Old Work

 

 

 

Found the poem I wrote a few years ago, after climbing Groundhog Day. Maybe this is the year I finally finish my collection. Maybe.

A new angle

Exit 38 – Far Side, photo credit Dan Silverberg

After taking a long hiatus from my blog, I think it’s time to come back from a slightly different angle.  In the past I’ve used this space to talk about art and writing—this made a lot of sense when I was immersed in books and surrounded by artists.  I still write and read, I still paint and draw, and I still love my artist friends, but the people I see most frequently these days are climbers.  I had a friend last night ask if I owned a pair of heels—I realized he’s rarely seen me in anything besides sweaty climbing gear and whatever I throw on to get to and from the gym.

I hope that my climbing world and my writing world collide in to each other soon, and I have high hopes that my friends will come see me read with Kelly Davio, Nicelle Davis, Maggie MK Hess and Sierra Nelson at the Hugo House on Dec 10th. Writing has always been a way to make sense of my world, and I don’t think that will ever change.  I think, though, that to return to writing I need to write about the thing I dream about now—climbing.  My body has always played a large role in the way that I perceive, and therefore played a large role in my writing. (What is your first though?/You’re touching me.) Climbing seems a natural extension of this—and it isn’t surprising that I find joy in learning to trust what my body is capable of.  Last night I finished something tougher than I’d ever climbed at the gym.  I’d been working on the route for a few weeks, always failing at the same spot.  One of my best friends was belaying me, and I came off, again. I called down to her One more try and took a deep breath.  Back on the wall, something just made sense, I shifted my weight, and moved through.  The rest of the climb wasn’t a breeze by any stretch, and I came off again near the top, but I finished it.

There’s poetry in climbing—when it’s right, there’s a sequence that flows with your breath.  It’s hard and it hurts and sometimes you fail. But sometimes, when it’s all working, you find yourself in the most incredible places.  Although I was terrified at the time, the place where I go in meditation is a section of Groundhog Day in Leavenworth. The climb itself isn’t incredibly difficult, but we found ourselves off-route and on something stiffer than I thought we’d be climbing.  My partner was belaying from above and I had to climb to him, laying back on a thick flake while I took out the gear he placed.  I suspect it wouldn’t be scary to me now, but at the time I felt exposed and scared.  It was mid-morning, with summer sun against the rock and swallows kept soaring in and out of crevices.  That moment: birds and sun and rock—alone. That is my zen place. (In looking at the route online I can’t find any information on a flake, and the grade is something I’d be very comfortable leading now—just shows you how scary something can be before you understand it.) I climb to find those moments, where everything clicks and you move forward.

I think it is very fitting that the day after I read at the Hugo House with a dear friend from grad school I will hop on a plane and fly to Mexico to climb with a new friend. Body (text) to body (climb). I’m scared to read the piece I’ve selected, and I’m scared to get to Mexico, speaking whatever Spanish I’ve managed to learn in a month, to climb on stone that’s different than anything else I’ve been on, with a person I am only just getting to know. Yet both decisions make sense to me. Maybe I’m trying to make my body into a poem—learn to move with sequence towards what scares me.  One of my first notebooks in grad school has the simple phrase risk everything written on the first page, underlined twice.  So here we go. Risk it all.

Writing Retreat

What wonders a weekend away from home will do.

Thus far I have: worked on the cover for Nicelle’s Circe, made significant progress on my sonnet sequence for Formal Inquiry, worked on a few other pen and ink drawings, attempted to play with cats, reread several of the essays in Stigmata and listened to the new Radiohead album entirely too many times.  Add to that mix a productive and entertaining Heroes board meeting, seeing a few good friends, climbing for a few hours and a quick walk beneath the bright cold sun… also a fireplace that turns on with the flick of a switch.  It’s been a good few days.

This weekend retreat came at a good time.  A friend recently asked me “What’s the best book you’ve ever read?” and I have to say I didn’t have a single answer.  I have favorite books, books I consider old friends and books I can always turn to for inspiration, but what do you mean by “best”? If he meant best by way of plot, I’m completely lost.  In trying to answer I found myself walking through my library, brushing my fingers against spines, my body full of want–my shelves have accumulated too much dust and it’s time to dive back in.

There’s so much coming up.  There’s Barnstorm, there’s Formal Inquiry, there’s the Heroes project that I’m starting to spearhead, there’s the journal I already have that I still have to send back to Alison.  Books to read, poems to write, walls to climb.  Have I been asleep?  I’m stretching awake again, brewing coffee and headed into morning.

 

Any Poets out there?

Enter this!  I’m just posting up our press release, but if you have any questions, feel free to shoot me an email.  It’s a great magazine, and you know you want to win the subscription…

Poetry Northwest Introduces The Pitch

Poetry Northwest introduces the quarterly poetry competition The Pitch.  Each round features a writing prompt drawn up by a notable writer and work submitted must adhere to the specifications outlined in the prompt.

Pitch #1, Find Direction Out,  features a prompt by Seattle poet Rebecca Hoogs.  Among her many engagements and achievements as a writer, Rebecca Hoogs is the curator of Seattle Arts & Lectures Poetry Series and the author of the chapbook, Grenade.

Work can be submitted via email as a Word.doc or pdf attachment to thepitch@poetrynw.org (only these formats can be accepted) and include in the email message your name, address, phone number, and month/year of birth. One entry per person. Please include your legal name in the email address, even if you wish to be represented on our site by a pseudonym. Full rules can be found on poetrynw.org.

Two finalists will be selected by the editorial staff for a public vote. The finalists will appear on poetrynw.org at the end of the quarter for which their pitch submission is received: for spring and summer, September 15; for fall, December 15; for winter, March 15. Voting will last three weeks. The winner will be published on the site in perpetuity, and will receive a one-year subscription to Poetry Northwest.

In the Post

What bees and babes is this place luring?

(from Gretel and the Witch)

I have my very own copy of The Ravenous Audience now, and I’m so glad to hold it in my hands. I had the great fortune to see this book along its way to book-ness. This is not a shy book, and it is not for the timid reader.  Kate tackles a lot, and she is unafraid in her words. There are delicate moments, but there are raw moments too. It’s a great collection, and I just wish that I was in Southern California to hear her read from its pages.  I guess I’ll just have to try to tempt Kate back to Seattle for a visit and a reading…

Poet Voice

A bit over a year ago (see photo above) was the last time I read in a real reading.  I’ve done open mics since I’ve been to Seattle, but it isn’t the same as having your name in a program.  I’m not quite sure how to go about arranging readings here, or getting in on other readings.  I also seem to think I haven’t written much to read.  I’ve almost avoided reading pieces from my chapbook really.  Naomi Gal told us once to view our work as written by our little sisters.  We aren’t the same people today as we were yesterday, and tomorrow will be someone new again.  Looking at Letters Through Glass I couldn’t agree more.

However, I think it’s important to move beyond the When of my work and into the Work of it.  Yesterday a friend asked me to read to him over the phone, and I found myself dodging and weaving.  When did I lose my tongue?  Once I realized what I was doing I read, and sure enough, a few lines in I found the cant that feels familiar.  The Poet Voice.

I think I need the Poet Voice; the thing that separates my daily speech from my text.  I can feel the words sharpen and focus in my mouth and I like the taste.

Letters Through Glass

Messages started to come in today- although I don’t have my copies yet, my book is out in the world! 

Thank you to everyone who helped me along the way, both with editing and suggestions, and with support and the last ditch efforts to hit the required pre-publication sales.  I couldn’t have made this without you.