Don’t Read Poetry

Don't Read Poetry: A Book About How to Read Poems by Stephanie Burt
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

I read this once and then I read it again. It’s a library book; the library has stopped taking books back for now, due to Covid-19, so after it had been sitting on my table for awhile I decided to read it a second time. The first time I thought it was disjointed, but now the pieces begin to come together. I’m glad to know Stephanie Burt. She’s an influential poet-critic-professor but she’s not writing from a high place. She often writes in first person, and she addresses the reader directly. She doesn’t offer complete poems with commentary. Rather, she shows ways poems can please (6 categories— feeling, character, technique, difficulty, wisdom, community) and offers pieces of poems from many eras as examples. The book is a guide and invitation to finding poems you like, with assurance that the more you know of poetry the more you will like and sometimes love.


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Zing! prefers poetry in the park

Written last night:

Dear Friends,

Zing! loves poetry. He listens when I read to him. But he doesn’t go to poetry events — until this evening. On summer Mondays the Poetry Center has poetry in the park, and that means dogs are welcome. After dinner today Zing! and I walked over to Fremont Park and sat on the grass. We heard spoken word — a loose term that tonight meant words as entertainment, storytelling and a bit of call and response with the audience. The poet was Jenny Lynn, who has a “Dare me to say it again” attitude. She was followed by Jeanette Sem, but Zing! said one poet was enough for tonight.

He did nod that we should go again.

Love,

k

Love is ...

Dear Friends,
Last weekend I was in Columbus, Ohio, for a bridal shower for Casey, the fiancé of my nephew Nick.  

I wrote this poem for Casey and made it into an accordion book.  Welcome into our family, Casey!

Love is a kite

that flies the wild wind

with a string you can barely hold onto

Love is a seed

that grows silent and slow

then suddenly bursts into blossom

Love is a look

that nobody sees

except the one it was meant for

Love is a night

when you cry in your sleep

then you turn and his arms gently hold you

Love is two hearts

tangled aloft

claiming a piece of the sky

Love,

k

Words + Music = Poetry Plus

Written last night:
Dear Friends,

This evening ended with art — or ukulele class, which is an art to me. I’m lousy, but coming to love it. (I hear Clark chuckling.)

After that — give me more art — I went to a poetry reading at the Crocker Museum. Each poet had musical accompaniment — piano, guitar, flute...  It was great to end the day this way.

Love,

k

Poetry emcee Rhony Bhopla

Words and glitter and paint

Written last night:

Dear Friends,

Words and glitter and paint! It sounds like art a kid would make … a slightly older kid … me.

Here’s part of my latest painting. It’s got lines of poems referring to stars; here, Andrew Marvell’s The Definition of Love  and Juliet in Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet.

I know — it looks kind of messy. 

Love,

k

Sitting around the poem table

Dear Friends,

Yesterday I walked over to the monthly poetry hour at the library. You know I love it. Many people brought poems relating to independence and freedom — the July theme. None were overtly political. Here’s a sampling:

“Blessings/ Beannacht” by John O’Donohue

“Moths” by Jennifer O’Grady

“I Love Uncertain Gestures” by Valerio Magrelli

“Politeness” and “Independence” by A.A Milne

“A Headstrong Boy” by Gu Chen

“Immortal City” by Indigo Moor, who is the poet laureate of Sacramento  I can’t find the poem online — It’s in the poetry collection Tule Review— not sure which volume, but suspect the most recent. Here’s an interview with Moor.

“Learning to Read” by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper

“Rivers Run Through Me” by the Nicaraguan poet Gioconda Belli (My selection. Can’t find it online. It’s below.)

Rivers run through me

mountains bore into my body

and the geography of this country

begins forming in me

turning me into lakes, chasms, ravines,

earth for sowing love

opening like a furrow filling me with a longing to live

to see it free, beautiful,

full of smiles. 

I want to explode with love ...

Love,

k

Farmers Market Poem Sale

Dear Friends

Yesterday morning at the farmers market I bought a poem. Also some cauliflower. William Curius, the poet, set up his typewriter by the veggies and wrote poems on demand. You give him the subject (I said Zing!) and after few minutes -- voilá — your very own poem. You pay what you can. “Give me about 10 minutes,” William told me. “I’ve got another one ahead of you.” 

Love,
k

Don't forget to fly

"There's always a moment when you don't like what you're making." 

Mom would say that when I was sewing a dress and I got sleepy and frustrated and wanted to toss it in the trash. 

It happens a lot still ... when I'm making anything!

At the beginning of this piece, the bird was the only thing I liked. I stuffed the whole thing in the closet. But the bird kept calling me. So I pulled him out and painted big flowers, and hated them, and more flowers and hated them (Who hates flowers??). Then painted everything black, then dark blue-purple, then .... you get the idea. Now I love it. Thanks, bird!

Don't forget to fly 

(last line in a poem by Al Young)

Mixed-media on board

14" x 18" 

Poems are my new normal

Written Thursday:
Dear Friends,

I’ve got to admit it — I enjoyed doing “nothing” several days when I had a cold. But now I’m back to “normal.” (You see nothing and normal both in quotes because I’m the person who is defining them. And if I’m defining Normal, watch out!)

Today Zing! spent the afternoon with our friend Tony, and I went to the library for poetry sharing. It is so simple and so powerful. Anyone who wants to just comes to the Sacramento Room on I Street and we take turns reading poems (not our own.) The subject was, loosely, Spring. Here is the one I chose. Claribel Alegría* was from Nicaragua; she died in January. Her poem made me think of Spring in Miami. Not all Springtimes are the same.

Love,

k
*In the photo I forgot the accent mark on Alegría. 

Where to paint a poem?

Written last night:
Dear Friends,

Today was the first poetry Thursday of 2018 at the library, and the subject was time. Here’s a poem I read. I like it so much that in Tallahassee I painted it inside the medicine chest so I could read it every morning as I brushed my teeth. I left that crazy medicine cabinet there when I moved to Sacramento. Here there are drawers and mirrors, so I’ve got to paint this beautiful poem somewhere else.

Love,

k

It’s the Dream by Olav H. Hauge

It’s the dream we carry

that something wondrous will happen

that it must happen

time will open

hearts will open

doors will open

spring will gush forth from the ground–

that the dream itself will open

that one morning we’ll quietly drift

into a harbor we didn’t know was there.

from Borealis (March/April 2002), translated from the Norwegian by Robert Hadin

Underground Books -- I love independent bookstores

Written last night:

Dear Friends,

Thursday my Uber driver told me he’s new to town. He also said he writes poetry and plays guitar. I told him about a bookstore where poets hang out — actually, I’ve never been there myself, just heard of it. He wanted to know more, so this morning I visited; it was closed, but I sent him the info and acquainted myself with the place -- Underground Books -- as well. 

Love,

k

Window at Underground Books, with 35th Street (and Rosa!) reflected

Sacramento looks good!

Poetry at the library

Written last night:

Dear Friends,

You know I love poetry, and I am amazed to find that Sacramento has lots of people like me. Between noon and 1 p.m. today I joined in the monthly poetry reading at the main library, a short walk from home. It was a half-dozen people sitting around a table in a large, book-filled, but otherwise empty space called The Sacramento Room. It’s so simple. We each brought a poem to read,  A little discussion might follow, and then the next person reads. There were two women, friends of about 30, and a young man, an older man, Mary the librarian, and me. One of the women had memorized her poem (by Kentucky farmer-poet Wendell Berry); she said she recited it out loud every time she fed her new baby. I hope to return.

Love,
k

Art Expanding: Poetry + Quilt + More

Written last night:

Dear Friends,

I’ve been meaning to explore Brickhouse, an art complex the next neighborhood up, which is called Oak Park. I guess it is the resurgence of a declining area, with coffee shop and brewery, etc. What drew me was the poetry and the quilt exhibit — both in the same building this morning.

I got lost because there are diagonal streets as well as the grid I’ve internalized, so I circled the block several times before stopping. Nothing seemed to be going on — I mean, 10 a.m. on a Sunday? And I didn’t want to be this gray-haired lady walking where I shouldn’t be. 

But it is exactly where I should be — an expansive, tall-walled gallery that shows quilts better than anywhere I remember, with a garden/patio beyond, where a man was at a table reading. In a side room a small group was preparing to record a Coffee and Poets podcast interview with the poet Frances Kakugawa  I stayed for that, and then saw the African American History Legacy Juried Quilt Exhibition, highlighting two quilts by Alice Beasley. (Check out her photo — the lenses of her rimless glasses are two different shapes.) The Brickhouse is another place to love in Sacramento.

Love,

k

Frances Kakugawa answers an audience question

Miles Ahead 

Miles Davis by Alice Beasley

Unidentified Black Male

Alice Beasley

Power to the People

Rosita Thomas

Sacramento = Poems + Art

Written last night:

Dear Friends,

I just got back from a poetry reading at the Crocker Museum. More than 100 people were there in a gallery full of exciting art. Lots read their own own poems. I’m thrilled to live four blocks from this. 

Love,

And this couch is covered with crochet!
I need one!!

The breath of life

Written last night:

Dear Friends,

Happy Easter!

Plans changed and I spent the holiday alone, which isn’t as desolate as it sounds. Clark doesn’t come to me often in dreams, but last night he was there with his arm around me for a long time. With reassurance like that I didn’t feel lonely. You know I love a “do-nothing” Sunday, and it’s easy when it’s gray like today.  I addressed the tax envelopes, first signing in all the right places. After that — nothing! I puttered and then I drew a basket of eggs. At the farmers market yesterday I bought those beautiful blue eggs from the special chickens, but painted these brownish anyway. 

Love,

k

... and here's an Easter-y poem I love:

The breath of life,

The spirit of life,

The word of life,

It flies to you and you and you,

Always the word.

         --Maori, New Zealand

inspired by a Cedric Morris oil

What curtains can do

Written last night:

Dear Friends:

I have lived with bare windows for so long that I find myself scowling at today's civilized addition of shades and drapes. Being on the twelfth floor and across the street from government offices has made me feel private up here, even though anyone with curiosity and a telescope could probably see in. But as of today I have shades, and  now they are closed for the night. They give privacy and coziness. I’ve got to say it feels good — maybe even better than the beautiful black night with squares of gold light from neighboring office buildings. 

This afternoon, while Steve the window treatment installer was drilling holes in my cement walls, I escaped the noise and dust by retreating to the outside stairway overlooking downtown; I sat on the rock-cold landing, where I read awhile and made a few phone calls. With a plate of cheese and bread, I had my own private picnic.

I don’t know why, but today I also cooked more like I used to — polenta and roasted tomatoes and spinach and applesauce — and also for the first time in a while I got lost in reading an actual paper paper — The New York Review of Books, which Rig introduced me to.  There I learned that the father of poet James Merrill had founded Safeway Markets, as well as Merrill Lynch. Then later today, when I stopped in at Safeway, I felt compelled  to share this tidbit with a checkout person. Surely she would want to know that her store had been started by a the father of a great poet!  But I controlled myself and shut up. Until now.

Love,
K

My chilly picnic

Just a moment with Juan Felipe Herrera

Written last night:

Dear Friends,

Early this morning Zing and I walked to the old Crest Theater, 10 minutes away, on K Street near the Capitol. Juan Felipe Herrera, the U.S. Poet Laureate, would be there tonight. I was planning to attend. I mean, how great to have Herrera a 10-minute walk away??? I had a ticket, but was afraid to go: Afraid Zing would have a trauma attack when I left and proclaim his own spoken word poetry to all my neighbors.

Later this morning, Zing and I headed to Roseville, a city-suburb on the outer reaches of Sacramento, to learn how to hang the pendulum on our old brass and glass  clock, the one that was a wedding gift to Clark's parents. Clark loved it and wound it faithfully for years. I didn’t know how to take over.

Luckily, there’s an antiques mall in Roseville, where Nick Everett stands in a stall, surrounded by clocks. On the phone, Nick said he’d show me how to start the clock ticking again. Nick treated my clock tenderly, and now it’s on the living room shelf ticking and chiming like it’s alive. 

But back to the poet laureate: Sacramento has an active poetry society. They invited Juan Felipe Herrera to read. I love poetry. I couldn’t believe my luck! So last week I bought a ticket. It was unthinkable to miss it, even though Zing was not invited. I decided to give Zing one of his pills, stirred up in meatballs, so he'd relax enough to be left alone. 

So I did it, and then flipped between friendliness and terror as I mingled and ate a chocolate and bought a book from a local poet,  and marveled at the gaudy splendor of the theater, and chatted with a few people I know. I got a photo of Herrera in the lobby, but ended up so nervous about Zing, that I had to leave before Herrera began to read. But we did it, Zing and I, we separated for an hour without freaking out. I heard no barks on my iPad video of Zing when he was alone. 

Juan Felipe Herrera, the U.S. Poet Laureate

Tending to those little details

Written last night:

Today ran away with me: motivated by Zing’s (and my) need for a dependable, cozy home, I determined to line up things I’ve neglected: window coverings (I love the light, but maybe full-on it’s too brash.), disposing of the broken bed, and minding to other details. I don’t know if it’s grief or laziness, but until now I was not interested or able to accomplish much. Also, when I go out to do these things, Zing stays home, barking. It slows you down.

Today 

• A goat farmer with a hauling business and his apprentice took away the bad, bad broken bed frame. 
• A butcher at Safeway Market made my day with his smile. He’s another one of those people who focus directly on the person they are serving. 
• I got out of Ikea with just a box of cinnamon rolls.
• I made a Thursday appointment with Cassi, the dog trainer. (I am witless with worry about Zing.)
• I wrote a poem called How to bark.

This evening Zing and I followed the crowd to the Arena. The (Don’t tell anyone, but I have to look this up! If Clark were here he’d tell me, laughing.) Oh, yes, the Kings — they played the Israeli national professional basketball team in an exhibition game. I loved being in the crowd. Is that the best thing about basketball?  And I loved passing by the entrance and going home instead of the game! I do feel partial to the Kings, now that I know who they are. I'm glad the arena has a busy schedule.

Kind of an ordinary day, otherwise. I assume Zing barked, and he may bark tomorrow morning, when I take my driver’s license test. Then we’re going to the country to visit Patrick and Steph. Driving beyond the city has seemed daunting until now. Internet service may be spotty there, so I might skip a day. But I hope not. This should be interesting.

Love,

k