We’re coming up on the one-year anniversary of when I wrote a poem every day in April to help raise money for Tupelo Press. I wrote about it here.
I’ve been slow about finishing the odes for some of the local businesses who were nice enough to host my poetry pop-up shop. It’s very much connected to how much interaction I got–on the days when people just kind of smiled nicely and didn’t stop to talk or donate or buy some coasters, I was able to write the ode while I was on site.
But several places people were super interested and talkative, and it was harder to get anything much written. That was good though!
But as always, it’s hard for me to avoid procrastinating. And then when I did sit down to write, I put all kinds of pressure on myself to write A REALLY GOOD ODE.
In any case, I’m getting them done. Here’s one I wrote for The Slowpoke Lounge in Spring Green.
Since it took me so long to finish it, I decided I should make a fabric collage/poetry frame (which was one of my giveaways for people who donated at a certain level last spring). I’d recently organized my fabric stash, so was very glad to find these pieces to use.
More of last spring’s odes and new ones coming soon.
Should I do it again this April? Have pop-up shops & write local odes as thanks for my hosts?
Well, I did it in terms of writing a poem every day in April. I actually wrote 45. You can see them here.
But I haven’t yet met my fundraising goal. I’ve gotten lots of positive comments, so I’m hoping just a few more of those turn into donations. Click here to make a donation. There are thank-you gifts (from me!) for online donations of $25 or more, but even $5 or $10 will help me meet my goal. Tupelo really is a fantastic press, and like William Hurt says in The Big Chill, let’s go out with a bang, not a whimper!
(o.k. so that’s not the scene in the jeep where he says the line, but still.)
I’m continuing to write at least one poem a day in April, for three reasons: to challenge myself, to network, and to raise money for a truly fabulous publisher, Tupelo Press.
Big thanks to everyone who’s donated so far! I’m up to $255, and I want to raise at least $350 (ideally even more). Click here to make a donation.
Here’s today’s poem, “The Force That Thought The Green Good Night.” (I’m second alphabetically so you do have to scroll down a bit.) I feel like I’ll lose that title when I revise, but I don’t mind being obvious that it’s heavily influenced by Dylan Thomas.
One of the ways I’m drumming up more donations is to do what I’m calling Pop-Up Poetry Shop. Starting tomorrow (W 4/24), I’m going to one local business a day from 11-1. I’ll be writing, answering questions, collecting donations (if people would rather give me cash than donate online) and exchanging SWAG for donations. For these local events, a $5 donation gives you a chance to tell me what should be in the ode I’ll be working on for whatever business I’m at (even if that means you want me to include you as a customer!) The other bits of cool stuff you can get is described in my previous Tupelo 30/30 post.
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!
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)
________
Am not the productivity queen, though trying,
every bad habit I have is worse right now.
I’ve learned a new word—“recrudescence.” Wow
is that my life at 3 a.m. I keep thinking I’m dying
from the virus that makes my lips a little blue
but is not, not according to the test, the hot new sick.
You can learn a lot about a person in a pandemic,
but what you think you know might not be true.
I’ve been thinking about the shows I used to watch after school.
Who would and wouldn’t wear a mask because it was or wasn’t cool.
Leave it to Wally to be the most consistent.
The Beave would try but lose his in a minute.
The actor who played him just died—let’s take a second to grieve—
or really however long we need—but I think we can all agree
Eddie might wear his mask in front of June,
but he’d take it off the moment she left the room.
I almost never want to leave the street
where my dream is taking place, but things
move fast so I can’t linger. The other night
I was in Butte (I think) and everything
was Irish, St. Patrick this and Brigid that,
mint green signs and throbbing drums and drunk guys
and a sense that things were turning dangerous
and I was walking, not driving, down a very narrow street.
That’s it. That was the end. I wasn’t afraid.
A man I know who lost a tooth in Butte
(for real) has cancer. I dreamed about him last night.
A gallery show, collages of himself, most naked,
which he called “The Ravager_________.” Next to the cheese tray,
he was selling tiny brown cloverleafs he’d crocheted.
Day 1
We were running anxiously, ridiculously late in the dream
I had right before I woke up this morning. At first
I was driving and realized I was taking the scenic route—
I go that way a lot when I’m asleep—
and then I was on my bike and completely lost track
of where the sidewalk was and all the sudden
I was inside a hospital. I couldn’t find my way back
at first and by the time I did, it was noon….
In real life, this morning, we started right at 8:00
to a flurry of people looking for cameras and toys,
of which, of which, of which we have a great,
vast really, trove; along with other…joys (?)
just waiting to be yours, all priced to sell,
and so much more we’ll be bringing out as well.
Day 2
There’s so much more to bring out, but it’s just as well
the sale ends tomorrow. Even though
we have enough to hold a goddam sale
every weekend from now until…who knows?
I’m fond of saying we are just one half
a matchbook collection away from being an episode
of Hoarders. This sale has pulled us safely back
from the brink. A house can only hold so much.
A house is like a liver. Everything
goes through and if you have too much of everything,
production slows. Deposits accumulate.
“Fatty liver.” A disease I have. A name I hate.
With virtuous living, it can be reversed.
What happens to an abused liver? Does it burst?
Day 3
What happens to an abused liver? Does it burst?
The sheath around it a shoe that pinches.
My liver gets uncomfortable. It hurts.
My ability to overindulge is diminished.
All those years of “Yes, I’ll have another,”
of thinking, saying, “too much is just enough.”
My body’s damaged. My house is still too full of stuff.
Less and less is the way I’ll recover.
“Well, no, I won’t take $10 for that. $15.
No lower. I’d rather give it to St. Vinny’s for free.”
“I’m sorry, no, we didn’t end up bringing out
any CDs or DVDs. Yes, those are all the tools we’ve got.”
We did the best we could. It wasn’t great.
As always, we were running anxiously, ridiculously late.
_____
There once was a trope so wrongheaded, I’ve never forgotten
how fetid: “a woman’s period,” (the very young man said)
“the falling ash at the end of a lit cigar.”
The women in the class (of course it was a class)
said together like a chorus, “no,
no, no, it’s nothing like that, not at all.”
And now we’re grown up and now we’re grown old
and where is he now, that redhead?
In the bar where the mermaids wait tables, an old man
leaves a tip on a napkin: “You would be so much prettier
if you smiled more.” He looks less at her face than her ass
and at home he writes poems about “how her titties are
shooting out her shirt like two cannon balls.”
No one needs to read it to think “not at all.”
____
Just killing time before a movie–there was a Twitter exchange about dirty old man poems & I was inspired. (The title relates to the Twitter exchange.)
The snow’s off-white, the house is white, the sky
is pewter-gray, the buggy’s black, and also black:
the horses and most of the laundry on the line
except for a little rose and green and one kind
of blue so patently Amish it should be called that.
Oh, and the underwear, the private flying
proudly in the open, nothing white,
just various degrees of beige that look like linen
sails billowing, contrasting very slightly
with the piles of dirty snow they’ve shoved aside,
the temporary patio furniture of winter
the children might jump off of when there’s time,
when they’re not hard at work or cutting a slice
down the shoulder of the road: when it’s ice
I’ve heard they skate there but I
have only ever seen them standing by
their parents or in a circle outside
what I think is a school where they were either
playing or getting ready to fight,
which I know they aren’t supposed to do. So why
did it look so menacing, the four or five
boys I saw, closing in on another child
as I drove by, that’s what I do, I drive on by,
that’s what we do out here, the road signs
with the graphic horse and buggy trying
to tell us slow down, watch out, use your eyes,
because the next hill you’ll go over is blind
and you won’t see them until you’re right
on top of them, a whole family on your right
with bright specks of color but mostly wearing night.
This month I’m trying to hunt for green as I drive–I’m considering it mindful driving. One of the shades of green I see on Mondays when I’m driving to Kickapoo High School, as I drive through Amish Country, is the occasional green shirt on the clotheslines of Amish families–close to the shade above. The laundry on the line is mostly black and beige. But some blue and green and a shade of kind of rosy-plum.
marniere 