Tag Archives: poetry

WOW I’m really being a poet this month

You probably already already know it’s National Poetry Month. I feel really lucky to get to celebrate three ways this year:

First, I am very honored to be awarded an Artist Development Grant from River Valley ARTS.

I’ll be revising a verse play called Impelled, which follows three characters during an ordinary day. I want it to work onstage and as a collection of poems, and it’s KIND OF working as both, to some extent, but not–it’s not there yet. The funds I was awarded will help me get feedback from a poetry editor, a director, actors, and eventually, and audience. More on this soon! Huge thanks to River Valley ARTS and the Wisconsin Arts Board!

Next, I just got my copy of Wisconsin People & Ideas for Winter/Spring 2024. Honored to have my Honorable Mention poem published here! (The online issue should be available soon; I’ll try to remember to post that when it is.)

And thirdly, but certainly not lastly (because you will be hearing a LOT more about this the rest of the month): I’m one of six poets pledged to write a poem every day in April for Tupelo Press’s 30/30 project. I have ALWAYS wanted to do this, but when I was still a professor, it was just impossible. April is not just a busy teaching time, but it is when just about every academic conference convenes, and when every academic committee meets, and last year, for example, my spare time was sucked up planning for the very-epic Richland Road Rallye.

I’ve written 10 poems so far, and you can find them all here (you have to scroll back to find the earlier ones, and don’t just read mine–lots of good poems here & I’ll be highlighting some of those soon). One word of caution–I’m being a really REAL poet here. I promised myself I wouldn’t self-censor or try to put on my public face, even though, obviously, since I’m sharing these, they’re very public poems. Lots of confessional stuff, as in, personal information, but also–I’m inventing a lot and putting it in the poem whether or not it’s “real.” It’s still confessional. Robert Lowell talked about changing details if the poem demanded it. But yeah–there’s a lot of raw stuff here. If you have personal concerns about any of it, message me. I”M FINE THOUGH. Truly. In therapy & meditating a ton, etc.

But I wanted to post a blog to talk about why I’m happy to fundraise for Tupelo Press. Lots of reasons. I might do a Top Ten Reasons You Should Support Tupelo Press. But this is the first one I thought of–you may well have seen Maggie Smith’s fine poem “Good Bones” before. It pops up on social media a lot. It’s a great poem about the state of the world, finding hopefulness somehow, parenting, and it’s done A LOT for the world of poetry by being both easy to read and rewarding to re-read (with lots of layers). Tupelo is the press that published her book, Good Bones. I think that’s worth supporting, all on its own.

But in the event that’s not enough, or seeing me jam out a poem a day isn’t enough, I have STUFF you can get if you donate!

Note: a lot of these will get sent along in May because of logistics (especially the ones that require sewing!), but my goal is to make sure they’re all sent by the end of May.

  • For any donation over $10, you can send me a writing prompt/request. I’ll put all the requests in a hat and draw one for one poem the last week of April [LIMITED to 10 donations]
  • For a $25 donation, I will send you one of four (my choice) COASTER POEMS. One is featured above. They are printed on 56 pt matte paper and are ACTUAL COASTERS. [LIMITED to 10 donations]
  • For a $50 donation, you can be the first person I show a 30/30 #2 poem to. 9/10 days so far, I’ve written 2 poems each day so I can choose the one I want to share. I plan to keep that up. If you donate $50, you can send me a couple of dates and I’ll send you one poem from one of those dates. [LIMITED to 10 donations]
  • For a $75 donation, I will send you a set of four COASTER POEMS. There’s the sweet one about the good side of drinking wine, a kind of melancholy one about the medicinal beauty of coffee, one in the voice of a coaster/lover who’s happy to be used. NOTE: Those three are available for viewing on the 30/30 daily page. THE FOURTH ONE doesn’t appear anywhere other than a coaster yet, and I promise, it’s the best one, in the voice of a coaster/lover who is NOT happy to be used. Just don’t, you know, get clever and get your own coasters printed with my poems. That’s tacky and copyright infringement, and you know–just support a good press! [LIMITED to 10 donations]
  • For a $100 donation, I will craft for you a custom/one-of-a-kind quilted, beribboned poem frame for whichever of my 30/30 poems you want to hang up somewhere (or burn like effigy–whatever. For $100 I don’t care).[LIMITED to 5 donations]
  • For a $300 donation, I will craft a custom sonnet for you. We’ll chat via phone or email and I’ll interview you about what you want, and come up with a sonnet. [LIMITED to 2 donations]
  • For a $500 donation, you may pick three of the above, regardless of stated limits. [LIMITED to 1 donation]

PROVISOS for all the above–any poem mentioned above is still mine to publish and share as I see fit, and I still have the copyright, including the custom sonnets. When you make a donation, you can write me a note to tell me what prize you want, and how best to reach (mailing address for the physical stuff, etc.) In the event of weirdness or harassment, etc., I reserve the right to cancel a giveaway. But mostly, the stipulation is, I hope you enjoy this as much as I’m enjoying this!

CLICK HERE FOR

THE TUPELO PRESS DONATION PAGE!

10 Months Ago, Something Awesome

When it was first announced that my sweet little campus would be closing, I was treated very well. The chair of my department emailed right away, and essentially, I could’ve spent Fall 2023 semester teaching at the UW-Platteville campus, or the UW-Baraboo/Sauk County campus, or online, or some mix. Online seemed right at first.

But the more I thought about it, the worse that idea seemed. Not just teaching online (which can be done very well, and which I had done at least competently already), but teaching at all. I was filled with the strongest sense of dread I’d ever felt any time I thought about it. I was writing in my journal at one point and the thought occurred to me, “I’d rather be dead.” Not, as in, I was or am suicidal in any way (I have issues, but that’s NOT one of them), but just–my subconscious trying to let me know DON’T DO THIS.

So I decided to retire and announced it and said right away I wanted a big-ass party. I couldn’t get the kind of party retirees at my campus had gotten in the past, where the retiring faculty or staff member met with the dean’s secretary to sketch out what kind of party, after which people would make donations for the party and the gift(s). Nope, couldn’t do that. By the time the campus was closed, there wasn’t a dean, let alone a dean’s secretary. But dammit, I wanted a party. For myself, yes. As I said in my remarks, any criticism anyone ever had of me as a professor wouldn’t be news to me, because I’m super self-critical as a general rule. Super high ambitions and expectations of myself. But I wanted to end my Richland teaching career with people saying nice things to me. To somewhat balance the scales.

My mother and father very generously funded everything, and the lunch ladies made an amazing spread, and my good friends Gail and Lisa (and Lisa’s whole family) handled logistics so it would just work.

So yes, I wanted it for me. But I also wanted to have at least one final party like the parties we’d had in the past, something people could come to and have kind of a reunion, and that’s exactly what happened.

And I wanted it during the school year, so Richland’s last batch of students could attend. It ended up needing to be in March, because we had two alumni events, spring break, play productions, and awards night taking up other weekends before finals.

Thus, the fact that I’m just now sending out thank-you cards is embarrassing. Tacky. Ridiculous. Awkward. Maybe not worth doing at this point? But I am doing it. With personal cards to people who nicely brought or sent gifts, and then probably postcards eventually to people who brought or sent cards, and if there’s someone on the sign-in sheet that just showed up to wish me well and didn’t bring a gift or a card (or they DID but I’ve lost it, which–I’m kind of a clutter-monkey, so yes, things do get lost, and it has been TEN FREAKING MONTHS).

So, for everyone in the above paragraph–your personal thank is coming, slowly but surely. In the meantime:

That’s the design I made for postcards and coffee mugs. I asked people attending to take a postcard and write a thank-you, not to me, but to someone else who’d helped make Richland wonderful.

If you were there and want to relive it, or wanted to come but couldn’t, or are just curious now, or whatever, it is available on Nova Video’s YouTube page, A Very Marnie Sort of Retirement Party.

I’ve watched it once or twice. I might watch again and transcribe my remarks and do another post with other remarks I considered making but cut because, as my good friend Sarah says, “Never leave them wanting less.”

And maybe that’s a good sentence to remember, when a career ends (just a little) too soon. Feels good when I apply it to my professional English teaching years, 1987-2023. When a much-loved campus closes leaving an educational desert behind, the sentence doesn’t have the same ring to it.

A Bladeless Knife Without a Handle

can’t cut much except 
for memories
or time

into smaller and
smaller units
and smaller still 

if you leap halfway across the stream
and then halfway again
and again

you’ll never get there
tantalizingly close but not
unless your feet are big

If I use nothing
to slice into nothing
I have nothing

but blood



Printer Prayer for the Beginning of the Semester

 
for Ellyn


Sure sometimes Wisconsin gets cold in the summer, jacket-weather cold,
but almost always the end of August is muggy hot
and the machines we need to do our jobs so often stop.
They just stop. They take the pages we labored over,
every policy researched and thought through, assignments shaped
for permanent learning, an ongoing attempt to balance love
of students with love of subject, excellence and kindness weighted
the same. Those very pages—stuck together like hands in gloves.
Like makeup slathered on. Like sandwiches. Or shredded like potatoes.
Or torn like deckle edges. Or folded up like accordion pleats.   
So just this once dear universe, benevolent being, ghosts,
please let the stupid printer simply print. Extra seals
of blessing might include collating and stapling. Thanks.
Honestly, this small thing would be enough for today.





(potential part 2--a prayer for actually staying alive during our 4th COVID semester)

________


picture of crumpled page in printer

Powerless

I don’t think it was a funnel cloud I saw, but 
it was black and the sky was swirly and it was at least
a protuberance on the belly of the sky, a bump
that got sucked back up before I plunged ahead and passed
under it. Trees were thrashing and arcing, deep
ceremonial bows to the east, to the west. Metal chairs
and a table flew in front of me; I skirted them, aware
it might have made more sense to back up, 
go around the block. But I just wanted to get home. 
“Holy fuck,” I said to my son. “Power’s out,” he said.  
We might drive around a bit, charge our devices, scope
out the damage. We might wait until everything’s dead.
I used to have recurring dreams, when I lived in a trailer,
of tornados peeling the roof back like a sardine can, 
lifting me gently in my bed. I always hovered at the roofline.
Nothing like that’s happened to me in real life. Not ever.


 

Prayer for the Burying of Masks

It isn't time to stop wearing them completely. Not quite yet. 
(My Dad's nursing home. Young nieces. The immunocompromised.)
But I want to celebrate because it’s time to wear them less. 

I’m picking one mask to compost in the garden. A favorite 
from the ones I’ve sewn? Black N-95? Baby-blue surgical? I can’t decide.
It isn’t time to stop wearing them completely, not quite yet,

so at most I’ll bury one. Memorial Day weekend. So I won’t forget
the people who lost their jobs. Got sick. Three and a half million lost lives. 
I won’t forget. But I want to celebrate. It’s time to wear masks less.

Now I’m wondering which kind of mask would break down fastest.
Should I cut the elastic off first?  Would the magic still work? Here’s why
I’m not going to stop wearing masks completely, not quite yet:

I don’t want to cause a single retail worker one split second of stress.
Long ago, we buried my son’s placenta in the rhubarb. That spot means life.
Thanks, dirt. Thanks, scientists. Thank-you Jesus we can wear masks less.


And with this mask I am also burying any possible lingering regret.
I didn’t write King Lear. Or bake bread. Or deep-clean. My brain was fried.
It isn’t time to stop wearing masks completely. Not quite yet.
But I am celebrating because it’s time to start wearing them less. 

And yes, I do know that we celebrate Memorial Day OFFICIALLY to remember armed services members who gave their lives in service to our country. (I also know the difference between Memorial Day and Veterans Day, but honestly, if I want to say something nice about a veteran and I pick the wrong day and you correct me? I think you’re an asshole.) BUT LISTEN. MY GRAN’MOMMY ROANE USED TO PUT FLOWERS ON TOMBSTONES OF VARIOUS RELATIVES ON MEMORIAL DAY WEEKEND, AND THEY WEREN’T VETERANS. So if I want to use the holiday to just remember something, I’m gonna.

Also note: this is my front porch office, which I like to refer to as the FPO. (I also have a BPO.) This is a nice big old stalk of rhubarb which I’ll admire out here for a day or so and then do something with. Other rhubarb this year has gone to friends, been bartered for a fabric stash, and is going this evening into a new baked beans recipe called Red Beans and Rhubarb (same basic sauce as normal, boring baked beans but w/ red beans & chopped rhubarb. It may be awful. I’ve made it up. Have never tried it.)

The big vase behind the rhubarb is a recent gift from my amazingly talented brother. The wooden cut-outs are a gift from him from long ago–each cloud does indeed have a silver lining.

Also, as for me and my house, we are fully vaccinated. Fully marinated. Or I wouldn’t consider going mask-less.

Image

Sonnet for the End of the Baptist World

“Ow, ow, I think that penny broke my arm, Mrs. Fledermeyer.”

I was only joking.  My arm wasn’t hurt at all.

The penny hadn’t come from high enough.

My friends and I laughed and laughed

imagining the panicked high schoolers

above us who were just then perhaps

feeling a little regret for throwing things

off the tower they were climbing.

But honestly, why do what they were supposed to?

Just stand in line until the top then look around

and point? That’s what the ads showed. 

It looked like a giant waterslide without water.

Or a slide. Just a thing to pay money and do.

My brain knows I find it amusing

so works pretty constantly to please

and handing me this sentence

(which I’ve said out loud six times already)

right before my alarm went off two hours ago

was definitely a gift—a precious Monday morning gift—

not only does Fledermeyer rhyme with 

Neidermeyer so that Animal House

hovers in my memory of the dream

(maybe that campus is where my friends

and I were walking to, instead of where I really work),

I realized on reflection that the lack of masks

and distancing were of no concern

to anyone, not even me (and I am

generally, dramatically, in real life, concerned),

so it must have been done, the whole thing,

finally, and we could walk with our friends,

and make dumb jokes, or leave the house

to climb a winding stairway, mushed together, 

get bored in line and get in trouble,

the kind that isn’t about a disease.

Between pandemics I will

have nights when sloppy kisses seem just the thing

to bestow on every still-living friend I see 

and we’ll stare so close the sparks in our eyes will clank

together, warming our faces, and we’ll be drunk

on air, each other’s breath, we’ll pant, outrush, 

and suck each other in, French-cigarette-style, Irish

waterfalls of laughter—such noise!—and good old love

and food we paid someone else to make and serve.

Or maybe I will read about these things

or overhear them but not emerge from my house

because you never know what’s lurking about,

what new horror’s slouching in the wings.

I will stay in, I will demur no thank you,

I will say safe is what I’ve gotten used to.

See Seed Seen

I may have picked my nose on that Zoom call
just now. I don’t do it a lot, I promise.
I just lose track of being onscreen is all.

If I did it, I didn’t notice while
my finger dug. But I sensed an emptiness….
I may have flashed a boob on that Zoom call

while I was fixing both bra straps, which fall
off my shoulders so constantly, so fast.
I just lose track of being onscreen. It’s all

so mediated, so exhausting, so unreal.
I miss other people’s halitosis.
I may have murdered someone on that Zoom call

when they walked in front of my camera. Again. “Talk talk
talk talk talk” and then somehow, silence.
I lose track of being onscreen. That’s not all.

I chew, mouth wide open. I mop up spills.
Why shouldn’t I? I am, after all, the host.
I may have transubstantiated on that Zoom call.
I just lost track of being onscreen. That’s all.