Head Down Through a Busy Playground

whatever else she 

did, what other joys she felt,

the seeing brought pain.

So, not exactly breaking news but we have a new Poet Laureate: Kay Ryan.  

Yes, KAY Ryan.  Not Jeri Ryan.  I know, I was surprised too.

Not disappointed though.  Reading through some interviews and some of her essays (and, of course, poems) she is a minimalist and a bit of a pragmatist who is often compared to both Frost and Dickinson.  She claims she is in the business of rehabilitating cliches and old themes imbuing many of her poems with that moment in which the reader recognizes the familiar presented in a  surprising way.  A nearly extreme individualist, Ryan believes that we come to know life in a negative sense, learning by consistently being wrong. 

Carrying a Ladder 

by Kay Ryan

We are always

really carrying

a ladder, but its'

invisible. We 

only know

something's 

the matter:

something precious

crashes, easy doors

prove impassable .

Or, in the body,

there's too much

swing or off-

center gravity.

And, in the mind, 

a drunken capacity 

access to out-of-range

apples.  As though

one had a way to climb

out of the damage

and apology.

Check out her collection Niagra Rivers.

Enough.

When You Can't Reach Your Zipper

My fingers will grow
More nimble with each inch that
She adds to your waist.



Well, again, things have changed. Again.

I was fortunate enough to spend a week or so on the east coast at the beginning of this month. Aside from having to cough up heartbreaking goodbyes nearlyeveryday, it was fabulous. Fantastic. Wondrous.

Every hour or so I very nearly wished that I lived there still, or again. Predictably, this came in short spurts - most often when alongside a dear, dear friend. Then I realized that I can't stand the humidity. Can't stand it. Haaaaaaate it. Hate it.

But I'm back in the northwest. Surrounded by occasional drizzle, everlasting green and of course the love of a small, fat cupcake/pug hybrid and a slightly distracted, inconquerably generous woman who is pretty much the first thirty seconds of an antacid tablet sinking into water encapsulated in human form. She also just passed her French Praxis. Yay!

Each morning finds me at the Portland Metro headquarters of Waste Management. I'm slowly accepting this. I spend nine to twelve hours a day saying things that 75% of the American public a) only say in ridiculing jest on church bus trips or b) assume can't be said in any seriousness whatsoever unless on the set of a feature film or sketch comedy show. Things like "10-4" and "Copy" and "Over." These are my days. During lunch I sneak an hour or so of culture. I'm soothed by the dulcet tones of the Writer's Almanac, intrigued by a diverting article in whichever reasonably respected magazine I have with me before I dutifully, gratefully, fall into the welcoming embrace of an established work. Currently, Passing Through by Stanley Kunitz (who I referenced in my last "update," odd) which is magnificent and deeply recommended.

My phone has been missing for 5 days now. Funny that, "missing." It describes the physical reality well enough, but is absolutely antithetical to my actual emotional response. Hmm.

Enough.