A scattered day of thoughts and words

1.  A vague obsession with the phrase "In Absentia". From Latin, literally translated to mean "in the absence". I looked up, through Google Translate, at least 15 different ways to write in the absence of you (in absentia vobus). I feel like that phrase deserves something better then confident legalese. In Absentia, in absentia, in absentia. Google Translator also says that "in the presence (of you)" is apud vos, but it's been a long time since I took Latin, so I have no idea if that's accurate, nor do I want to pull out my old books and check. Nor am I at home. So, in Google we trust.

There is something haunting about in absentia vobus.

2.  I read this poem by Georgia Douglas Johnson, notable poet during/of the Harlem Renaissance.

The Heart of a Womanby Georgia Douglas Johnson
The heart of a woman goes forth with the dawn,
As a lone bird, soft winging, so restlessly on,
Afar o'er life's turrets and vales does it roam
In the wake of those echoes the heart calls home. 

The heart of a woman falls back with the night,
And enters some alien cage in its plight,
And tries to forget it has dreamed of the stars
While it breaks, breaks, breaks on the sheltering bars.

Seriously, that's how you end a fucking poem. Jesus, Mary, & Joseph.

3.  I didn't win the contest I submitted my poems to; I found out today. I didn't expect to and now I have a handful of poems to submit to journals, which is good. While I was discussing this rejection today, my coworker told me that I need to go look at a record of  night and "refill my love tank".

May we all go forth and read something that refills our love tank.

Seamus Heaney, you are a class act

I haven't had a chance to write about (or process) the passing of one of my favorite poets, Seamus Heaney. He passed away at the end of this August. If you are unfamiliar with his work, I highly recommend Opened Ground. I still find new poems in there, new meanings. Seriously, get you a copy. His poetry is beyond compare. If you're looking for an review of his work, this isn't the place. I just want to talk a little about how much his work means to me.

I was introduced to Seamus Heaney in one of my many classes with Pamela McClure. Dr. Pam found a beautiful Irish band that wrote a song using one of his poems as the lyrics. I can't find it on YouTube, which is a damn shame. If any of you know a link to it, please post the link. I did find several beautiful tribute videos.

I have so many things I want to say, but I don't know how to say them, so I'm going to talk around it for a little while until I hit the meat. There is something about his words that really resonates with me. My wife doesn't care for poetry (not written about her), but she knows who Pamela McClure and Seamus Heaney are because they are our household poets. I always know where their books are.

I reconnected with a dear friend from my high school recently, and she dropped that she got to see Heaney read in Texas and I was/am so jealous. A part of me still thinks I'll get to see him read because the truth is that this hasn't quite sunk in, yet.

I read this when I found out:

Late in the Clinton administration, the President and First Lady hosted a party to celebrate American poetry at the White House. I was standing with a group of poets with the President, and one of us asked if he read poetry. He lit up a little and said that he'd been reading The Cure at Troy, Seamus Heaney's version of Sophocles, and that it had been important to him in thinking about peace talks in Northern Ireland. A moment I wanted to remember, in memory of Seamus, and a straight-from-the-horse's- mouth (so to speak) demonstration of poetry's place in public life.

-Mark Doty

The news outlets tell me that he left us with a final message: don't be afraid.

Even on his way out the door, a class act. Thank you for all of everything.

Reflecting on an amazing poem and a lost friend (or 10)...

I was born and raised in a College town. Transient friendships, friendships with clear or muddy, but always inevitable ends, these friendships have almost always been a part of my life. Learning to cherish and mourn at the same time is a constant.

Anyway, I stumbled across this poem by Joanna Klink (who might be one of my new favorite poets... time to buy some of her books!). She says, "The poem is addressed to a close friend. Several decades into our friendship we become terribly estranged from each other—and I wanted to see if I could reach her in the poem, and I wanted to wish her well." 

If I could dedicate this poem to my long lost best friend, I would. I'm sorry. This poem makes me think of you.

Without further ado...

Given
by Joanna Klink

And I carried to that emptiness
between us the birds
that had been calling out

     all night. I carried an old
     bicycle, a warm meal,
     some time to talk.

I would have brought
them to you sooner
but was afraid your own

     hopelessness would keep you
     crouched there. If you spring up,
     let it not be against me

but like a weed or a
fountain. I grant you
the hard spine of your

     childhood. I grant you
     the frowning arc of this morning.
     If I could I would grant you

a bright throat and even
brighter eyes, this whole hill
of olive trees, its

     calmness of purpose.
     Let me not forget
     ever what I owe you.

I have loved the love
you felt for those gardens
and I would grant you

     the always steadying
     presence of seeds.
     I bring to that trouble

between us a bell that might
blur into air. I bring the woods
and a sense of what lives there.

     Like you, I turn to sunlight for
     answers. Like you, I am
     not sure where it has gone.

a record of night

In honor of three years of poetry on this blog, I'm pleased as punch to introduce my small chapbook a record of night to you!

You can purchase it on Amazon!

Or, if you don't have a kindle (or dislike Amazon), you can purchase it on etsy

If you feel so inclined, readers, I would love any feedback you have on Amazon page.

Peace, love, and good night!

-Kirstin

Why you should subscribe to poem-a-day, and other uncomfortably sexy things...

This poem, um, is fabulous. These Hands, If Not Gods by Natalie Diaz.

Haven't they moved like rivers--
like Glory, like light--
over the seven days of your body?

And...

Aren't they, too, the dark carpenters
of your small church? Have they not burned
on the altar of your belly, eaten the bread
of your thighs, broke you to wine, to ichor,
to nectareous feast?

Seriously. Go. Read it. I'm not normally for weirdly erotic religious poetry, but if you pretend like this is about a super sexy lover, it makes you crave a cigarette and a glass of wine. Um. Or you feel really awkward afterwards. Look, I don't need to know about your hangups and you don't need to know about mine.

My favorite part is Natalie Diaz' about-this-poem:

The images and hands of this poem began building during Mass one Sunday. The reading was about the laying of hands on someone, and I began thinking of how my own hands work upon a body. How they do things both beautiful and awful—to gently trace a throat in one moment, to hold it tightly in another—a type of sweet wreckery that makes me feel godlike and helpless all at once.

If that kind of imagery was building up in my mind during church, I probably would have stayed Catholic. Damn.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Cindy, Sam, me & some poetry: I stopped by Cindy's to go through her edits for record of night.

Meanwhile, my blogaversary is coming up tomorrow! I wish I could bake you all cookies. I might bake cookies anyway...  or buy them. And eat them. Without you. Okay, okay, I'll instagram you some photos, if you're sweet.

I don't think you're ready for this jelly.

Rambles and a poem fragment...

Lunchtime blog is written during lunch.

Somebody brought me caffeine. I haven't started drinking it, but you better watch your ass when I do! Caffeine is GO TIME.

So, basically, this is a ramble blog. I just wanted to write to you guys. It helps me past the time while I wait for my work to come back to me. I'm waiting for my birds to fly back to me. It's cool, I have a nest and some sweet worms. Or something. Is this awkward? Anyways...

I would fly North,
But it wouldn't
be a true migration-
not the way bees
carry honey to
their true love.

Ok, so my lunch is two minutes from being over. Peace out, homies.

Submitter's Block- the tummy churning edition

You love writing. You've been writing since you were a kid, or you picked up writing in College. Maybe you found writing in the middle of a divorce or on a quiet Sunday evening, sitting under a Mimosa tree. You took classes, engaged in workshops, are active in online communities and love everything about it, or some variation of this...but you are terrified of submitting your work. We're talking pit-in-your-throat, rock-in-your-stomach, binge eating Blizzards, procrastinating Sheriff of Anxiety. I know, I have a Sheriff's star badge. Okay, well, I don't, but I wish I did.

I have an awful case of the Submitter's Block.  I'm sharing my feelings today because when I did a web search for other people who have trouble with this, I found very little to relate to or to soothe my nerves. If my descent into batshit cat lady helps somebody else avoid 30 minute discussions about absorbent kitty litter and what brand to use to best avoid UTI's in kitties, I want to do my part.

I'm not going to let it stall me, this time. I will submit. Ugggggggggg.

My Internal Monologue (occasionally dialogue):

• I'm not actually a poet, but a big fake.
• I will get rejected again.
• I will never get accepted.
• I am a big fake. No, really.
• I'm not talented.
• I'm no good.
• It all sucks.
• I suck.
• Fake, Fake, Fake, Fake.
• Why bother? The likelihood that you'll win this contest/get accepted is so incredibly slim, why do you even try?

It is getting ugly in here, folks. I don't mean to be a drama queen, but I haven't had this much anxiety since college. I almost didn't recognize it... So today I'm venting. I tried ignoring, but that was pushing me to tears at my desk. So what next? 

I accept these emotions. I accept the rock sitting in my tummy. Deep breath. Feel the air in my lungs. Give me space for self compassion.

Plan of Action:

1. JUST DO IT: Drop of envelope for contest in the mail after work.
   
2. REWARD SELF: Go with wife to local ice creamery and consume alcoholic ice cream. That exists, I kid you not, and it is heaven.
   
3. DON'T GIVE UP: Work on my Record of Night.
   
4. RELAX: Put on Pj's.
   
5. CONTINUE TO RELAX: Cuddle with wife and friend on couch. Hopefully these cuddles will include viewing a movie that makes me giggle.

Take a deep breath. Breathing is important. Here is another list. This is an important one...

Things that are important to remember:

• Rejection is not a sign that my writing is bad. Poetry editors handle an overwhelming number of submissions/year. Just because they kick yours to the curb doesn't reflect on my value or the value of my work.

• Rejection is a natural part of being a published poet.

• Everybody gets rejected. Your idols, your icons, your profs, your contemporaries. Everybody.

• I've been published before, I can get published again.

Update: submissions dropped in the mail, delicious food reward consumed, ready to get home and work on record. On track an I feel much better. I can totally do this.