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Monday, December 31, 2012

New Year Haiku

I turn to the Japanese poet Kobayashi Issa (1763-1828) for New Year haiku on this New Year's Eve Day.

These I found at the site Haiku of Kobayashi Issa, where there are over 10,000 of Issa's haiku, complete with a handy search function so you choose your topic. I  searched for New Year and found 17 haiku, a few of which I present below.

I chose this one because it has been flitting snow all day here in Kobe.

1820
.御降りの祝儀に雪もちらり哉
o-sagari no shûgi ni yuki mo chirari kana
 
 
sprinkled in
with the new year's rain...
flitting snow
 
 
This one I chose simply because it captures my mood.
 
1822
.年立やもとの愚が又愚にかへる
toshi tatsu ya moto no gu ga mata gu ni kaeru
 
 
a new year--
the same nonsense
piled on nonsense
 
 
This is is about old age, which I have been thinking about a lot, and about eyesight, which is a constant obsession in our family. (Son #2 got his first pair of glasses yesterday, as it happens.)
 
1813
かすむやら目が霞やらことしから
kasumu yara me ga kasumu yara kotoshi kara
 
 
all is misty
even my eyes!
from this new year on
 
 
This one suggest that the barley fields will soon change color, turning green, ripening. I am currently working on a linked series of prose poems about color, so this appealed to me.
 
1819
けふからは正月分ぞ麦の色
kyô kara wa shôgatsu bun zo mugi no iro
 
 
after today
a new year begins!
the color of barley
 
 
And of course, children, their constant needs and gifts.
 
1822
.今夜から正月分ンぞ子ども衆
konya kara shôgatsubun zo kodomoshû
 
 
after this night
a new year dawns!
children
 
This one echoes the previous haiku about the barley changing color, doesn't it?
 
This website also has a random haiku generator. Click on that link and get a random haiku by Issa. Or search for what you want.
 
Either way, Happy New Year!

Saturday, December 29, 2012

Books Under the Tree

Fragile Acts
We're getting ready for the New Year's celebrations, which is the most important holiday of the year here. So every year I take down all the Christmas decorations prior to putting up the traditional New Year's ones, because frankly the New Year's door hanging, made from straw, paper and an orange, and the sticky ricecake tower can't compete with all the Christmas glitz, and it's only fair to give my husband's culture equal time. So I've just taken down the tree, and now I will tell you what was under it for me on Christmas day.

First though, let me mention that prior to Christmas, I got  Allan Peterson's Fragile Acts, my first purchase of the McSweeney's poetry series, and it is bound so lavishly that the book is worth getting for it's simple aesthetic beauty as an object. Which shouldn't be a surprise when you learn that Peterson was a visual artist in his working life (he's retired now), though I'm not sure how much creative control a poet has with the publisher in this case.

Here's what I got on Christmas (some from my parents, some from my husband):

Selected Poems by Mary Ruefle
Indeed I Was Pleased With the World by Mary Ruefle
Charms Against Lightning by James Arthur
Partially Kept by Martha Ronk
Vertigo by Martha Ronk
Gravesend by Cole Swensen

So lots of great reading coming up for me, as these books were all on my wishlist. Swensen in one of my all-time favorite poets, and Mary Ruefle and Martha Ronk are current interests. James Arthur's work I happened to discover online during the past year, just in time for his debut volume.

And what about you, what did you get bookwise this holiday season?


traditional door hanging from Wallcoo.com

mochi tower, borrowed from www.caslt.org

Thursday, December 27, 2012

A Sendak Christmas Surprise

Maurice Sendak's animated Christmas fable from 1977, thanks to Open Culture.

Exception to the Shopping Rule

From times when I have been poor, this shopping rule remains:

If I wish to buy an article of clothing, I must wait one week and see if I still "need" it.

However, if the article of clothing appears in a dream within that week, I must buy it immediately. This almost never happens.

Once, I dreamed about an article of clothing I was considering purchasing, but dreamed that I couldn't find the particular item in my apartment, though apparently I expected to. I looked everywhere, even among in the laundry basket of yet-to-be-laundered clothes.

I had no idea how this fit in with my rule, did not know what to do.

When I returned to the store, the item of clothing had been sold already.

I do not have a shopping rule about books. When I lived in a country in which the library could satisfy me, I did not need one. I need one now, and haven't got one. Among the other things I haven't got.

But I have got a stack of new books from my husband and my parents for Christmas and I will tell you about them later. After I get over this fever. And after it stops snowing (oh, it's already stopped). Okay, back to fever excuse then.

Wednesday, December 26, 2012

Persuasion: Green Gloves

Coming home late from a Christmas party, I left my gloves in a taxi.  The gloves I've had since before I was married, making them over 16 years old. The next day when I discovered the oversight, as I exclaimed about my problem to my family, my sons exchanged sly glances and then darted over to their father and whispered in his ear.

Later that day my 10-year-old said to me, "Don't buy anything, OK, Mom?" "What do you mean--don't buy anything?" I asked. "Just don't buy anything you need or want, OK? Anything for yourself, I mean. For awhile, OK?" I agreed and went to dig out an old gray pair of my husband's gloves to wear for the duration.

The next day on a walk with my 10-year-old, he asked, "What color were the gloves you left in the taxi?" "Black," I said. "Isn't green your favorite color?" he asked. "Yes," I said warily, dismayed over the prospect of green gloves. "Green would be nice for gloves, don't you think?" he continued. "Well, black is nice because it matches everything," I explained. "Hmmmm," he considered. "But besides black, what would be a good color for gloves?" "Well, gray matches most things too. Or tan." Besides gray and tan." "Well, a really deep purple would be nice. These days I like really deep purple for some reason." I was getting desperate. "Or green would be good," he offered. Again.

My new gloves are a lovely electric moss color (which is not an easy shade to achieve, nor to match). They have little fruit-shaped pieces of cashmere sewn onto the backs of the hands in muted but realistic colors, and on one hand there is a cat. The gloves don't have matching designs, but complementary ones, which I never in a million years would have chosen. But I am wierdly enamoured of my new whimsical green gloves. I feel a bit unlike myself wearing them.

Today on the train I saw an obasan (older woman) wearing lime-green suede boots with her tiger-print leggings. "Hmmm...," I thought.

Tuesday, December 25, 2012

The Science of Christmas

Santa's been here and gone already (due to time zone issues), much to the delight of the children in this household. It's not a holiday here though, so my kids are truant as I've kept them home, and their father is off to work, meaning that the gifts under the tree (other than Santa's) are still wrapped and will remain so till my husband gets home.

In the meantime, I'm listening to astrophysicist Neil De Grasse Tyson explain to NPR's David Greene the science behind Rudolph's red nose (couldn't have been blue, it turns out), speculate about whether or not St. Nick uses atmospheric separators, and discuss how Santa travels through wormholes to enter homes without chimneys and to visit all households in such a short time.

Plus more scientific Christmas explanations.

Enjoy.

Monday, December 24, 2012

Christmas Tree Sonnet (Starbuck)

It's Christmas Eve Day in Japan, and I got up early to do some of the baking and cooking for tomorrow's dinner, and for tonight's special dinner too. The wind is howling here. And I've borrowed the following poem by George Starbuck from the Poetry Foundation website. Enjoy.
 
 
By George Starbuck 1931–1996


O

fury-

bedecked!

O glitter-torn!

Let the wild wind erect

bonbonbonanzas; junipers affect

frostyfreeze turbans; iciclestuff adorn

all cuckolded creation in a madcap crown of horn!

It’s a new day; no scapegrace of a sect

tidying up the ashtrays playing Daughter-in-Law Elect;

bells! bibelots! popsicle cigars! shatter the glassware! a son born

now

now

while ox and ass and infant lie

together as poor creatures will

and tears of her exertion still

cling in the spent girl’s eye

and a great firework in the sky

drifts to the western hill.

Friday, December 21, 2012

End of the World

It's 12/21/12 already in Japan. If the world ends here, we'll let you know it (being that we are 16 hours ahead of most you in the US). In the meantime:

A Song On the End of the World

by Czeslaw Milosz
translated by Anthony Milosz

On the day the world ends
A bee circles a clover,
A fisherman mends a glimmering net.
Happy porpoises jump in the sea,
By the rainspout young sparrows are playing
And the snake is gold-skinned as it should always be.

On the day the world ends
Women walk through the fields under their umbrellas,
A drunkard grows sleepy at the edge of a lawn,
Vegetable peddlers shout in the street
And a yellow-sailed boat comes nearer the island,
The voice of a violin lasts in the air
And leads into a starry night.

And those who expected lightning and thunder
Are disappointed.
And those who expected signs and archangels' trumps
Do not believe it is happening now.
As long as the sun and the moon are above,
As long as the bumblebee visits a rose,
As long as rosy infants are born
No one believes it is happening now.

Only a white-haired old man, who would be a prophet
Yet is not a prophet, for he's much too busy,
Repeats while he binds his tomatoes:
No other end of the world will there be,
No other end of the world will there be.



And the first poem I ever memorized, when I was a child:


Fire and Ice by Robert Frost

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

Thursday, December 20, 2012

Technically, Yes, But Never Again

From an email from my sister, Jules (via 9Gag.com Site Feed):



Love this kid, whoever (s)he is!

Tuesday, December 18, 2012

Free Books for Coping with Death and Grief

In the wake of the Newtown tragedy, Beacon Press is offering free books about grief and about how to talk about death and grief. Books can be shipped only within the US, and requests must be made by December 19th.

Beacon Press extends their condolences to those suffering and mourning, and does so in a meaningful way. Thank you.

Random Stuff

Here's an animated etymology of the word doubt, explaining its silent b, by TedEd and made available by Maria Popova's Explore website. Fascinating and charming--check it out.

Also, Galleycat has an extensive list of sites to market your ebooks for free. And I don't mean the list is free (though it is); I mean the promotion sites are free. Get on it, epublishers.

Poems for the End

The New York Times Sunday Review blog has assembled six apocalyptic poems to celebrate the end of the Mayan calendar, or perhaps the end of the world. Including work by Laura Kasischke, Bob Hicok, and Dana Levin, it's a fun and yet sobering read. How often can you say that?

Sunday, December 16, 2012

One Kind of Hell

When we visited Burma under martial law, there were soldiers with guns, rifles, everywhere we looked, stationed on corners and in doorways, waiting and watching. We were not allowed to go anywhere without our state-provided guide.

My husband wanted to visit a temple, an ordinary temple, not a well-marked historic landmark (several of which we had already visited), but just an ordinary temple. Any one would do. The guide looked worried, and said he would let us know the next day. Which he did. Yes, he would take us to a temple, but we had to move quickly and we were not to talk to anyone or touch anything.

The temple was made of stone. It was multiple stories, with twisting narrow stone staircases. There were no doors in the stone doorways or glass panes in the stone windows. Our guide moved very quickly from room to room; there was no chance to look at anything. He led us at nearly a run through the building, up and down stone staircases, with my husband following him and me bringing up the rear as he urged us to move ever faster. We could hear footsteps as people vacated rooms just prior to our entering them, scurrying footsteps as they hastened to stay out of our sight.

In one room, I looked back over my shoulder and saw a teenaged monk looking through a window at me, his head shaven and one shoulder bare while the other had a saffron robe tied over it. He ducked out of view. He was young as many of the monks there are--poor and homeless children can get spare meals and a roof over their heads by becoming monks.

In another room, entering just as my guide was exiting out the other doorway, I turned again and saw the same young monk peering around a doorway. I knew I was supposed to keep moving, so I backed towards the door our guide had exited from, keeping my eyes on the boy monk. I knew he was following me; he had to be. There was no other way I could have seen only one person in this place, and that person twice. When he saw me staring, he entered the room and held up a hand. He put it over his mouth, indicating I should keep quiet. I nodded, and he came to where I was standing. "Please," he said quietly.

"Yes?"

He was silent. Clearly he wanted something from me but didn't have the words to tell me what. Then he gestured with his hand as if he was writing. Clever kid, I thought. He'll draw a picture of what he wants. So I took a notebook and pen out of my bag and handed it to him. He took the pen and handed back the notebook. I was confused, and looked at him questioningly. How was he going to draw a picture now?

He held the pen to he chest and said, "Please?" And I understood he wanted the pen. "You want the pen?" I asked. He nodded. "You don't have a pen?" I asked. He shook his head. "No pen," he said. I began to dig through my purse; I often had up to six pens in my bag, since I was paranoid about being caught without one and would often toss an extra in. I handed him three or four and kept digging for more. I heard my husband and the guide calling, coming back up the stairs for me. I turned toward the door, in a slight panic, and then back toward the monk, but he was gone.

I went to the staircase and met the guide and my husband coming back up. The guide scolded me and asked if I had seen anyone, touched anything, and I said I had not. Under his breath, my husband warned that I could have gotten us into real trouble.

When the guide dropped us off at our hotel, I went to our room and started ransacking it for pens, the ones provided by the hotel. I asked my husband to hand over his pens, and told him about the boy monk. "You gave him your pen?" my husband asked incredulously, knowing how I always try to have one on me. "All my pens," I told him. "Even the one I got special for you?" he asked.

My husband had given me a bunch of pens that he had gotten from various drug manufacturers complete with their logos, and one had been the perfect weight and shape for me. I had loved it so much I used it only for writing poetry because I despaired of it ever running out, which eventually it had. My husband had called the pharmaceutical rep and asked him to get me another such one, only to be told the pen company had stopped making that model. My husband had asked if there were any leftovers anywhere, so the pharmaceutical rep had called all the branch offices in Japan and come up with the one remaining pen, which had been given to me. And yes, I had handed that pen over to the teenage monk.

My husband was aghast. How could I have so easily given away a pen that so many people had gone to so much trouble to get for me?
I tried to explain. "He wanted to write something down and he didn't have a pen." "You didn't have to give him THAT pen." "But he needed to write something and he couldn't. That is my idea of hell," I told my husband. Who still didn't understand.

Friday, December 14, 2012

Recalling Bishop

The Poetry Foundation has a revealing and charming podcast about Elizabeth Bishop, called "Oral History Initiative: On Elizabeth Bishop." In the podcast, friends and students of Bishop recall her youthful escapades, her life and her writing, her teaching, her frustrations, and her opinions and perceptions. This roundtable discussion includes Rosanna Warren (whose mother was Bishop's roommate at Vassar), Frank Bidart, and Gail Mazur, among others.

You can also enjoy this podcast through iTunes in the Poetry Foundation's Poetry Lecture series.

Thursday, December 13, 2012

Consider Yourself Flashed

And while we're on the topic of small....

Look at this list of flash fiction publications at Flash Fiction Chronicles (thie particular list compiled by Jim Harrington). Plus in the sidebar are links to explanations of flash fiction, publishing opportunities, and more.

Great resource!

Best of the Small Presses

Do you love small presses and want to support them? Karen the Small Press Librarian this month has different writers listing the best of the small press publications for 2012. Peruse the list to find suggestions of and reviews of books you can purchase to support small presses. There are presses on these lists that I'd never even heard of yet, so take a moment to browse. Plus there will be updates as more authors' lists are added throughout December.

Wednesday, December 12, 2012

12/12/12

That's today (in Japan): 12/12/12.

Enjoy.

Tuesday, December 11, 2012

Two for Today

Two fun things from two of my favorite websites.

First, from  Maria Popova's Brain Pickings, the first print ads for some classic books, including this one for Joyce's Ulysses:



These print ads come from Dwight Garner's book Read Me: A Century of Classic American Book Advertisements. See more such ads at Brain Pickings including some from books by Didion, Hemingway, Plath, Delillo, and more. Enjoy!


Second, Flavorwire has literary quote tattoos.

And that's it for today.

Monday, December 10, 2012

Graphing the Effect of the Epigraph

Rachel Sagner Buurma at The New Republic's Book Review writes about epigraphs. Specifically she reviews Rosemary Ahern's book The Art of the Epigraph: How Great Books Begin, which is basically a collection of epigraphs from great works of literature.

In Buurma's review, she says that readers often skip epigraphs because they feel slowed down by them. I was surprised to read this, as I would NEVER skip an epigraph. In fact, I often feel that an epigraph is the best part of what I am reading, and no wonder: the epigraph is a carefully chosen few words or sentences, with all excess material cut away; it's the most choice words minus the setup and the embedding. That can almost never be said of what follows it. Almost nothing written below the epigraph can live up to being as good as the very best writing of well-known author, or one who writes beautifully enough that another writer would want to quote him/her.

Which is why I think writers ought to be wary of using epigraphs.

Which isn't to say I don't like epigraphs. They are often my favorite part of the piece they precede, as I said above. And I use them occasionally, which is pretty arrogant, or pretty self-defeating, depending on how you see it.

There are two ways of using an epigraph that I have observed. The first is to set the tone or atmosphere, as effect noted by Buurma. The second is to introduce a quotation which is directly responded to. I much prefer the first usage. The second, I think, could be relegated to the notes following a piece of literature, rather than stuck there in front, a challenge the writer rarely is able to rise to. But there are times when it works.

I remember one time when it didn't, but can't find the poem I'm thinking of to reference it now. In the epigraph, the poet quoted another poet who had written that one couldn't write a  poem about galoshes, and then the epigraph-quoting poet went on to write one just to show it could be done. But given the quality of the resulting poem, I remember thinking that while it could be done, it shouldn't have been done, or it should have been done better anyway.

Still, I do love an epigraph, and in the past I have once or twice included one in my own work in hopes that it would reward the reader for perservering through a poem I was unsure of. Now I realize that I shouldn't have inflicted the poem on the reader at all.

I have also used epigraphs to set tone or to be responded to directly. I'm guilty guilty guilty, if anyone is thinking of challenging me on the matter.

So keep on using epigraphs, but be wary of the comparison/contrast you are exposing yourself to.



Sunday, December 9, 2012

Slamming into Christmas

Gwarlingo always has such talented picks for its Sunday Poem, and this week's selection of  two poems by Cristin O'Keefe Aptowicz is no exception. Aptowicz is big on the slam scene in New York, a fact which at first made me wary of reading her work. But her storytelling is wise and ironic at the same time. Enjoy these two seasonal poems.

Just Say No

Editor and writer Brian Doyle has a funny essay at The Kenyon Review blog about receiving rejection letters and about writing them. Having a view from both sides of the process, Doyle merrily comments on and remembers the best rejection letters he's seen, as well as discuses the heartbreaks an editor goes through when rejecting certain pieces. We all know the heartbreak of the writer receiving the rejection; now see it from the other side, with someone who never forgets our side too.

Saturday, December 8, 2012

Home for the Holidays

Do you need to be in a specific place or in a particular set of circumstances to write?

Do you ever wonder about how classic writers have managed? Or more specifically, where?

Well, wonder no more. Writers' Houses allows you to look at the homes of over 100 writers, though of course there is no reason to believe that all writers wrote at home. Maybe they went to their epoch-equivalents of coffee shops. But this website is a start. Browse by author, state, city or internationally to see the homes of writers such as Dante, Bronte, Woolf, and Wolfe.

And follow the blog portion to learn more about authors' homes, restoration of them, events held at them, and articles and essays about them.

There's even a shop, just in time for holiday giving to your favorite writers.

Friday, December 7, 2012

Plath Advent Calendar

Advent Calendars are a big thing this year, apparently.

Here's the Sylvia Plath Advent Calendar for December 6th at GET OUT OF THERE PLATH.

Mesozoic Menorah


from Boing Boing, and TrilobiteGlassworks at Etsy


From Boing Boing, the menorah for geeks and nerds, a trilobite menorah. You can order it from TrilobiteGlassworks at Etsy.

Happy Hannukkah!

Thursday, December 6, 2012

Matt Rasmussen: Poet on the Rise

I just discovered the poet Matt Rasmussen. I'm a little late to this party, as he just was recently discovered by the Academy of American Poets who awarded him the Walt Whitman Award for 2012. Poets.org has also discovered him already (be sure to follow their links to five astounding poems), Gulf Coast has already discovered him. You may have already discovered him, but if not, waste no time and do it now.

Betrayal

Cha: An Asian Literary Journal is sponsoring a FREE CONTEST (no fees!) for poems about betrayal. The deadline is mid-January, so start thinking about betrayal, if you haven't been thinking about it already. Submit up to 2 unpublished poems. See more about the guidelines at the link.

Covering Up

Flavorwire has fashions inspired by literature. They range from the whimsical, a dress made from Little Golden Book covers:

by designer Ryan Novelline, via Cory Doctorow's website

to the wearable, a shirt inspired by the cover of Plath's The Bell Jar,

from Kingdom of Style
See more at Flavorwire.

Christmas by the Book

For the Twelve Days of Christmas, you can have twelve different Christmas trees made out of books. Here's one to get started:


via MediaTinker
Or try this one:

See the other 10 at The Mary Sue.

Tuesday, December 4, 2012

Children of Immigrants, Submit!

From the CRWOPPS-B Yahoo List,

Call for submissions: Were you born in the U.S. and raised by immigrant mother/father/ grandparents? The anthology, Two-Countries: Sons and Daughters of Immigrant Parents, (working title) seeks poems, personal essays and flash memoir on this subject. Editor is a prize-winning poet raised by a U.S.-born father and an immigrant mother from El Salvador. Simultaneous submissions and previously published work acceptable. Please submit no more than four poems, two essays (1,400 word limit) or two flash memoir essays (750 word limit) to <twocountriesanthology(at)gmail. com> (replace (at) with @ when sending email).

Hope

I was listening to the Other People podcast with host Brad Listi and writer Eric Raymond, and I heard them agree that writing was an act of hope, that creation of art is an act of hope. Now, I had thought before that creation is a hopeful act, and that creating art is a hopeful act, but I was caught offguard with the notion that writing is hopeful, even though I certainly think of writing as an art. I don't know why I have never made that particular leap of logic...Writing feels necessary to me, but not necessarily hopeful. Only necessary. (Though I'm not suggesting it feels hopeless either...at least not all the time.)

But let's just disregard how I feel. Why hasn't this occurred to me on a philosophical level?

What about you? Have you made that particular connection, writing and hope?

Sunday, December 2, 2012

Essay Advent Calendar

It's December 2nd here in Japan, but I think it's still December 1st in the US, where most of my readers are, so I'm only a bit late on this:

An advent calendar by Essay Daily. Last year Ander Monson did an advent calendar, and this year Essay Daily, which is not really daily as they themselves admit and which is edited by Monson, is keeping up the tradition.

Since the December 1st entry isn't up yet, I don't feel too bad about being late with the news myself. Keep an eye on that link and enjoy!

UPDATE: There is now a post for Dec 1st at Essay Daily. Not sure if it counts in the advent count down or not, but here it is.

And it looks like Diagram, also edited by Monson, has an advent calendar this year too! The first entry is a schematic, one of the features of Diagram that makes it singular. (If you are unfamiliar with Diagram, they publish poetry and stories and reviews and what they call text, in addition to unearthing schematics.)

Rattle Seeks Singles (With Kids)

Rattle is seeking writing by single parents, the group of writers with the least amount of time to write, I should imagine.

Rattle has a lot of interesting themed issues, often based on facets of the identity of the writers, such as lawyers, southern poets, clery, Australian poets. Be sure to check them out periodically to see if they've identified you.

Collage by Mapes

If you are at all interested in collage, check out Michael Mapes' amazing photographic collages at Slate, in Christopher Jobson's article "Dissecting Photographic Specimens with Michael Mapes."  Mapes begins with photographic portraits, cuts them into pieces, preserves fragments in plastic bags, gelatin capsules, and in other mediums, and then reassembles the picture into a collage.

For an even closer look at Mapes' pieces, check out Wookmark.

Mission: Submission

Poet Karyna McGlynn at Gulf Coast's blog gives "My Top 5 Quick & Dirty Submission Tricks." These include ideas I've thought of myself, such as using acknowledgment pages of poets who have an aesthetic similar to mine in order to know where to submit, and also tips I've never thought of, such as using the same font as the journal to which you are submitting. For advice on writing a bio and more, check out this link.

And thanks to Diane Lockward's monthly newsletter, from which I learned of this article.