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.

I spent the better portion of yesterday entering numbers into an outdated DOS-based database system while listening to NPR. It was depressingly similar to the day before.





Of course this was not all that I did at work today. I also spent a good portion of time drafting an imaginary letter to Niglel McGloughlin, my Poetry professor at the University of Gloucestershire, in which I not only reminded him why I was his most favorite American student ever (this is, beyond any hope of convincing, false) and should therefore write my a soaring and undeniably persuasive recommendation for Grad School. A note of warning to Pete Powers and Matt Roth (should they tumble through some Alice hole in the floor of the Blogosphere's upper levels and end up here) - you're on deck.

Because You Asked about the Line Between

I am made of blue
sky and hard rock; I will live
this way forever.

But mostly:

Beautiful.

Powell's Poetry Problems

"Okay, I guess I'll pick it up right after the breakdown..."
- "To Live and Die in LBI," Lifter Puller

Life has changed. Stanley Kunitz famously said (at the age of 4,678 years old) that he was "not done with his changes." I suppose that's some what comforting after the nearly year long [rick]rollercoaster I've recently hopped off.

I have, through little fault of my own, ended up in a magnificent apartment in the Pearl District of Portland, OR. So I've gone from 8 puppies a day, to a short period of no puppies to just one beautiful (Have you ever Seeeeeeen such a face?) little pug named Winston Churchill (and our super favorite companion, Margaret).

My job is... well, most importantly, it exists - there was a strange fascination in holding that first check with the knowledge that more would come, steady income is kick-ass - but beyond that the whole thing crashes crazily down. If there's a bright literary spot in the universe I work at the place it's farthest from - Data Entry at,

noreallynotevenlyingthisabsolutelythegoshdarnkickyouinthecrotchtruth:

Waste Management.

What's more I have definitively proven that my job DOES NOT MATTER. I have run a series quadruple-reverse-blind-placebo tests and there remains little doubt in my mind that my bosses could not prove the difference between a fastidious day and one in which I do little more than gripe about David Dye and Bob Boilen (Maaaaan I hate those guys...).

So that's exciting. It's such a nice feeling, contributing so little to society. But... they pay me, and in the mean time I'm hitting Craig's List hard in hopes that someone out there is looking to employ a none too prolific would-be poet. Speaking of which, Powell's is currently hosting a Portland Poetry contest and I am currently failing at writing such a poem - any thoughts? Or, just draft your own and send it in. I think you get somewhere in the neighborhood of 25 free books? Pretty sweet.

Unusable Signal

Easy Enough I Suppose

Getting back in to

the swing of things often end s

in broken bones, tears.


We have Four new puppers showing up tomorrow: A Brittany Spaniel, a Bloodhound, and a Great Dane. Wow. Sometimes I'm reminded of how unfailingly awesome my job is.

Oh, and of course we already have the two fawn colored Cane Corsos. They're coming along, those two, much progress has been made in their socialization and that alone (the fact that they won't bite anyone) is worth our fee.

Here's hoping this works. This is meant to be a place for instigation and creation and collaboration (with who, friend, with who?) all those other ridiculous groupthink phrases we used in workshops. Maybe I'll actually write this book sometime in the next six months.

For now, I'm happy to start each post with a semi-lame haiku and then get on with things. Goodness knows I have the time during the day - why not use it?

Sidenote: The absolute highlight of my day today was discovering that the Seattle Times publishes TWO crossword puzzles on Sunday. Awesome.

Enough.

Imagine Mt. Fuji