Timothy Green's Blog

A few years ago I was driving to a softball tournament with a pair of microbiologists who didn't like my taste in music (folk, for the record — and no, this isn't the beginning of a bad joke about cell division).  Shuffling through my CD case, they came across a burned disc with "To Tim, From Sally" scrawled at the top, along with a track list full of indie bands that I still can't keep straight.

"Who's Sally?" one of them asked.

"She's a…fan, I guess?" I said, and explained how she'd read...

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When I was a freshman in college I took my first poetry class, and my father started referring to me as "the poet," like an epithet.  Even then I had no interest in being a poet — I had a passing interest in writing fiction, mostly as a hobby, and thought I'd minor in creative writing — but it was chemistry that interested me, visions of designing drugs to keep people healthy, researching the origins of life, using organics as fine tools for the first time in human history…  Writing was just ...

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On April 1st of last spring, UC-San Diego's communications office accidentally sent every single applicant — 46,337 of them — acceptance emails.  "We're thrilled that you've been admitted to UC San Diego, and we're showcasing our beautiful campus on Admit Day."  A half an hour later they sent another email, saying, "Oops!"

Last night, I did the same thing on a slightly smaller scale.  Rattle just went live with a holiday promotion, where all new subscriptions receive a free copy of our slam...

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I meant to publish an old poem every other week or so, but just realized it's been almost two months since I posted the last. Part of the reason is that I spilled water on my laptop, and no longer have easy access to very old poems.  But everything back to 2002 is still handy, so let's carry on.

Much like "A Darkness Below," this poem's only problem is that it's just not very good. In 2003, I was on the cusp of knowing what I was doing, but I wasn't quite there yet.  Note the all-lowercase...

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A few weeks ago I sent out my semi-annual mass email to announce the fall's newsletter (available as a free PDF download here, if I haven't mentioned it).  As always happens when you email 20,000 people, hundreds of them write back — most to say thanks, some to change an address, but then a fragrant few just to spread their wombat crazy.

I was about to say that I don't understand how people can get upset at a lowly little poetry magazine that runs at a loss for the love of the game — but I...

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Over the summer, the editors of the Buddhist magazine Tricycle approached me, asking if Rattle might help them with a poetry discussion group.  Though we have no direct ties to Buddhism, I thought it might be interesting to participate.  I'm not a practicing Buddhist myself — I'm too much a spiritless materialist to succor the notion of reincarnation or Buddha-nature — but I've always had a strong affinity for their philosophical and psychological views, which in the end comprise the bulk of ...

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In a post last month, detailing the stats behind this year's Rattle Poetry Prize, I made the following statement:

[W:]hen you read the winners in December, if the honorable mentions seem no stronger than the rest of the poems in the magazine, and there are a few in the open section that seem even better than the $5,000 prize winner, don't worry — that's exactly what should happen, statistically (if we assume the quality of a contest entry is the same as that of a regular submission, which is...

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August is the busiest month for Rattle, but the weeks of September and March 15th are the busiest times for me.  We used to pay a graphic designer several thousand dollars a year to do half of what I'm doing this week — in addition to typesetting and laying out the winter issue, I'm also putting together this fall's e-issue, and sending hand-crafted mass-merged emails to tens of thousands of people.  It's fun work, but it's tiring.  Already I've spent one night at the office until 2am, and...

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Last week I read poetry with a comedian at a hair salon slash art gallery.  An unusual setup, but that's not necessarily a bad thing — poetry readings are generally boring as hell.  They come in two forms — the poet plus open mic, and the fancypants poetry pair all by their lonesome.  I don't know which is worse; the former is a more acute pain, the latter more a dull ache.  Both are mostly psychological torture, bound to a chair and suffering a tedium bearable only in small doses.  Maybe...

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The trolls are ruining this place, and I'm sick of cleaning piss out of a carpet that I don't even care about.  There's no reason to waste time thinking about comments on this blog, unless it's to participate in a discussion relevant to the post above them.  I've spent way too much time this summer trying to decide how to respond to what amounts to ignorant, masturbatory graffiti.  I feel like a kindergarten teacher.  Well, I'm taking away the scissors.

Comments on this blog are now all...

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