Dawn Potter's Blog, page 555

Yesterday's Beloit Poetry Journal meeting took a rather u...

Yesterday's Beloit Poetry Journal meeting took a rather unpleasant (though friendly and civil) turn over a set of poems that arose for discussion. The editorial board pattern is this: any poems that make it through several initial readings are then read aloud at a quarterly board meeting. The final choice does not exactly rely on consensus, though discussion often leads to some sort of agreement. Still, often enough poems get into the journal via an "I don't hate it so if you really like it" cap

from The Death of the HeartElizabeth Bowen"Nothing arrive...

from The Death of the Heart
Elizabeth Bowen
"Nothing arrives on paper as it started, and so much arrives that one never started at all. To write is always to rave a little--even if one did once know what one meant. . . . There are ways and and ways of trumping a thing up: one gets more discriminating, not necessarily more honest. I should know, after all."

Today is not only my 18th wedding anniversary but also th...

Today is not only my 18th wedding anniversary but also the 40th anniversary of the first moon walk. Forty years ago I was 4 years old, entirely unaware that this would be my wedding day in a couple of decades. And I have no memory of the moon walk either, though my parents say that I watched it on television with them.
Why do these accidental synchonicities seem so compelling? On October 7, 1976, my 12th birthday, Gary Gilmore was sentenced to death. That also continues to bother me, for no real

Sunday, 6:08 p.m.Pitting the cherries. Stemming the blueb...

Sunday, 6:08 p.m.
Pitting the cherries. Stemming the blueberries. Measuring the cream.
Chopping the dill. Slicing the butter. Unwrapping the salmon.
Shelling the peas. Sauteeing the garlic flowers. Halving the cherry tomatoes.
Peeling the big red onions. Slicing the portabello mushrooms.
Turning the page. Drinking the ice water. Choking on the woodsmoke.
Humming. Listening to the wind. Not thinking about much.

In the course of drafting my sonnet exercises (the ones u...

In the course of drafting my sonnet exercises (the ones using the first words of Shakespeare's sonnets rather than the end rhymes), I have found myself also consulting the Psalms. My reasons arise from the fact that I have to deal with words such as "thou" and "thine," which I have decided not to simplify to "you" and "yours" but to use contextually as a way to talk about the Society of Friends. I was raised in the Meeting but have never, to this point, written about Friends or that experience.

Starting on Sunday, I have a three-day Beloit Poetry Jour...

Starting on Sunday, I have a three-day Beloit Poetry Journal meeting, and already I am tired of donating my brain to other people. The problem is too much copyediting, which is making me feel like a doormat. Copyeditors are the certified nursing assistants of the publishing world. We empty the bedpans. So today I will browse through a couple of poetry collections by friends of mine. I will read more of John Berryman's Bradstreet poem. I will read Henry Green's Party Going. I will work on my Shak

I opened Berryman's poem this cloudy morning, and it said...

I opened Berryman's poem this cloudy morning, and it said all the words that needed to be said. How many wonders there are in books.
<>from Homage to Mistress Bradsteet
John Berryman

Outside the New World winters in grand dark
white air lashing high thro' the virgin standsfoxes down foxholes sigh,surely the English heart quails, stunned.I doubt if Simon that this blast, this sea,spares from his rigour for your poetrymore. We are on each other's hands<>who care. Both of our worlds unhanded us. Lie stark.</></>

Other than being trapped in an editing project that is su...

Other than being trapped in an editing project that is sucking away my soul and reigniting my carpal tunnel symptoms, I am in a cheerful mood today, and here is why.
<>1. The sun is almost shining and the laundry is almost dry and it is almost 70 degrees. This marks a considerable step up for Harmony weather-wise, for this has been the coldest, wettest, worst-gardening summer in all the 15 years I've lived in this town.
<>2. My new friend Matt, for reasons best known to himself, sends me emails that o</></>

This week's Milly Jourdain poem:<>The ThrushMilly Jour...

This week's Milly Jourdain poem:
<>The Thrush
Milly Jourdain
The pale grey light is spreading in the sky,          And on the ground, untilI see the shining drops on grass and trees          And all is soft and still.
The quiet earth is only half awake,          And still breathes peacefully;A thrush's voice fills all the waiting air          Pure, cold as is the sea.
Not the triumphant song of spring which makes          The wood so full of praise,But a sweet sound, and fitful, fresh as rain,<>         </></>

from How to Tell a Major Poet from a Minor PoetE. B. Whit...

from How to Tell a Major Poet from a Minor Poet
E. B. White

All poets who, when reading from their own works, experience a choked feeling are major. For that matter, all poets who read from their own works are major, whether they choke or not. All women poets, dead or alive, who smoke cigars are major. . . . The truth is, it is fairly easy to tell the two types apart; it is only when one sets about trying to decide whether what they write is any good or not that the thing becomes complicated.

<><>Dinne</></>