Kelli Russell Agodon's Blog, page 96

Links to Share to Help Poet Dean Young

I've just learned that a favorite poet of mine, Dean Young, is in need of a heart transplant.  I learned of Dean's work in 2002 when I bought this book, Skid (Pitt Poetry Series) and loved it.  I've never met him in person or heard him read, but it's funny how you feel close to poets whose books you love.



Needing (and asking) for help can be tough to do, but his friend, poet Tony Hoagland (author of What Narcissism Means to Me and Donkey Gospel) wrote a heartfelt letter for Dean sharing what we can do to help if you'd like to know more: click on this link.



And then I learned of this blog, by Dean Young's nephew, Seth Pollins.  Another touching letter and info on where to write Dean directly if you feel so inclined.



~



I don't have much to add to this, but just wanted to share the info with you if you haven't heard.  And to share a poem by Dean Young, from the Poetry Foundation:







Dear Friend

What will be served for our receptionin the devastation? Finger food, of courseand white wine, something printed on the napkins.

We were not children togetherbut we are now. Every bird knowsonly two notes constantly rearranged.

That's called forever so we wear pajamasto the practice funeral, buckeroosto the end. We make paper hatsof headlines and float them away.

My home made of smoke,tiny spider made of punctuation,my favorite poem is cinderscratched into a sidewalk.

My friend's becoming the simplest man,he sees a lesson in everything,in missing his train,in his son hollering from the first branch,Dad, guess where I am.

I was with him for my first magpies,governmental and acting like hell.And the new nickelwith Washington hard to recognize.

We'd driven by a Rabbit flattenedby an upset truck, jars of Miracle Whipbroken over the toll road in heavy snow.

We watched an old ladyeat a hot dog in a bunwith a knife and fork.

A few emeralds winged offa fruit leaf.

What happens when your head splits openand the bird flies out, its two notes deranged?You got better, I got better,wildflowers rimmed the crater,glitter glitter glitter.

We knew someone whose father diedthen we knew ourselves.Astronomer, gladiator,thief, a tombstone salesman.

All our vacations went to the seathat breathed two times a daywithout a machine.We got in trouble with a raftdoing what we promised not to.

Further out to be brought further back.

There's my friend in his squashed hattrying to determine if a dotis a living thing and do no harm.

He's having trouble remembering street namesbut there's still plenty of Thoreau.

All that a human is made of is gold,very very little gold.

Listen to Emily Dickinson's poems here!

Via Negativa hosted a wonderful podcast honoring Emily Dickinson and her work.



I read two poems by Emily (& one poem by me) at about 34 minutes if you want to look for me.

Guess Who's Turning 180?

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Emily Dickinson celebrates her 180th birthday today.



Miss Emily wrote many poems, but only seven or so were published while she was alive.  After her death, her sister found over a thousand poems in Emily's bureau.



I'm going to post my one of my favorite poems of hers here:





Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul,

And sings the tune--without the words,

And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;

And sore must be the storm

That could abash the little bird

That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,

And on the strangest sea;

Yet, never, in extremity,

It asked a crumb of me.





~ This is the poem I held closest to me while I wrote Letters From the Emily Dickinson Room.  Images from this poem and others all found their way into my book.  It was not truly intentional to bring Emily in, each word--hope, dwell, feather--and yet, she appeared.  I think this is what the best poetry does, the poet's words return (and perch on your soul) and in your poems.



So let's wish Emily a Happy Birthday today and if you want you can more about her here (and if you scroll down, you can see who adopted this poet...) 



And if you have a second, drop me a comment about what was your favorite poem by Ms. Dickinson.



And may you all Dwell in Possibility...

War is Over, if you want it...

I'm on a writing retreat and I lost track of my days.



Let's pretend it's December 8th again. 12.08.10. The 30th anniversary of the death of one of my heroes.



Let's pretend and let's remember all that he did in the name of peace.

And happy Christmas everyone.

Thankful Thursday

Here's something I'm thankful for, poet Elizabeth Austen introducing my poem "Memo to a Busy World" on NPR's KUOW 94.9 fm.



You can listen to it here.

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My Piece of the World Today

Confession Tuesday

Dear Reader,



It has been one Christmas decorated week since I've written and my home smells like pine and cinnamon.  Due to my cats and golden retriever, I have retrimmed the bottom of the tree  more than I would have liked.  Ornaments fly, beads fall, but I confess, I love having many pets, I love Christmas and wouldn't change a thing...



But it seems I'm already confessing...

To the confessional--



I confess I have been preaching "small Christmas," "simple Christmas" and I have failed miserably.  Let me be honest, I love to buy people gifts.   I see something and think it would be perfect for them.



Or I see quite a few good options, feel overwhelmed about my list and the next thing I know, I have someone's birthday, Christmas, and next year's birthday present all ready for them. Or what I called "the unnamed gift" - the gift I bought knowing it would be a good gift for someone, but I'm not exactly sure who.



This part of Christmas is hard for me because the shopping of Christmas goes against my inner simple life girl. It goes against the part of me that rants about needless consuming and having/keeping/maintaining too much stuff.



I so dislike shopping (even for myself) and so dislike malls, and yet, Christmas has me bidding for things on eBay and yes, buying more than I thought I would.



One thing it really reminds me of is that the less you go into stores, the less you need.

An amazing miracle of the non-shopper, I get by on less because I have no idea there are any other options!



Oh Christmas, I struggle with your spirituality and your bright lights.  Why I could have written a book on this.  Oh wait....



~



I confess I have not stepped into a mall this entire Christmas season and won't.  They frighten me.



~



I confess I went into the $1 store to buy felt for my homemade gifts and left with the above (see photo above) -- a small ceramic box of Joseph, Mary & Jesus to bring on my writing retreat.  It is quite odd for me to purchase this, but it just spoke to me. Maybe I was trying to slowly move back into the spiritual aspects of my life. And while I see the irony of purchasing this spiritual-rememberance box at the $1 store, it helps me stay grounded when I feel myself being plunged into the tinsel.



~



I confess I do like being plunged into the tinsel sometimes.



~



I confess I like that Christmas makes me have to think about who I am, who I was, and where I'm going.



I may never get this right, but I try.



I am hoping my writing retreat does what it always does-- brings me to a place where I realize one bowl and one cup is enough, where time > money, where the world slows to place that I can hear the ice cracking on the roof, where I can go outside and hear the hum of the planet spinning in its very own corner of the universe and remember that we are all here trying to get it right.  And we do sometimes.



Amen.

Rudolph, is that you?

Greeting the Morning-- I have a new favorite place