Clearing the Sill of the World - Key West 3

Rushed on time, I could not proceed without downloading the conclusion of the Key West Literary Seminar:
Best presentation of the day, goes to Maxine Kumin (rhymes with human, but my spelling may be incorrect). She described the poetic path of her life from the 1940 to present, the diminshed contribution of women poets during the first half of the 20th century, her friendship with Anne Sexton, and her bucolic life as a Virginian horse farmer.
The other speakers were of course wonderful . . . and there is non-verbal learning by example that I have absorbed. I've noted the most interesting speakers, their choice of work, their ability to make their written language thrive as spoken word, and pitfalls into which even masters may stumble.
The weather has proceeded to deteriorate in temperature and now wind. I have battled it with Chicken Lo Mein and hot Chinese tea . . . but now on Day 4 of my vacation, I had to pause, return to my room and sleep. My unconscious needed to rest before facing the start of the four day workshop this evening. I will return with more notes, but for now this must suffice:

3 Poems from Key West

Portential
Hard-boiled islands
strung on a chain of highway

bisect the uncut peaks of topaz,
the circling barracudas.

The silken flesh of bulbus palms
shelter dark bricks. Gray and olive shadows.
Fronds mutter. Their flanges twiddle the cold
'tween drowsy blades.

Here, grandmother broke her hip
on a sidewalk planter grate on Duval.

Here, my confused heart marinated
in cruelty's salt sting, ever faithful.

Here, a stranger brushed against mein a garden lit by distant fire.
Born for death, I commit days
to a pilgrimage: a garden, on a rock, in the water:

my devil,
in a deep blue sea.
_ _ _ _
Cracked Open
I keep agreeing to go further,
figuring if I endure
I will arrive
eventually. But,
I never arrive.

My heart wants.
Involuntary wanting wants
and wanting wants
relentlessly. Still,
it wants more.

My descent is indecent.
I, enchanted, am decanted,
warm with shame, brine and heartbreak
immensely, like
a raw egg cooking in the street.

I have put my lips to the flesh of thinking,
licked his salty neck overtly,
the stream of consciousness conveys my soul,
covertly. But,
language sets these sordid pictures on the Internet.

You lay your head upon my chestand gobble up my exhalations.
I brace myself, my expectations
petrified. And
wait for the kiss, reciprocation.
_ _ _ _ _
Drastic Measures
There are those who can in fact
cut off a moderately dangerous mole
using a exponentially more dangerous axe.

The key: you must entrust at will
to stand very very very still. Very very very still
and to prepare yourself, said mole to kill.

Also key is not to know
the exact moment of the blow,
less you flinch and also go.
_ _ _ _

Clearing the Sill of the World - Key West 3

Friday evening passed warmly. We were awoken by blustering fronds in the courtyard of our inn. By morning light a frigid rain began to fall . . . and me without a raincoat. We ran to the San Carlos club, for Day 2 of the Key West Literary Seminar. Another day of literary superstars reading for a grateful audience:
Rhina Espillat - The bi-lingual and granmotherly Dominican earth mother. She is a quick and lucid wit in both Spanish and Dutch New York vernacular. She had one of the favorite poems of the morning "Undelivered Mail."
Billy Collins - A part time Orlandoan emerged into my consciousness today. He gave the most successfull presentation of the morning. He is confident, objective, and a skilled performer. I think I liked his presentation best because he offered some wonderful observances as bookends to his work. An example: "Writing is the pursuit of the love of strangers."
Matthea Harvey - The best superstar performer. She's set an uphill battle for herself, by selecting to read poems that were free associated from images, forms, and dictionary keywords. Her feminine high-fidelity voice begs to narrate the next "Living Planet."
James Tate charmed and Rita Dove illuminated Robert Pinsky's panel on the "Poet's Life."
Tim Steele and Paul Muldoon impressed as well.
Finally the afternoon wrapped up with readings from Kirby Condit, Kay Ryan, E.J. Laino, Todd Boss, Dara, and Harvey Shapiro. What's not to like!
My biggest discovery for today has to be Natasha Tretheway, however. She rose and surgically delivered acute and deeply crafted poems that connected to one another, to her persona, and to her audience. I cannot say enough about her. She is a quiet master with much more chi to radiate. Unparalleled amongst her peers today.
This evening, our honoree Richard Wilbur takes the podium to read the keynote address and adjourn us to a cocktail party at the old Customs House on Mallory Square. He is our high priest in the temple of poetry. I can't wait to see what he has planned.
More to follow . . .

Clearing the Sill Of the World - Key West 2

I have spent a beautiful sunny day in the Florida Keyes indoors, in a dark cavern called the San Carlos club, with 200 of my closest friends, listening to an All-Stars Game of Poetry:
Rachel Hadas - A bit academic, but honest and adroit. She, the burden of opening and so at a disadvantage. Brilliantly trained in the classics, she is the ground wire amongst so much lightning.
Erica Dawson - A mere 30 years old, and pursuing her Ph.D. at the University of Cincinnati, Ms. Dawson naturally coheres language, ideas, and format. Her hard work never shows. She makes a triple axle look like a dance step. An everyman engaged in the work of masters . . . she succeeds. I'm a bit jealous of her ease, and innate intelligence. She just arrives, and bears light without self-consciousness.
James Tate - My favorite of the day. Brittle and elderly, he needed help to climb the stairs to the stage. Once seated he read humorous poems in a deadpan-comic Richard-Wright style. His common language conveys large concepts using vernacular characters and dialogue. Amazing, accessible. I laughed regularly throughout his reading!
Robert Pinsky - A genius whose intelligence is akin to defense mechanism. He's like a magician that keeps you mesmerized by the energy and activity in his right-hand . . . while he arranges a surprise below his cape. I have the involuntary desire to sit him down . . . slow him down . . . lead him back to his heart. Wind from that path that bears complex and unaddressed issues. I wonder if his intent isn't to inspire repeated inspection of content. Rich with layers nevertheless.
Rita Dove - Whose new book is my next purpose - had the most interesting subject matter: A biography of a baroque mulato violinist who traveled Europe during the age of slavery, held court with kings, was a friend of Beethoven, and eventually lead the Price of Whales orchestra. What an amazing life!
Mark Strand - Funny, but not hilarious. He had one or two classic lines from his early work (to represent the celebration of 60 years of American poetry). He is a humble and generous poet, who was more interested in his peers than himself. Also someone I'd like to take to dinner.
Tim Steele - Did the BEST job with the most difficult subject. He spoke intelligently and engagingly on meter and rhythm in verse . . . and enabled me to access every point without losing my attention. I hope a transcript of his presentation is made available. It was that good. Sterling!
There were also four panel discussions of various formal topics: Influences, Poetic Mechanics, Form, and Process. These were interesting, as I'm a poet. Panelists spoke extemporaneoulsy and informedly . . . but I was self-reflexively aware that the audience was full of poetry "groupies" chomping at the bit to repeat some of their ruminations at the next book-club meeting. Still good stuff for a poet, priming himself to gestate in a workshop next week. I should have been subjected to a complete Survey of Modern American Literature by the time I have to explain my stinking attempts at immortality (turns out Vampirism is involved . . . and I'm just not that straight!).
The average age in the room is 60. I mean who prizes poetry enough to miss a week of work, and has the income to migrate to Key West at peak season. The greatest generation is also the greatest audience. They laugh freely and typically swoon a long suppressed "MMmmmmmmmm" after poetic flourishes by which they are moved.
I did manage to get Richard Wilbur (*the* 89 year old guest of honor) to sign the title page of his anthology. I asked him to inscribe something inspirational, but he only signed his name. I think the autograph was involuntary in that public-speaking thanks-and-here-you-go kind of way. I'm told this will be worth billions one day, but I'm not the type to haggle with sacred texts.
Tonight, I will attend the performance of a staged reading of Richard Wilbur's translation of the Suitors (French farce), and attend a cocktail party. The food and company has been lovely, but alas, a day of vacation has flown by. I feel stimulated, but not refreshed. If the weather is not freezing later in the week, I may play hookie and sit out in the sun at the beach. More soon . . .

Key West Literary Seminar

I spent Thursday evening directing my VW Passat from Orlando to Key West, Florida, despite a pesky check engine alert on the dashboard. Volkswagon assured me that my broken thermostat (repair fee $250) would not impact the operation of the car, just the fuel efficiency. The car it appears has decided to run "cold" during the longest artic cold snap in a decade. Go figure.
I spent the first three hours flying across the pine pampas and cypress land listening to Johannes Sebastian Bach (played by Glenn Gould - delicious!) and when traffic started to ramp up around Miami, I converted to the Emmerson String Quartet w/ Clarinet (Mozart). This lasted until I hit the overseas highway. I do not know what possessed me, but I put on the Bee Gees, and expressed my inner disco as I floated about the tourquoise glass that is Florida Bay. "Tragedy! When the Feeling's Gone and You Can't Go On . . . Tragedy!" I love it. Two favorites are "How Deep Is Your Love" and "No One Gets Too Much Heaven", which I shall not profane on the Blogosphere.
Upon arrival in Key West, I met my roomie Micah - a New York City Librarian - and my room. Old Town Manor. The B&B is a typical bungelow conveniently set at Eaton and Duval (read as perfectly central). The rooms have no heat, and few blankets (as they unnecessary most of the year) and so last night I spent a cold dark in a single brass bed. The thankfully hot shower this morning has revived me for the first full day of the "brain-i-mar".
Highlights last night:
1. Hearing about the Cuban-American poetry community that populated Key West in the first half of the twentieth century.
2. Listening to Robert Pinsky ruminate on memory, forgetting, phonics, and his curratorial interest in obscure poets of all ages, from all corners of the world. He is a phenomenal thinker, but I was at at six hour drive disadvantage. I let the cerebral discussion wash over me like a tide.
3. The late night reception at the Audobon house was excellent. Champagne, Flamenco music, Audobon's botanical gardens and famous poets of all shapes and sizes. I met Judy Bloom (famous author) and joked with her for awhile (suppressing my need to say Hello God, this is Margaret!).
Now I must skidaddle! Stay tuned campers, more comedy is on the way. And if you get bored, check out the online journal "Rose and Thorn". I gave the editor my book this morning.

Other Words 2009

November 6 – 8, I attended the Other Words Conference sponsored by the Florida Literary Arts Coalition and Flagler College (http://www.floridarts.org/). This literary seminar and writer’s workshop is held over a long weekend in ambient St. Augustine, Florida.
St. Augustine, continental North America’s oldest city, is a charming, if asymmetric, collage of colonial Spanish, French and English buildings, set amongst monuments to Victorian robber barons, mid-century modern Florida, and sad1970s attempts at urban planning. Bridges soar, lighthouses haunt, museums punctuate, Formica proliferates, and tourists wander like beasts off the Serengeti (belching, running, wailing, and circling the crumbling Castillo de San Marco).
Flagler College is a gem in the diadem of Florida’s Victorian heritage. The juxtaposition of sandy coquina walls and dark russet terracotta ornamentation is striking. The dining hall was replete with Tiffany windows, and the faux filigree of a different age. The atmosphere of these hallowed halls lends an air of academic dignity to the conference dialogue.
Highpoints of the conference included:
- Frank Overview of the Biases and Assumptions of Literary Editors
- Discussion of the Long Poem
- Introductions to Breakout Poets
- Community Outreach by the Poetry Society and Crazyhorse to their respective communities
- Side by Side comparisons of Literary products from the Florida Review, Tampa Review, Anhinga Press, Miami Poetry Collective, Greensboro Review, Crazyhorse
- Collaborative work with other artists and media.
Best Speakers Included:

Elena Karina Byrne, Regional Director of the Poetry Society of America in Los Angeles, and Carol Ann Davis, Co-editor of Crazyhorse, spoke about fostering a literary community in Charleston and Los Angeles. Both have done so much for specific communities in their respective literary capitals. I was inspired to make a larger effort in Central Florida.

Ira Sukrungruang, co-editor of University of South Florida's Sweet, read an excerpts of his writing on being overweight in different genres. He is a powerful and articulate speaker, and his discussion of presentation and genre was very insightful.

Rhett Iseman Trull read from her collection, The Real Warnings. Wow! So young, and such a confident voice. She is a rising literary star, as is Ken Hart with his collection Uh Oh Time. Both won the Anhinga Prize for Poetry . . . and it leads me to look to this publisher for more great work.

Meghan Brinson spoke on the long poem in contemporary literature, and her efforts to coordinate and link found long poems on the Internet.

It had been a long time, since I felt so integrated into a community of like-minded, creative and genuinely good people. Other Words positively reinforces all the sacrifices made in pursuit of a literary life.

Ghosts of Color

Last weekend I flew to New Hampshire. It was the apex of autumn. Villages of white clapboard stood watch over slate cemetaries, pumpkin patches and wreaths of corn.

The pretense of my trip was the wedding of a lifelong friend, Charlotte, to her beau and (now husband) Dwayne. The wedding was moving and relaxed, punctuated with excellent food, the brilliance of a hardwood deciduous forest aflame with color, and two families uniting through their children. Wonderful.

Icing on the cake, was wandering with lifelong friend, Joy, into the trails of the White Mountains, the farmstands of Hollis. The beauty and happiness that is New Hampshire washed over me like a memory.

On Columbus Day, I set off alone to haunt the places where I had once laughed, and loved. I set off down remote trails, photographing the trees, streams, and lakes south of the Franconia Notch. My subconscious percolated the past into the present, using the timeless consistency of the autumn woods as a bridge.

Here, once upon a time, I had been fully present. I loved life deeply . . . forgot that I was vulnerable . . . and then suddenly was vulnerable. I had wanted to reclaim the colors, the granite, the trails, the mountains. I had wanted their sensation to belong to me in a new context. However, everywhere that I went the past presented itself.

I realized that in everything, every day, one must choose to live fully present and completely vulnerable, regardless of the consequences. The option is to spend your life sheltering yourself, mitigating risk and pursuing control. This option might be safer, but the memories would be of fears and strategies, instead of experiences and offerings. In any case, it was too late for me. New Hampshire is a place I poured myself out, and there I was on fire in the trees.

The Fallen

by William Drew Weinbrenner

In careful folds

on rounded mounds

stand forest clouds

of ruby red.

Through and under

circling ceilings,

brittle brown

and dead.

Shuffled feet

crush and crunch.

The puzzle plowed

to mossy bed.

We're m i l e s a p a r t.

Our hearts resound.

But not a word

was really said.

Beauty pulls

a vacancy,

wrapped in wool,

a single thread.

Three years distance

I put between

unravels

in my head.