining in the conversation even if caffeine hadn't yet done its job to wake me up.

i have to admit that a lot of the advice was common sense, but once and awhile a great tip would float out there for me to grab. after hearing for a second time that it would take 100-200 submissions to magazines, journals and competitions per month in order to really start creating momentum toward publication, i learned the lesson: i need to approach poetry as if it were a full-time job.

at the next class, i packed myself into a room overflowing with fiction and non-fiction writers, there to get the scoop from a very well-respected editor. and this is when i became depressed. wait, scratch that -- i was jealous! -- that i was not a fiction or non-fiction writer. damn them, and their real hopes for publication! damn them, so smugly wrapped in their warm blanket of potential!

my bad attitude was ridiculous and thankfully short-lived. because all creative writers are truly screwed. the few that are published and have contracts often have to promote their own books, without any of the big budgets we imagine a publisher might have and use. things have changed in publishing, i know that first hand, having worked in the industry for a little while. everyone has had to adapt the way they do business. i guess poets have always been DIY, and so perhaps are more prepared for today's publishing reality.

i mean, if anything, it's easier now than ever to do our work and maintain control over our visions. i bet there's more bad (and great) poetry being published now than ever before. self-publishing is cheap, and yes, there are chapbooks, or even blogs to carry the words aloft when paper is not possible. so there's hope for poets, too.

but i digress.

lunch was a blur of bad salmon, scholarship picture taking (ack!) set to the tune of the longest, dullest keynote speech you can imagine. i was slightly ecstatic to get back to classes. next up:  "how to become a successful poet."

they opened the class acknowledging that the concept of a successful was funny, even impossible. what was success as a poet? we spent a lot of the class flailing around before dreams congealed into something tangible. the most successful poets make a living at their art. that's all. and that's really a lot.

that class was the perfect way to end the conference. i'd found a good horizon to focus on, some kind folks to wander there with, and that was really all i'd wanted to achieve from the experience.

walking toward bart, i realized that the chinese new year parade was getting started. it's the year of the hare. wow, life is just endlessly inspiring...

word/nerdfest (part 1)

i'm back from the sf writer's conference! and oh, i loved it. it was at times a little overwhelming, but in the very best way possible. it's been a long time since i have learned so much in just two days, and met so many people that were serious word nerds.

the first thing that i learned: poets are totally in the minority at writer's conferences. it's easy to understand why that's the case: not only is it expensive to attend, but the one reason most writers are at the conference -- to meet an agent and get a book deal -- doesn't apply for poets. an agent won't represent a poet unless they're already very well-known. i guess they want to reinforce the "tortured poet" stereotype?

i was one of about 20 poets in attendance, so i considered myself lucky to meet two sf poets who were there to present, albert flynn desilver and joan gelfand. both were generous enough to share their tips and personal experiences, and made me feel like one of the tribe. thanks to them for their warm welcome!

another real highlight of that first day was author dorothy allison's keynote speech. she was purely amazing. i read her first book, bastard out of carolina, way back in college, and her personality is as unforgettable as her prose. 

part of her speech was about the transformation that takes place when we're validated as artists, using american idol (!!!) as her example. evidently, she and her son wolf (by her own admission, "a turkey baster baby") had been watching the show for years, but just the first few weeks of the show, as they weed out contestants during auditions. they loved to watch the worst auditions and made fun of those passionate but talentless singers. 

recently, while on the road, she found herself watching a later episode of idol...after contestants have been groomed, had coaching, and found their stride on stage. she was shocked by the contrast she saw between the audition phase and afterwards. the validation received by their peers, by people in the audience, had made these everyday people into artists. 

i'm paraphrasing here, but her message was to ignore the condemnations one suffers from being an artist, and remember to give yourself and your community the same validation as those folks on american idol.  

it seems like an obvious message, but it was what many folks really needed to hear. she totally disarmed us -- all of us in our nice clothes, making professional and kindly conversation, eating gooped-up chicken and day-old rice off of the hotel's china. it was absolutely silent. i'm happy to report that, for once, i wasn't the only one choking back the tears! (ahh, writers...)

she took our minds off our writerly aspirations, the focus on publishing and success...and put it back onto something bigger. to remember to lift each other up, support and validate ourselves, and the community through our work. 

of course she got a standing ovation. 

b*

[stay tuned for part 2!]

sf writer's conference + a love letter

i'm starting to get a little nervous.

a few weeks ago, i got some very good news -- i'd won the Victoria A. Hudson Scholarship for poetry, which means that i get to attend the sf writer's conference this weekend (feb 18-20)! so, i've been writing, writing, writing and getting ready to make the most of it.

though i've been to a few tradeshows in my time, i don't know exactly what to expect from a conference full of other right-brained creative types. will every session start late? or, instead of attending session will we all just go to the on-site cafe and talk shop? college classes are evidently the only reference i have!

whatever happens during the next two days, it's sure to be a fun time -- all of these unknowns, and a lot of opportunity. i'm so thankful that there are people out there like victoria hudson (who is aligned with the conference, i believe) that support new writers who may not be able to make this step toward meeting industry folks or publication on their own. her scholarship has really motivated me, and given me more confidence in myself, even though i've always had ray's support. sometimes it takes a stranger to push us forward.

ray has been a sincere advocate of my writing ever since he found journals stuffed under my bed five years ago and read them on the sly. (raaaaay!!!)

but that intervention was the start of something. at first, i didn't understand: how was it possible to write creatively full-time? i have to admit, at the time i was afraid to look away from the paycheck, being a sort-of career-minded bay area person who knows that they had to make ends meet. but he made me see the value of my writing, and that made this transition possible. and so, this new life!

thank you to ray and victoria for all that you do, and to my family and friends for their constant big love.

off to the conference!
b*

your first poetry postcard

hello all,
i've finally started a blog, and it's about time.

it's been almost impossible to keep you updated on my writing -- here's an easy way for you to check in and read a little when you have the time. it's like a poetry postcard, a snapshot of where i am at the moment. now, if only it arrived grimy, with stamps...

...okay, i'll have to work on that! in the meantime, let me know what you think.
love,
b*