Notes from the Gefilte Review...

Redesign

2012-01-29T08:31:00.000-08:00

As a child, I was considered something of an artistic prodigy. I used to take classes at the Corcoran with college students who were twice my size (I was eight at the time). And although I no longer paint and draw, I can still sew anything, learn how to make almost anything if given a chance. But, my excellent hand-to-eye coordination does not extend to that thing we call the Interwebs. I don't know code. I don't have lots of snazzy voice files and images with which to fancy up my website. So, when I decided it was time to revise "www.jehannedubrow.com," there wasn't a lot that I could bring to the table...um, I mean laptop.

I gave the website a makeover in honor of Red Army Red, whose publication is now less than a year away. It also seemed time. So many of my poets friends have sites that reflect their personalities: quirky, soft, loud, retro. If nothing else, mine at least needed some coolification, a little streamlining. I don't know if the site is any more Jehanne than it was before--ideally, my website would need a mid century vibe, some images evoking Panton or Eames. But at least it's prettier now, easier to navigate. And it's red, which seems like a good beginning for Red Army Red. So, go check me out here. And if anyone out there is a fantastic (read: both good and cheap) photographer, I desperately need a new headshot that will make me look like the best, poet-iest version of myself.

Mother, Hands, Knife, Man, Story.

2012-01-25T20:52:00.000-08:00

Here's a word cloud I created using the poems from my manuscript-in-progress, The Arranged Marriage. Not much of a surprise to see which words appear most often: mother, hands, knife, man, story. And then there's body and room. Blue surprised me, as did small and pink.

There's a disturbing intelligence to these programs that produce clouds of words. Here's my manuscript in the shape of a hand, a manuscript that's about hands, about the violence of hands. I look at the words printed on the thumb: night body inside small face waiting.

Doesn't that make a discomfiting kind of sense? Isn't that how poems often work?--the way we tell our students that a poem with effective line breaks can be read down the right-hand margin of its page. Looking only at the last word in each line, we can find a gloss of the whole poem's narrative. For instance, here's a gloss of one of my favorite poems by Robert Hayden:

early
cold,
ached
made
him.

breaking.
call,
dress,
house,

him,
cold
well.
offices?

Yes, it's the shorthand version of "Those Winter Sundays." And here's one by Wallace Stevens:

cigars,
whip
curds.
dress
boys
newspapers.
seem.
ice-cream.

deal,
sheet
once
face.
come
dumb.
beam.
ice-cream.

I don't even need to name the poem. It's so clearly the cold and death of "The Emperor of Ice-Cream." And one more just for fun. Guess who:

feathers -
soul -
words -
all -

heard -
storm -
Bird -
warm -

land -
Sea -
Extremity -
me.

Write It!

2012-01-20T10:31:00.000-08:00

For the past few months, I've been surprised and amused each time I see this ceramic mug on sale at Starbucks:

Really, it's the brown paper strip wrapped around the cup that makes me stop. "Write it." Any poet seeing those particular instructions must immediately think of Elizabeth Bishop, "though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster," that famous last line in that most famous of villanelles. All that's missing from the Starbucks imperative is Bishop's carefully chosen exclamation point (we're only allowed a few of those in our whole writing careers, after all). And how strange it is to find echoes of "One Art" in a place that brews commerce by the cup.

I've been thinking about Bishop's command. What does writing do to the disaster? Does the act of making a poem confirm that loss is indeed loss, make the loss concrete and tangible as a page in a book? Does the poem defy or negate the loss? Is the bravery of writing down the disaster enough to counterbalance the absence of a mother's watch, a lovely city? The poem confesses how easy it is to learn loss, to experience loss. The full final sentence of the poem is "It's evident / the art of losing's not too hard to master / though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster. And this is the irony of the piece--losing things is an easily acquired skill, yet facing (writing about) the ease with which we all become acquainted with loss seems an impossibly difficult challenge.

2011 was a good year. And it was a bad one. If I don't write about the losses of 2011, does that make them less real? Or more disastrous because I haven't faced them on the page? I don't know. I think Bishop would tell me, make something beautiful out of 2011, even if the year looks like (Write it!) like disaster.

New Year, New Drink, New Review, New Poems

2012-01-04T11:32:00.000-08:00

Well, just in time for the first cold air of winter, I've discovered a new favorite beverage: the matcha latte. The drink only contains three ingredients. Plain almond milk. Matcha. And honey.

Using the tireless milk-frother on my Nespresso machine, I blend 1/2 cup of almond milk with one teaspoon of matcha, which is green tea in its powdered, extremely concentrated form (I buy mine from Teavana). Meanwhile, I quickly warm a 1/2 teaspoon of honey in the microwave (I use the creamed honey from Trader Joe's). If you don't want to blast away too many of the honey's restorative properties, skip the microwave and just hope that the honey dissolves when it meets the warmed milk. Once the frothing has finished its work, the milk will have turned a beautiful, grassy green. Because I don't dilute the matcha with water, the combination of milk and matcha powder will form a slightly thickened liquid that I find delicious, almost milkshake-satisfying (if milkshakes could be made hot). Last two steps: poor hot milk over warmed honey and stir. Yum.

Isn't that color amazing? It reminds me of my dining room walls.

The new year has also brought a lovely, very warm review of From the Fever-World, written by Kristin Berkey-Abbott. You can find the review over at Rattle. Since FTFW was published in 2009, I hadn't expected to see any more coverage of the book; so, this was a nice surprise to ring in 2012. Many thanks to Kristin for her thoughtful analysis of the collection and to Tim Green (editor of Rattle) for his continued support of my work.

And, finally, I have three prose poems over at Zeek. These three pieces--"Rules for Passover in the Tropics," "Land of Milk and Honey," and "Mosquito Days"--won first place in the 2011 Anna Davidson Rosenberg Prize for Poetry on the Jewish Experience. One of the really nice things about this award is that it includes both a monetary award AND publication. Of course, I should add that any prize also serves as encouragement, a little push to keep the writer writing. These prose poems come from my manuscript-in-progress, The Arranged Marriage, which has certainly received plenty of little pushes lately. I will keep writing.

Moment of Silence

2011-12-15T12:34:00.000-08:00

The War in Iraq: 2003 - 2011.

The Nubbins, Again

2011-12-06T09:04:00.001-08:00

As I love to tell my students during the final weeks of class, we have now reached the "nubbins of the semester." I like the metaphor of the semester as a pencil worn down to small stub barely big enough to hold between finger and thumb. Or maybe the semester is an eraser so worn that it's now only a bite-sized piece of pink rubber.

Whatever the metaphor for this semester, I know that I am very tired: just fighting off a cold with the help of doubled doses of vitamin C, extras veggies on my dinner plate, and the occasional nap. On the other hand, Argos the WonderPup has begun to look more himself. His partially torn ACL appears less than partially torn, which means that he's anxious for the frolicking and gallumphing while I'm anxious for him to stay put. How do you tell a dog to avoid all lateral motions? Is there a command for that?

Looking back on the autumn, I realize how much poetry-reading my classes have allowed me. Here are the books we studied in my "Living Writers" poetry class:

1. Marilyn Nelson, A Wreath for Emmett Till

2. Caki Wilkinson, Circles Where the Head Should Be

3. Daniel Anderson, Drunk in Sunlight

4. Daniel Groves, The Lost Boys

5. Rhina Espaillat, Playing at Stillness

6. Rhina Espaillat, Her Place in These Designs

7. Jill Alexander Essbaum, Harlot

8. H.L. Hix, God Bless

9. H.L. Hix, Legible Heavens

10. Dora Malech, Shore Ordered Ocean

11. Dora Malech, Say So

12. Randall Mann, Breakfast with Thom Gunn

13. Melissa Range, Horse and Rider

We also read David Orr's Beautiful & Pointless for fun.

During the course of the semester, Rhina Espaillat, Jill Essbaum, Harvey Hix, and Dora Malech visited the College, gave readings, and met with students to discuss process. Although "Living Writers" isn't a creative writing class, I've been excited to discover that students tend to be extremely interested in the writing process; they want to know how the poet came to write certain poems, how the poems intersect with personal experience, how the book found its shape. All of the books we read in "Living Writers" examine or play with received and fixed forms, but they also provide a really diverse picture of contemporary American poetics.

We're ending the semester with Melissa Range's gorgeous Horse and Rider. Everyone in the class has been very taken with the middle section of the book, a series of poems written in the voices of instruments of war. Here's a link to one of my favorites, "The Rope," which first appeared in Issue 11 of Memorious.

Frosty Gone Bad

2011-11-28T10:27:00.001-08:00

Most of the time, my little Chestertown manages to keep a pretty low profile. It's 45 minutes from Annapolis. Nearly two hours from DC. Beyond the tourists and the occasional Washington expats, the most frequent visitors to Chestertown tend to be the Canada geese on their way to points north or south, depending on the season.

So, imagine my surprise to learn that this small corner of the Eastern Shore of Maryland has recently made the news, the national news:

'Frosty The Snowman' Arrested

You can read more of the story here. But my favorite line in the piece is "Walsh was charged with assaulting two officers and the dog named Henzo." It's the detail about the dog's name that scores big points with me: specificity and idiosyncrasy. That's good writing.

When It Comes to Saying Thank-You

2011-11-21T16:09:00.001-08:00

Much like a well-polished course syllabus, the Dubrow family's Thanksgiving menu has reached a delicate state of perfection in which small, yearly revisions are part of the fun but aren't essential to the overall rewards of the experience.

So, as always, here is what will be on the table, three days from now: butternut squash soup (secret ingredient: pears); salad with port wine dressing, dried cherries, and perhaps some blue cheese; homemade cranberry sauce (essential ingredient: orange zest); stuffing (must include: chestnuts and tart dried apricots); Brussels sprouts with candied nuts (essential ingredient: apple cider vinegar to bring out the sweetness); yam mousse; wild mushroom gravy; spiced apple pie; pecan pie (this year, with the addition of dark chocolate chips and a dash of bourbon). And, this year, the arrival of my Nespresso Citiz machine means that pie will be accompanied by shots of espresso. Yum.

My mother and brother will be eating cornish games hens. J, my father, and I will be eating a "Stuffed Hazelnut Cranberry Roast en croute," made by one of my favorite vegan brands, The Original Field Roast Grain Meat Co. While we've never had the roast "en croute" before, the company's "Celebration Roast" has long been a favorite. It tastes delicious heated or with mustard, cold and sliced on a piece of baguette from Against the Grain, our outstanding bakery in Chestertown.

As my mother (who does eat meat) will tell you, the trick to co-existing with vegetarians is to treat the vegetable side dishes as the main course and to treat meat as the side. So, our Thanksgiving is almost entirely vegetarian, with the little game hens thrown in to placate the carnivores.

I've been browsing the stacks at the Poetry Foundation website, looking for good Thanksgiving poems. Is the problem with Thanksgiving that it's too joyful a holiday, too filled with gratitude? Poets are good kvetching. But how are they when it comes to saying thank-you?

There's a sestina by David Ferry that comes to mine--"The Guest Ellen at the Supper for Street People"--which seems to avoid the saccharine.

And this poem by M.S. Merwin seems really good at gratitude: "Thanks."

And here's a poem by Mary Mackey, "Turkeys," which appears on today's Writer's Almanac. Gobble gobble.

Good Things To Good People

2011-11-14T20:00:00.001-08:00

I have many smart and talented friends. And sometimes it's nice to have the chance to be proud in a public manner, to do what my tribe calls kvelling. So, here are a few of my friends doing awesome, poety things:

One of my best-ies, Leslie Harrison, will be featured on Garrison Keillor's "The Writer's Almanac," on November 16, with her poem "The Day Beauty Divorced Meaning."

Rebecca Morgan Frank's debut poetry collection, Little Murders Everywhere, is now available for pre-order at Amazon. So many of us have been waiting for this book from a poet-editor-scholar (learn more about her literary journal Memorious here).

And Eric McHenry's collection of children's poems, Mommy Daddy Evan Sage, will be released from Waywiser Press on November 16 (love these!).

Sandra Beasley's fantastic memoir, Don't Kill the Birthday Girl, is a nominee for the 2011 Goodreads choice awards, in the "best food & cooking" category. Go place a vote for her at Goodreads!

Erika Meitner is always writing something interesting, sassy, and informative. I love her recent article about the experience of judging debut poetry collections. Read it here.

Meanwhile, one of my former students Alyse Bensel has been publishing up a storm: poems, book reviews. Today an MFA in poetry, tomorrow the world! Here are some of her recent reviews at one of my favorite poetry websites, NewPages.

And another recent Washington College graduate, Lindsay Lusby, is carving out her own space in the twin worlds of poetry and letterpress.

11/11/11

2011-11-11T06:18:00.001-08:00

When I was little, I thought that the world made November 11 a holiday because it was the day on which I was born. In the United States, Veterans Day was another way of saying, Happy Birthday, Jehanne. And in Europe, Armistice Day was just a synonym for "Jehanne Gets Lots of Presents." Well, you get the idea: it's easy to think you're the center of things at age 8 or 9 or 10.

So, today I'm turning...some number of years. For my 10th birthday, my parents threw me a party at the now-shuttered Dolls' House and Toys Museum in DC. After a tour of the Museum's collection of tiny domiciles, creepy porcelain dolls, and rickety tin toys, the party ended in a marble-floored room made to look like an old-fashioned ice cream parlor. The other little girls and I ate petit fours. I'm sure that I wore a pink, frilled dress (as was my way in that first decade of life). And I bet there was a fluffy bow in my hair.

Another year--I think it was my sweet 15--we were posted to Poland. My party was held at the brand-new Hotel Marriott in Warsaw. The locals used to call it "the Spaceship Marriott," because the hotel was one of the first hospitality imports from the west, so gleaming and crystal that it seemed a spaceship had just landed in downtown Warsaw, not far from the birthday-cake monstrosity that was the Russian-built Palace of Science and Culture. My Marriott birthday party included a sacher torte decorated to look like a yin-yang symbol, an ice cream sundae and banana split bar, a popcorn machine, as well as blinis and caviar. All the guests were instructed to wear black and white; I was the P. Diddy of my day.

My father tells a story about either my 2nd or my 3rd birthday (I'm not sure which). My mother and I had been evacuated from Zaire and sent back to DC, while my father remained alone in Lubumbashi, finishing off the remaining half of his tour in Africa and consuming the family-sized contents of several freezers. During our absence, my father took a short trip to Kenya, where he stayed in a sleek hotel. On my birthday, my father bought two presents for me in the hotel gift shop: a picture book of fuzzy, baby animals and a small charm carved in the shape of an elephant. Then, after an expensive long-distance phone call to hear his baby daughter's voice, my father--who is not a drinker--got very drunk and passed out.

Many birthdays, I used to ask my mother to cook her famous homemade macaroni and cheese with wild mushrooms. I often asked my father for a sacher torte, a recipe that came from his mother, who had learned to bake in Vienna, as part of her training to be a proper German hausfrau. My father spent years trying to get the handwritten recipe to come out just right. When my grandmother died, she left the recipe for him, tucked between two pages of a favorite cookbook. But, from what I understand, her recipe didn't include complete information about the chocolate icing for the sacher torte. So, my father went through dozens and dozens of icings--with honey, with granulated sugar, with powdered sugar--always trying to find the one that was the right sweetness, the right depth of chocolate, the right thickness against the tongue.

Food is an important part of any birthday. I was born several days early, after my mother consumed some bad gorgonzola, developed food poisoning, and went into labor. And I was born just in time for dinner hour. After my father left the hospital, he wandered through the winding, Italian streets until he found a small restaurant. The waiters took one look at him and could tell, as my father tells the story, "that something extraordinary had just happened." So, they fed him free pizza and toasted his new daughter. Italians love babies.

In my first book, The Hardship Post, there's a poem about my original birthday. At the time I wrote "In Vicenza," I was in love with a poem by Adam Zagajewski, "A Morning in Vicenza" (here's a great piece by Zagajewski that examines the subject further). Zagajewski's brings together the city of my birth and a group of Polish poets, making it a poem that feels as if it were written just for me. So, I wrote a poem about Vicenza too. At the time, I was also in love with elastic rhymed couplets:

IN VICENZA

Thirty years ago, my mother ate a poisoned slice

of gorgonzola, and I was born, knifing

from that womb, a luminescent world,

where I once curled

my body like a fern. It’s just another place I don’t recall

for all its resonance, awful

and darkly beautiful, a landmark learned then lost,

as though the cost

of too much journeying must be amnesia.

Returning to Palladio’s loggias,

I follow corridors that fuse with rooms

subsumed by other rooms.

The marble echoes underneath my feet.

I hear the heartbeat

of a ticking clock. A wall’s

pierced openings let sunlight fall

on the floor in slivered marks,

so that I cross from day to dark

and back again, always the visitor

through passageways both bright and sinister.

Broken Puppy Syndrome: An Update

2011-11-10T17:46:00.001-08:00

To all the Argos fans out there who have expressed worry over Sir Fuzzalot--thank you. I feel a little less insane for being so upset about the wheaten's health, having received so many concerned messages from my fellow pup lovers.

Now on day three of his prescribed rest and his dosages of anti-inflammatory pills, Argos is beginning to improve. Tails-shaking has resumed as has regular practice of downward-facing dog, general stretching, and even play bows. In other words, reports of the Wonderpup's demise have been greatly exaggerated.

Almost Torn

2011-11-08T16:35:00.000-08:00

Poor Argos.

It was obvious something was wrong from the moment we woke up today; the Wheaten didn't want to jump off the bed and, a little while later, he didn't want to hop back on again. He didn't want to rise from the floor or do his yogic stretches or give his usual nose-to-tail shake. This is unlike him. Even when it's early morning and he's still half-asleep, Argos tends toward a certain bumptiousness. He is a Tigger of a dog, packed with loads of springs and bounce.

So, by 10:30, when the P.U.P.'s tail was still tucked between his legs and he would barely leave the safe corner made by the wall and the front door, I was in red-alert worry-mode. "I'm calling the vet," I told J. And a few hours later, after some poking, prodding, and hind-leg stretching, Argos was diagnosed with a partially torn ACL. 30 days of rest + anti-inflammatories + a lot of finger-crossing that the partial tear doesn't become a full tear. "If the limp worsens," the craggy, country vet told us, "then he may need surgery, which costs about $1800." Yes, of course it does. Of course the surgery costs $1800. In other words, Argos, you must stay very still for the next 30 days.

At this point, I'm not sure which one of us is feeling more pathetic: me or the dog. This morning, he squeaked with pain as he crawled from under a chair. And he spent the rest of the day looking bedraggled and sad. Tailwags were a rare commodity in our house this afternoon. And since it's Argos' role to be upbeat and personable (for the both of us), I'm not sure how to behave when the fuzzy-nutkin is so small, so hunched.

Poor Argos. You are a very good dog, and I love you.

Once a Barista Always a Barista; Or, How Nespresso Is My New Best Friend

2011-10-30T09:19:00.000-07:00

Public Service Announcement: This blog post has been written at the request of my father.....

So, last Saturday I bought myself a birthday present, three weeks early. I've often felt birthdays require a whole week (sometimes even a whole month) to properly sink in, and I have a habit of purchasing my own presents days, weeks, months in advance. This time, I had been window-shopping for a proper espresso machine. Although I love my cabinet-ful of Teavana teas, particularly the large tin of "golden monkey" with its brown, earthy taste, I do like a nice shot of espresso or a densely steamed milk every once in while.

For several years, I've used a stovetop Bialetti. These are lovely, classic objects that look good in a kitchen, make a thick cup of coffee, and bubble nicely while they're doing their jobs. But the Bialetti pots come with a few problems: many of the models are made aluminum (not too desirable if one hope to avoid Alzheimer's) and their gaskets/funnels often need replacing but can be difficult to find in stores or on-line. Plus, I like that milk, that fuzzed milk like a little snowy peak perched on the top of my beverage.

Thus began the research. Did I want to return to my days as a barista extraordinaire, grinding my own beans, navigating complex buttons and nobs on an Italian machine. No, probably not. Did I want to venture into the land of automatic and semi-automatic contraptions? It turns out the answer is YES. After sipping and testing, window-shopping online, visiting stores, and comparing prices, I finally discovered that fully automatic, capsuled coffee was for me.

Nespresso.

I used to be a coffee snob. But last week I went to the Bloomingdales in Chevy Chase and bought my very own "CitiZ & Milk" espresso machine at the official Nespresso Boutique located INSIDE the Bloomies. The machine is shiny. It is black. It's footprint on my kitchen counter is very small. The machine takes less than 90 seconds from the time I hit "on" to warm up for Full Espresso Blast-Off. The shot comes out of the machine at the perfect speed. Every. Time. The crema on top of each shot is always lovely and thick. And the milk froths almost to the consistency of meringue.

In other words: I am in love.

Ever since I bought the machine a week ago, J and I have been sipping lattes, mochas, and plain shots as if coffee were the only form of nourishment in the world. Yesterday, we bought raspberry and peppermint syrups from St****cks. I can now make a Raspberry Soy (or almond milk) mocha for about 60 cents, rather than the usual $4.50.

The machine can make regular shots and long ones. You can set the shots to your specifications.

You can make hot chocolates. Or steamed almond milks. Or just plain old lattes:

In other words: yum.

ReEntry

2011-10-22T21:11:00.000-07:00

As I've written before, most military families quickly learn that post-deployment can be more difficult and stressful than is deployment itself. What happens when physical distance is erased but emotional distance remains? That's a question I often ask audiences when I'm reading from Stateside. Everyone--both civilians and those connected to the military--are inclined to make a romance of reunion. We imagine the soldier dressed in camis. He kneels in a public space, opening his arms to welcome his wife, his children, his golden retriever, as they all rush toward him in a blur of weeping. Sometimes when I click on the homepage of USAA, I see these very moments at the top of the browser in clean, bright shades of patriotism.

We make a romance of reunion. We do this because the alternative is, well, depressing. Long silences. Jagged hugs. These are not the kinds of reunions that play well on TV or on the little movie screens of our imaginations. Aren't you happy that he's back? a colleague asks. Yes is the answer. And then she rushes on to the next story, because he's back which must be the end of the story.

As ReEntry--the new play at Round House Theatre in DC--demonstrates, post-deployment can be really, really, really bad. For everyone. Created by KJ Sanchez and Emily Ackerman, ReEntry is piece of documentary theater, the result of several years of interviews with a small selection of soldiers and their families. All the words spoken in the play come directly from these interviews and, as result, the text provides real insight into the post-deployment experience, which is one defined by trauma, anger, detachment, and all those other spiky emotions that so discomfit us.

I saw a reading of ReEntry over the summer at the Walter Reed National Military Medical Center. And then last week, when I attended the "National Summit: Arts in Healing for Warriors" in Bethesda, I had the chance to hear KJ Sanchez speak about the process of crafting ReEntry. I've only met KJ a few times, but I think she's one of the coolest people I've met in years (not to sound like a complete dork), an artist from an avant-garde theater background who is creating works that are also accessible. You can learn more about the creation and development of the play here.

Tomorrow, I head to Round House for an afternoon of theater. Then it's my turn to earn my keep. I'll be part of a small panel following the play. I have no idea what I'll be asked or what I might say, but rumor has it that I'm Quite A Talker. You can learn more about the panels that will follow each performance here.

But, really, what I want to say is go. Go see ReEntry. It's relevant, powerful theater. The play addresses health issues--like PTSD and those more visible, physical injuries--that have the power to affect us all and that should be a national concern. So. GO.

More Crazy Weeks

2011-10-21T17:12:00.000-07:00

Am I repeating myself when I say that the days continue to blur together, that I'm the chicken with its head cut off, running and running around the coop, that I'm not sure what year we're in, what month, what week, what day?! Okay, I do know that it's Friday, because I arrived home and threw myself on the couch with a volume of relief that one only displays at the end of the week.

Last week I read at the US Naval Academy with poet Brian Turner, who is a wonderful storyteller and teacher. It was an honor to visit the Academy, to meet with so many of its lovely and kind faculty members, and to read for the whole (gulp!) plebe class. Our poetry reading was held in basketball stadium that usually seats something like 6500 students. They had curtained off 2/3 of the stadium. We stood facing the last third, our voices bouncing back at us from the concrete walls and metal risers.

It took me two or three poems before I figured out what to do the sound of my own flying back in my face. Finally, when I started reading "Whiskey Tango Foxtrot," I stepped back three feet from the mic and simply started projecting. The reverb dissipated, and I could finally hear myself read. In another life, I was an actress (can't bring myself to say "actor"), and it turns out that I still know how to fill even very large rooms with my voice. There was a moment right before I stood up to read when I thought, "if there was ever test of whether or not I have stage fright, this will be it." Then I walked to the podium and discovered I wasn't scared. My poems could still be mine, even in this huge echo of a room.

Brian and I read in alternating 15-minute sections. He has done these kinds of events (I imagine) a million times and is an old pro when it comes to delivering his work. I especially enjoyed some of the personal anecdotes he told the audience. One particularly memorable tale involved a scene he witnessed, soon after his return from Iraq: at a rave, a dominatrix holding a whip and leading a man dressed as a pink energizer bunny by a leash. "There are visual rhymes in our culture," Brian said, "visual rhymes for torture." That was a chilling moment--to link this funny story about a rave in the suburbs to America's involvement in torture was both powerful and brave. First the audience laughed, and then it grew quiet with its own discomfort. "Are you thinking about torture?" Brian asked these 18 and 19-year-olds, "Are your asking yourself about the ways in which you might one day be involved in torture?" Pretty gutsy question.

What else? So many student conferences. Lots of grading. Lots of running from meetings to meetings to meeting. And now the campus panic begins as we face the downslope the semester. I always like warning students: the end of the semester will be here VERY soon. They don't believe me, just as I didn't used to believe professors when I was an undergraduate. We were all 18 once. We were all once gifted practitioners of procrastination. Tomorrow. I'll write the first draft tomorrow.

Couple of Crazy Weeks

2011-10-08T05:55:00.000-07:00

We're nearly at the midpoint of the semester, but it feels like I've been running on the hamster wheel for years and years. Recent and upcoming readings: York College of PA, Wor-Wic Community College in Salisbury, University of West Georgia, US Naval Academy, Howard Community College, and the College of Southern Maryland. Oy! I am busy as a cockroach.

To add to my breathless schedule, I just hosted poet Rhina Espaillat, who gave a lovely reading at Washington College and then met with the students in my "Living Writers" course. Rhina is such a wise person, a wise writer--she's the Dominican grandmother I've never had but have always wanted--and the students were absolutely captivated by her kindness. At one point during the class, she gave a terrific explanation of the difference in process between writing a poem and translating a poem. Using an illustration on the blackboard, she showed students the kind of methodical thinking that goes into a translation, the way she breaks down a Spanish-language poem into important phrases, important images, structure, wordplay, emphasis, connotation. "I use a thesaurus and a rhyming dictionary when I translate," she said, "but I would never rely on those tools when drafting one of my own poems." Suddenly, I could see the lightbulbs blinking above the students' heads--they understood how very different these two processes are.

In the next two months, I'll host three more poets: Jill Alexander Essbaum, Harvey Hix, and Dora Malech. I'm looking forward to each visit and know that all of the complicated logistics, the planning of travel and meals and entertainment will be worth it. But, for now, I just need a nap and, later in the day, a little caffeine to wash the fuzziness from my brain. And, maybe even later in the day, there will be time for poeming and revising.

The Wheel of Fortune; Or, How First We Hear Nothing, Then We Hear Everything

2011-09-26T19:50:00.000-07:00

There are those long lags of quiet when it seems like good news will never return from the Land of Poetry. Then, all at once, the inbox is full of emails saying, yes, yes please! And the emails are saying yes to your poems. And then you no longer feel like the actress--perhaps a little past her days as an ingenue--the one who worries she'll never land another part.

So, although I've spent the last week tired and grouchy about the rainrainrainrain of this wet September, I have also had the pleasure of seeing my little prose poems going out into the world and finding themselves new homes. If my poems were stray dogs, you might say that some of them had at last found their own "forever-homes."

In other words, I am ready for an orange and gold October that can't arrive fast enough. But, I will fall asleep feeling a little more certain about my current wanderings through prose poetry. The thin, newspaper column poems and the chubby ones too--they are doing okay for themselves. And soon, they will be coming to a literary journal near you.

Stateside, Again

2011-09-18T10:59:00.000-07:00

After my recent--oh so traumatic--brush with a negative review, I was really grateful to see David Abrams' response to Stateside on his blog, The Quivering Pen. I was especially glad to read this new response to the text because Abrams is retired U.S. military and can speak with authority about how very difficult military marriages can often be. Here's a little taste of his review:

Speaking personally, as the soldier who slipped quietly out of the dark bedroom after brushing my lips across my wife's cheek on the morning I left for Iraq, the poem "Before the Deployment" is as accurate as they come.

I first starting reading Abrams' blog, about a month ago, when he posted a review of Siobhan Fallon's terrific collection of short fiction, You Know When the Men Are Gone, a book that has very justifiably received significant and glowing attention for its treatment of the lives of military spouses. You can read more of Abrams' work here.

So. Very. Tired.

2011-09-14T20:52:00.000-07:00

Is it winter break yet? We're nearing the end of week #3 of the semester, and everyone already resembles The Walking Dead. I blame it oe the double-wammy of two natural mini-disasters occurring in the space of one week. Earthquake + Irene = no beginning-of-the-schoolyear pep-in-the-step. In other words, week #3 looks a lot like the exhaustion of week #5 or #6.

I'm doubly worn-out, having just returned from a visit to York College of Pennsylvania, where I did a reading and met with a senior seminar to talk about literature post-9/11. I was jealous of the course's reading list: all sorts of disturbing/subversive texts that engage with the terrorist attacks of 2001 and that consider "issue of representation" for the 21st century. I want to reread Extremely Fast and Incredibly Close, Falling Man, and Windows on the World. Is it winter break yet?

So That Happened*

2011-09-02T17:17:00.000-07:00

What happened? You ask. Sadly, my answer is: Jehanne's First Root Canal. Hooray!

Throughout the hurricane, I felt twinges in one of my back teeth. Cold, sweet, pressure--all of it made me wince. Uh oh, I thought. Only seven weeks ago, this tooth's old filling was drilled and replaced. At the time, my dentist told me, "This one is so close to the nerve you may need a root canal." I was so depressed after my session in the dentist's chair I went shopping and bought myself something pretty. And now, seven weeks later, I've left the office of my brand-new endodontist with instructions (1) to rinse my mouth with saltwater every few hours, (2) to avoid chewing pretty much anything other than pudding, and (3) to swallow my horsepills of ibuprofen every six hours.

The novocaine is wearing off. When I first began to feel the left side of my face again, an electric slice of pain zig-zagged from my tooth to my cheek. The pain was so sharp and clear, I could visualize the nerve endings inside of me. I waited about hour, the way we wait for a storm after spotting that first sliver of lightning in the distance. The pain hasn't returned with quite the same electricity. But, I have a Part Two to my root canal scheduled for late next week, which means a guarantee of more pain to come.

"Life is pain, princess," says Cary Elwes in The Princess Bride. He's speaking existentially. But it's certainly true that physical pain is something we can all count on as well.

This has been the summer of teeth for me. I've been trying to remember if there are any really good poems about teeth. Somehow, I keep thinking that the right piece of incisive (haha) poetry could make me feel better about all the drilling and stabbing and x-raying and filling. Freud tells us that, in dreams, a lost tooth signifies emasculation, castration. But what do poems tell us?

*A line from one of my favorite movies, "State and Main," by David Mamet. Alec Baldwin says it right after he leaves the car he has just totaled, an underage girl in the passenger seat beside him.

On Stoopid People

2011-08-31T05:25:00.000-07:00

My first year in Chestertown, Argos was attacked by a pitbull whose moron owners had let their dog off-leash. We were in the park, taking our evening walk. It was a little after sunset. We walked around the corner of a building. One moment Argos was sniffing the grass, the next he was on his back trying to kick the pitbull off, as the other dog snarled and lunged for his throat. The whole incident happened so quickly, I didn't have time to be afraid until afterward, when the owners finally ripped their dog away from mine. Then I was furious, especially when they admitted the pitbull was a rescue who had been trained for dogfights before they adopted him.

Idiots.

Ever since then, I have become very serious about the importance of leashing one's dogs. Yesterday, Argos and I were taking an afternoon walk around the neighborhood. As we were nearing the main drag, 213, which goes past campus and is probably Chestertown's busiest road, a black lab raced out of his yard toward us. The owner was nowhere to be seen. As the dog ran toward us, I thought, "I am going to have to kick this overweight mutt in the face, if he tries to bite Argos." Fortunately, the dog was friendly and very eager, so eager that I had to stop several passing cars from running him over as he pranced around, trying to get Argos to play with him. Drivers kept giving me dirty looks. It's a $100 fine, if you're caught with your dog off-leash, and that's just for the first offense.

This walk was not going well.

Eventually, after the dog was nearly hit buy two cars, I steered him back toward his lawn. That's when the real fun began. "Come get your dog," I hollered.

Eventually, the owner emerged from her basement. Now don't hold your breath for the thank-you. It never came. Instead, she stood on the lawn, calling the dog. He didn't move but kept licking Argos and making chunky playbows. Finally, the Dog Owner of the Year walked over.

"In Chestertown, you have to keep your dog on leash," I told her, "It's the law. He could have been killed by a car. Plus, it's dangerous to other dog owners."

"He would never bite anyone," she snapped.

"Your dog doesn't come with a sign saying I Don't Bite," I responded.

"Mind your own business."

"If I had minded my own business, your dog would have been run over by two cars. It's a real problem when a perfect stranger cares more about your pet than you do."

The rest of the conversation went downhill from there.

I do feel bad for Mr. Tubby the Black Lab (no, that wasn't his name, but the poor animal was just so darn fat--maybe if his owner started taking him for walks...). Our job as pet owners is to be smarter than our pets. Poor guy. He's going to get lost or hit by a passing car, simply because his owner is too stupid or too lazy to buy a $5 leash at the True Value, a few blocks away.

Hard to Believe

2011-08-30T18:19:00.001-07:00

If weren't for Irene, I would already be two days into the new semester. But, tomorrow: it's Jehanney's first day of class. Hard to believe that the students who graduate this year, the class of '12, started at Washington College the same year that I did. I've watched some of those students from freshman year onwards and, on graduation day, I will be very sorry to say goodbye to them. In some ways, these students and I have grown up together. They've moved from adolescence into adulthood, and I've slowly shifted from that strange limbo of post-PhD life to tenure-track.

But graduation is many, many months away. At the start of a new academic calendar, I like to evaluate "where" I'll go in the coming school year. So, here's my full plate:

1. Many readings. I'm visiting York College of Pennsylvania, the University of West Georgia, Wor-Wic Community College, the U.S. Naval Academy, Howard Community College, and the College of Southern Maryland. There's also the Chestertown Book Festival, Busboys & Poets, and the Split This Rock Festival.

2. General awesomeness at the Rose O'Neill Literary House. We're talking great readings, some new furniture and decor, and some newly minted "Director's Initiatives."

3. Prepping Red Army Red for production. We're looking at an autumn 2012 publication date. I can't wait to start talking book cover designs and Modernist typeface.

4. More in-progress work on The Arranged Marriage. I am still smitten by the prose poem. Those little blocks of text are like delicious pieces of chocolate. I am savoring the writing process...now if only a few more literary journals would fall in lurrrve.

5. Reading. I have so many books on my to-read list for the semester. My "Living Writers" course is studying 13 or 14 collections (wow!). Plus, I'm planning a few research excursions to learn more about HUAC and the history of blacklisting...let's just say that I have a new project in mind.

6. A little fun? Yes, I know this blog doesn't usually talk about "down-time," decompressing, or general relaxation. But, it's a truth universally acknowledged, that serious poet in possession of good neuroses must be in want of a life.

On Milspouse.Com

2011-08-27T14:00:00.001-07:00

I was pleased to see Stateside mentioned in "Finding Our Voices," a new article that appears on Milspouse.com. As I've said before, the very act of speaking out and of voicing the hardships of military life is a relatively new phenomenon among military spouses:

This month marks the anniversary of September 11^th and for many military spouses, it also signals the beginning of our own foray into war and how we managed to spin the pink side of a decade of war into something efficacious.

My husband was already in the Marine Corps, one deployment down, when 9/11 occurred. And during those first tenuous years when all service members seemed to deploy on a seemingly perennial cycle, a monumental literary movement began on the homefront.

Military wives who write about "being married to the military"--not as propaganda but as literature--are still a very small group. There aren't dozens and dozens of Alison Buckholtzes or Siobhan Fallons on the bookshelves. That's why it's so good to see articles like this one, acknowledging how small this writing community still remains and recognizing the continued need for military spouses to find a voice in literature.

Russian Dolls

2011-08-25T20:59:00.000-07:00

Oh. My. God.

Russian Dolls on Lifetime, where have you been all of my life? Maybe it's the aftermath of writing Red Army Red, but I have just discovered my new tele-soulmate: so Brighton Beach, so cubic zirconia, so Jewish in that recently immigrated way of some my favorite writers (Shteyngart, Vapnyar, Litman, and Reyn, to name a few).

It has all the trash of those reality shows on competing networks--I'm talking about you, Bravo--but it also has a small, beating heart, beneath the fake tan, the overly plucked Slavic eyebrows, and the pickled herring. It's Soviet kitsch in the New World.

Hmmm. Now I'm in the mood for a plate of stuffed cabbage, some black bread, and a cup of blackcurrant tea.

My Middle Name Is Irene

2011-08-24T19:12:00.000-07:00

That's right, I'm part poet and part hurricane. First the earthquake and now this teensy-weensy category 3 hurricane heading toward THE ENTIRE EAST COAST. What's next? Zombie apocalypse?

I now have a closet full of bottled water, batteries, candles and electric lanterns, duct tape, and plastic sheeting. I bought cans of vegetarian chile and black bean soup. There's a new bag of dark chocolate pieces in the kitchen cabinet.

Argos the Wonderpup is currently sleeping by the front door. I keep asking my friends and family, how do you take a dog out for his pee during a hurricane?

Meanwhile, the Weather Channel is saying that the U.S. Navy has ordered the Second Fleet to prepare for underway as a way of dodging the wind and rain. So, that means J will soon be out of contact. Of course, radio silence may not mean much if we lose power here in the Delmarva region too.

And I keep hearing that hymn I sang years ago, when I was a cast member in Benjamin Britten's Noye's Fludde: "Lord Jesus, think on me / and purge away my sin..."

REM keeps intruding too: "It's the end of the world as we know it."

These are not the soundtracks I want running through my head, five days before the start of the new semester.

I Feel the Earth Move...

2011-08-23T17:24:00.000-07:00

Me: Why is the third floor of the Literary House swaying right now?

Pup: Ruff?

Me: What the hell!

Pup: Ruffff???

Me: Is this a f---ing earthquake?

Pup: RUFFFFFFFF?????

(pause)

(somewhere in the House, a picture falls off the wall).

Me: So much for animal instinct.

Pup: ?

SuperJew; Or, Sometimes I Still Write Jewish Poems

2011-08-21T18:29:00.001-07:00

Over the weekend, I was excited to learn that three of my prose poems were awarded first place in the annual Anna Davidson Rosenberg Poetry Award for Poems on the Jewish Experience. The poems--"Rules for Passover in the Tropics," "Land of Milk and Honey," and "Mosquito Days"--are part of my manuscript-in-progress, The Arranged Marriage.

I wrote this batch of poems to be part of The Arranged Marriage, but I also wrote them with this particular contest in mind. I like giving myself what I sometimes refer to as "homework" and have had good luck with these kinds of writing assignments in the past. A poetry award, especially one that has a particular focus or theme, can really help to energize one's drafts. And, with these new prose poems, it felt good to return to the old questions again: What does it mean to be an American Jewish poet? What is a Jewish poem? Is a Jewish poem made Jewish by its contents? Its form? Its rhetorical structure?

The Arranged Marriage is set in Honduras, Florida, and El Salvador. As I've come to realize, the project examines different kinds of forced intimacy and closeness (sometimes physical or psychological, sometimes cultural). The first third of the book looks at the intersection of latino and Jewish tradition. My mother grew up in a small Jewish community in San Pedro Sula. And I grew up hearing about her scary, colorful memories that collided yidishkayt with Latin America. I wanted to write poems that expressed this unusual, sometimes disconcerting marriage of cultures. I thought, "these won't be poems about cholent or tsimmes"--although I've certainly written those poems in the past--"but poems about heatstroke and Shabbes, about tropical flowers and Diaspora."

On Reviews

2011-08-21T13:17:00.000-07:00

There's an episode of Sex and the City in which Carrie Bradshaw considers the matter of (bad) reviews, in one's life and in one's writing. Michiko Kakutani writes a vaguely negative review of Bradshaw's book for The Times and then, later in the episode, Carrie learns that an ex-boyfriend isn't reviewing her girlfriend skills that favorably either.

I have arrived at that stage in my life and in my career where I am often on the receiving end of reviews. When you're a tenure-track professor, some one or something is ALWAYS telling you how you're doing: your department chair, your student evaluations, your colleagues. Like anyone else, I receive reviews of my performance as a person from my family, my friends, the Man On The Street. Some days the reviews are positive. "Great smile." "You make the best jasmine tea." "I just love our phone conversations." And some days the reviews remind me that I need to work on being better at this whole human-being-thing.

And then there are my books. When you're a writer, you hope for reviews, you worry about reviews, and you dread them. The more you publish, the more your odds of a bad review increase. Here's the first I've seen of Stateside, as part of an article entitled "Suffering Subgenres: The Self-Conferred Nobility of Victimhood." The piece appears in a new online journal, Mixer:

Writing like this gazes from the personal toward the personal, and ultimately becomes narcissistic not because the writing lacks craft, but because the subject lacks proportion. Jehanne Dubrow perhaps reaches the apex of this symptomology in a volume of otherwise well written and admirable poems called Stateside by declaring herself Penelope to her husband’s Ulysses during a six month Navy deployment.
While I acknowledge the isomorphic similarities between Dubrow and Penelope, the comparison does not measure up. Instead, such disproportion merely announces a desire to be perceived as the stolid sufferer set bravely against a diminishing set of externalities. This kind of nobility, one of passive suffering, demands a source, and in the absence of a genuine source, the temptation to elevate even commonplace inconveniences to mythic proportions can be hard to resist.

And, because I couldn't resist posting, here's the response I left at the site:

When a poet uses first-person, the “I” in the poem is called the “speaker” and should not be read as the voice of the poet herself. For instance, when a poet speaks in the voice of a character from mythology or literature or film, we call this a “persona.” The persona–which is a mask–allows the poet to move beyond personal experience toward imagination. But all poems are persona poems, because the act of constructing narrative immediately introduces a structure, a lens, a meaning that doesn’t exist in real life. Some poem-masks are simply more apparent than others.
STATESIDE is not about “a six month Navy deployment,” and it is not autobiography. Poetry, as Wallace Stevens explains, is “the supreme fiction.” STATESIDE contains elements of the personal, but its aim is to place the experiences of contemporary military wives within a much larger tradition.
In STATESIDE, I attempt to represent and give voice to the experience of many military wives throughout the history of military marriages. In doing my research for the book, I saw that the figure of the military wife has been largely unrepresented in literature, with Penelope as one of very few literary models for study. Perhaps, once other books have added to the canon of “milspouse” literature, there will no longer be a need to turn to mythology as a way of calling attention to the difficulties of contemporary military marriages. And, perhaps once there are more books by other milspouse writers, it will no longer be seen as narcissistic when these works of literature articulate the pain and loneliness of facing deployment followed by deployment followed by deployment, for years on end.

Now, I'm not sure what bothers me most about this reviewer's response to my poems. Yes, I'm irritated by this inability to distinguish between poet and speaker. The difference between poet and speaker seems like a topic for Poetry 101, a matter usually covered in the first week of class. But, more than that, I'm infuriated by how poorly most people seem to grasp the experience of being "married to the military."

Too many people--this reviewer isn't alone in his ignorance--believe that military marriages simply face the occasional hardship of a deployment. Never mind that America's nearly 10-year-old war has led most military families to face multiple and extended deployments, with leave times repeatedly shortened and stateside billets treated like opportunities for extra training, extra drills. Never, in the history of America's military, have military families been under such sustained stress, both at home and underway. A six-month deployment may seem like nothing. And, while we're on the subject--a six month deployment? I'm unfamiliar with such a tiny, delicate animal. Sign me up. J's last deployment was nearly 10 months. And we haven't lived together in more than 3 years. So, six months sounds like a bargain!

And while we're on the subject of "commonplace inconveniences," a commonplace inconvenience is not getting the grande latte you ordered at Starbucks because the line is too long. Or, perhaps it's having to park three aisles away from the entrance to Nordstrom at the Westfield Shopping Mall. Long separations from one's spouse (and children, if you have them), separations that include fears of death, life-altering injury, or permanent psychological trauma, do not generally fall into the category of "commonplace inconveniences."

The fact is most military families face numerous, repeated deployments which can be exhausting, terrifying, numbing, isolating, dreadful stretches, and which can have a devastating impact when the deployed spouse returns. Deployments are difficult, but reunions can be equally awful. Imagine a 5 or 10 or 20-year marriage consisting of nothing but cold absences and jarring returns.

There are so few books that articulate how difficult it is to be "married to the military." Stateside is one of a very small handful (a fact I know from having done extensive research throughout the writing of the collection). Traditionally military wives have been told to remain silent and smiling, as proof of their patriotism and service. Military men have always been allowed to speak; this is why we have a tradition of the soldier-poet. But military wives were expected to "keep the homefires burning," which is code for be quiet, be patient, be Penelope. Deviation from such silence should not be labeled as narcissism. It should be proof that a military spouse's service need not mean a complete loss of her identity, independence, or dignity.

Happy Anniversary, Little Wall

2011-08-12T06:11:00.000-07:00

It's the 50th anniversary of the building of the Berlin Wall. A few years from now--November 9, 2014--will mark the 25th anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall. I wasn't alive for the first of those events, but I definitely remember the second. My family was living in Poland. I was about to turn 14. History felt like something palpable; it was brushing against all of us, pushing against the doors and windows of every house. The Scorpions weren't wrong to call it a "wind of change," in that corny song of theirs, a song which within two years would be on hourly rotation on MTV Europe.

Not only was it clear to everyone that history was happening right now, but it also felt as if each of us had some part in remaking the world. I was born November 11: Veterans' Day. So, I've always had an inflated notion of my own historical significance. At 14, I really did believe that my arrival in puberty had something to do with all of this revolution. If this was my "rage for order" and I was the "maker" of history, then of course the Wall would come down and this would be the end of Communism in Eastern Europe.

Here's a poem that first appeared in Cave Wall (in a slightly different form) and is at the center of Red Army Red:

NOVEMBER 1989

I locked the bathroom door, spent hours

with a razor learning not to cut my legs,

powdering my arms to change the smell.

Outside our house: Warsaw, avenues

named for generals, poets from a partitioned

century. Everything was falling down.

The stone monument with its collapsing nose.

The wall that cut Berlin into a figure

and its sad reflection. I kept knocking

over furniture, as though someone

had moved the chairs. The days declared

themselves through silk drapes. Yellow

meant early morning. White was winter

dark. When it snowed, my parents called

history an unexpected guest who rings

the bell. It’s here, they said and sang

100 years as Poles do to celebrate a birth.

They drank so many glasses of champagne.

Cocktail parties never stopped their crystal

clink or slurp of caviar. How small

my dresses hanging in the closet. Pink lace.

Lettuce leaf hems. Pearl buttons down the back.

The news was chunked concrete, open

checkpoints, fingers making V for victory.

When it snowed, the city was clean amnesia,

the bullet holes from that other war

frosted over, faces of buildings gone blank,

the whole world trying not to bleed,

barely knowing itself in the mirror.

The Writing Life: Part 186B.36.4N

2011-08-10T19:00:00.000-07:00

People who don't live the writing life cannot imagine the constant blows, thorns, small and large stabbings, jabs, and spikes that are part of Being A Writer. I tell my students that, when it comes to submissions, I like my odds if they hover at around 1 acceptance to every 29 rejections. Then, my students look at me pityingly. I can tell that they're thinking, "wow, you must really suck as a writer." Meanwhile, I'm looking at them and thinking, "poor things, you have no idea what you're in for."

Later, I'll tell some of the more advanced students, the ones who are starting to imagine grad school and rejection letters, "it's all about baby steps." What I mean is that any poetry collection or book of short fiction is built on many, many submissions of individual poems or individual stories. Before the book ever becomes the viable, sellable entity of book-as-book, it must first build up a solid publications page. And, perhaps, each publication took six months to a year to a year and a half to happen.

Reflecting on all of this, I took a look at one of my most opened Word documents, the one titled "Submissions Record." It's almost September 1, which means that I'll be able to start sending work out again. As I was reading through my current list of submissions, my eyes fell on one entry that still makes me fume.

Here's a little story.

My first year at the University of Nebraska (circa 2003), one of my professors did something really generous and submitted, on my behalf, several poems to a contributing editor at The Hudson Review. Two of the poems were accepted: "Rave" and "Cinderella." This was my first really big publication, and the poems later appeared in my first book, The Hardship Post. The whole experience from initial meeting with professor to submission to contributing editor to final acceptance took perhaps two months.

In other words, I was spoiled.

Two years later, I submitted new materials to The Hudson Review. After waiting 13 months for a reply, I finally received a rejection from one of the readers who explained that these poems "just weren't up to the level of my previous batch." Oh really?

Then, in April 2010, I submitted a new group of poems. They were three poems from Red Army Red. And then I waited. And I waited. And I waited.

Now, keep in mind that The Hudson Review does not accept simultaneous submissions. I am one of those writers who respects submission guidelines and would never knowingly disobey a journal's policies. If a journal says no simultaneous submissions, I believe it is bad karma to go against the wishes of the Submission Gods. I am obedient. In other words, if Bastard Review states that it doesn't want fuzzy puppy poems, I promise never to submit fuzzy-wuzzy puppy poems to Bastard Review.

So, I kept waiting to hear back from The Hudson Review. Sometime in January or February 2011, the editors sent out a mass email apologizing for the long delay and promising to be in touch very soon. According to my records, I emailed the editors in March 2011. But I never heard back. A quick search of my email account shows that, in May 2011, I sent a message to that same contributing editor who first got me in to The Hudson Review (since those early days at UNL, he has become a mentor and a friend to me). He thought the year+ wait was "ridiculous" and wrote to the journal on my behalf. Unfortunately, his intervention made no difference. Still nothing.

At some point in May or June 2011, in a quest to see how ridiculous all of this might become, I actually phoned the offices of The Hudson Review. I have never called a literary journal on the telephone before! After all, I worked for Prairie Schooner for many years, I and understand how pressed for time most editors are; I try not to bother the good people who run literary journals, except when I can't help it. But I just could not believe that The Hudson Review was still holding on to those damn poems of mine. I didn't even want to see the poems accepted anymore. I just wanted to see the work treated with the respect of a response, even an "oops, we're so very, very, very sorry that we lost your submission." Anything.

According to my records, I finally gave up on June 24. Beside the submission, I typed the words "never heard." A quick search of my records from 2009 through right now, shows 10 entries of "never heard," including one from a journal that solicited poems from me.

I'm not sure what the moral of this story is. I have three books and a fourth on the way. I am a known and--dare I say--respected commodity in "formalist circles." I have a good job in poetry. My publications track record is pretty strong, if I do say so myself. Yet, none of this guarantees me any kind of response from The Hudson Review or any other literary journal. The writing life is always about starting over again, about being brand-new, untested, unknown.

So, maybe the moral of the story is this: young writers, unless you've got a steel spine and a really long stubborn streak, run away. This writing thing does not get easier. This writing thing isn't for the delicate or the impatient. It's for the tortoise who has mulish tendencies.

That's right, it's a job for the tort-i-mule.

On: New Houses, New Books

2011-07-22T18:34:00.000-07:00

As I near August, I'm suddenly realizing that my vacation may be over sooner than anticipated. Why? Well, thanks for asking. The reason is this: I've just been named the Interim Director of the Rose O'Neill Literary House at Washington College! Although I'll still be tenure-track and will still teach creative writing at the College, for the next two years, I will also have the chance to shape programming, create new events, and build upon the House's 40+ year history. I am extremely excited about this opportunity and am very grateful for the College's faith in my abilities.

You can read the press release here.

And, in other Quite Big News, I recently signed the contract for my fourth poetry collection, Red Army Red, and mailed the packet back to Northwestern University Press. As of now, it looks like the book will have an autumn 2012 release date. More exclamation points!!!! I've been busily revising the manuscript, especially the final section, and am beginning to feel that the collection is very close to done. I love typing those words. Very. Close. To. Done.

I have posted this link before. But here it is again--the opening poem in Red Army Red, "Chernobyl Year."

So, despite the fact that I've faced a costly de-bat-ification of my attic and my little Subaru's air conditioning has died and I have sat in the dentist's chair for many long hours, perhaps the summer of 2011 will prove to be a triumphant one after all.

In the Red Room

2011-07-20T15:57:00.000-07:00

So, a few weeks ago, I repainted the room formerly known as the "tangerine room" so that it has now become the Campbell Soup tomato room (or just "tomato room" for short). All we need is a nice grilled cheese sandwich, and this will be the perfect meal.

I should have photographed the room when it was still the color of citrus fruit, but I've never been very good at this kind of documentation. Instead, I'm posting two pictures of the room in-progress and a number of shots of the guest room in its new tomato incarnation (Wheaten Terrier included for scale).

As you can see, I replaced the bright pink Primary Pouf from Quinze & Milan with a proper night table, a Broyhill pieces from the 1960s which I bought at Modern Mobler in DC. I'm still trying to decide on a carpet for the room and am debating between a few different shades of "house pet" from Flor. With 23 shades available, do I go with the one called Siamese? Hamster? Pot Belly Pig? Chinchilla? So many animals, so little time.

"My Juicy Pleasure"

2011-07-09T18:46:00.000-07:00

Special advertising phrases: brought to you by Katjes. Sometimes bad English is practically a poem that writes itself.

Crazy For

2011-07-09T16:34:00.000-07:00

How nice. The latest issue of Crazyhorse arrived in my mailbox today. It has two of my "newspaper" column poems from the manuscript-in-progress, The Arranged Marriage: "The Leap" and "Shot through with Holes." I am in superstar company; we're talking poetic awesomeness like Mary Ruefle and Albert Goldbarth, to name only two.

In the fall, I have more Arranged Marriage poems appearing in The Southern Review, Copper Nickel, Ninth Letter, and Third Coast. So many journals--I guess this makes me an official prose poemista. Of course, in case you think all the news is sparkling champagne and fuzzy puppies around here, I've also recently received rejections from some of the very best places, journals like Boston Review, The Michigan Quarterly Review, and Missouri Review. Thanks, guys. I feel much more grounded now.

Fish, It's What's for Dinner

2011-07-05T22:20:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I really enjoy Eastern Shore living. This afternoon, one of my neighbors knocked on my door. He's the one who mows my lawn in the green months and blows away snow in the white ones, all for a very reasonable rate. My neighbor is an outdoorsy fellow, former Navy, retired US Postman (postal service employee? can we just say mailman?).

His wife seems like a very patient type and tolerates his numerous excursions to wooded areas that are populated with wild, furry things waiting to be shot at. He also has a boat. It's occasionally parked in his driveway, where he will lovingly wash and shine it. Well, who knows if "shine" is the right word. But, clearly, the man enjoys his manly toys, takes good care of them, and brings home spoils from his adventures.

I have now been a beneficiary of these very spoils. "Do you like fish?" He asked, after I opened the storm door and Argos had finished licking his kneecaps (around these parts, we don't break a man's kneecaps but only lick them). My neighbor was holding a little red cooler, the kind that hospitals use to transport hearts and eyeballs on ice. "Yes, I love fish!" And so I was gifted with three flash-frozen packets of recently caught fish. "These ones are fatty," he said, holding up the bag of slim, white filets. "They should be fried." Then he held up a beautiful, salmon-esque steak. "And this one tastes best broiled."

Yum.

And although he warned me that he wasn't great at deboning the fish, my dinner was free of spines, splinters, and other sharp bites. In fact, with a little Thai peanut marinade, those mini filets were just delicious.

Now, if I could just make friends with people who live behind me. They appear to have a lovely vegetable garden (despite the best efforts of our neighborhood bunnies who regularly attempt to de-carrot the area). I could really use some fresh zucchini and squash to go with my next fish fry.

Did I mention that I love Chestertown?

Did I mention that I love fresh fish: "How happy they seem, / even on ice, to be together, selfless, / which is the price of gleaming" (Doty, "A Display of Mackerel").

Happy 4th

2011-07-04T18:33:00.000-07:00

HBO's summer documentary series is helping me to indulge my current love affair with the genre (entertaining and educational!). My recent favorites, as seen on Netflix, are Helvetica and Objectified. Both documentaries were made by Gary Hustwit and confirm my suspicion that the true intellectual work of the postmodern world is being done by graphic artists and industrial designers. In fact, after watching both movies, all I want to do is move to NYC or San Francisco and hang out with people who design typeface or pretty chairs.

In honor of the July 4th, I watched Alexandra Pelosi's very sweet--though certainly not ambitious--Citizen USA: A 50 State Road Trip. The film shows naturalization ceremonies across the country and includes some interesting mini-interviews with famous naturalized citizens like Arianna Huffington, Henry Kissinger, and Madeleine Albright. How funny that Kissinger still has that accent of his (like one of my Munich relatives) after all these many years.

As someone who is only a second generation American, I found the film quite moving, quite personal. My family is relatively new to this country; my parents' parents had to find interesting and imaginative ways into the United States, during a time when there were very strict quotas on European (read: Jewish) immigrants. It wasn't that long ago that my grandparents attended naturalization ceremonies like these and began their own American lives.

I especially appreciated the segment that focused on American soldiers who are becoming U.S. citizens. The sea of tan uniforms reminded me how much my own marriage has been serving this country lately. J had to work today, although he was supposed to come to Chestertown for the holiday. These kinds of cancellations have been our life for nearly two years now. I did a quick calculation this morning. In the past two years, between his 9-month deployment and a really brutal billet in Norfolk, J has been able to spend less than 30 days with me. That's right, I've seen my husband barely a month total in the past 730 days. In the past two years, we haven't spent more than 9 consecutive days together. Usually, our reunions come in at just under 24 hours. That's quite a sacrifice for one marriage, and I know that I'm one of many, many milspouses making this kind of sacrifice to the U.S. military.

Cockroach-Busy

2011-06-29T12:49:00.000-07:00

I've quoted my grandmother before. She had an interesting way with English (probably because there was so much German, Spanish, and Yiddish mingling in her brain). One of her favorite things to say was, "I'm busy as a cockroach." If you've ever had the misfortune of watching cockroaches at work, you'll know that this expression is accurate, though also disgusting in a twiddling antennae kind of way.

So, for whatever reason, I'm in a house-tending stage. Although I'm always neat and orderly, I've been neater and more orderly than ever: shredding junk mail, washing towels, vacuuming (the chore I most despise), but also reorganizing the house in general. The room formerly known as the Tangerine Room, because of its tangerine-orange paint, has now become the Tomato Soup room. The new wall color has meant some rehanging of art and reconfiguring of knick-nacks. I'll post photos of the room's facelift as soon as I'm happy with the revisions.

In the meantime, someone wanted to see my dining room, in all its Kermit the Frog green and Cookie Monster blue glory. Here's a shot from the doorway:

For you shoppers out there, the table is wood and from Ikea. The green fish and vase are Jonathan Adler. The chairs are Emeco; some are the original Navy chair in the traditional aluminum, and

others are the new version, the Emeco 111, which are produced from recycled plastic Coca Cola bottles. Cool, no? The polished silvery lights are from DWR. Even the blinds are aluminum, for the sake of cohesiveness. The art is a mix of Joseph Craig English and Jan Heath, both of whom are printmakers in the DC area.

And here's a shot from my living room into the dining room:

I had to buy the white doggie from Jonathan Adler because the resemblance to Argos was unmistakable. The red-orange chair is an Eames Eiffel. And, yes, I realize that this post is beginning to sound like something out of Stuff White People Like.

The sun is really bright in the living right now. So this photo of a favorite three-legged stool and some more JA pottery is a little on the hazy side. What you can't see: a Nelson bubble lamp (my inspiration for this whole area of the living room), the full glory of the red Risom lounge chair, and the fuzziness of the Flor carpet tiles. Yum.

Blackbird, Again!

2011-06-28T12:35:00.000-07:00

It's that quiet time of the year. In late June there's no point in submitting poems to journals (not when most journals' submission periods are closed), many of my friends are out-of-towning it, and I'm finally getting the hang of that thing we call Doing Nothing. I'm nearly done with my month of being on-call for jury duty. The big question: Will I escape duty altogether in these final days of June? We shall see.

Stage 1 of the batling removal has been completed. The exterminators installed new screens over all the vents and also put in a special, one-way escape funnel. If there are still any bats in the attic, they'll be able to exit via the funnel but shan't be able to return. Fly away, my pretties. Next week, the Dependable Pest people will return for the fancy stage (i.e. the biohazard business) of the process. From what I understand, the exterminators will need to wear masks and puffy plastic attire, before spraying and vacuuming the lethal guano. That's right, we're all about excitement and adventure here at the Gefilte Review. Excitement, or excrement?

In other news, I have four poems in the current issue of Blackbird, all of which come from my manuscript Red Army Red: "In the Grand Theater," "Iron Curtain," "Purged History of," and "Three Generations." Other poets in this issue include Chad Davidson, Rick Hilles, and Keith Montesano. Take a look here!

Something Good...

2011-06-14T19:08:00.000-07:00

...I bought a (glutenacious) lemony cake with lemon cream cheese icing to celebrate my something good. But that's all I'm saying for the moment.

Bats in the Attic

2011-06-10T15:54:00.001-07:00

No. That's not a metaphor. I have actual bats in my attic. Those of you who know me, know that I have an uneasy relationship with nature. After all, I have a poem that contains a line about "the racket nature makes." I like the green world when it stays outside my windows. That means no plants or flowers on my dining room table (my black thumb can kill anything within 24 hours). It means no teensy weensy spiders on the bathroom tile. And it definitely means NO BATS IN MY ATTIC.

Did you know that bats are a biohazard? Well, actually it's the bat doo-doo that is dangerous. Yes, bats themselves carry rabies (oops, I initially typed rabbis, which is a different thing altogether) and apparently they also occasionally create bat-bug infestations in house. "Bat bugs," the exterminators, "go look them up on Google." I use Google for shopping and finding poems. I do not employ Google for forms of research that are likely to lead to insomnia. In other words, no bat-bug investigation for me.

Yikes. The idea of bedbugs already keeps me awake. Now I have to contend with another alliterative pest? But beyond the rabies and the bat-bugs, it's really the bat's poops that are the problem. Bat droppings--nay, bat guano, to use the correct nomenclature--must first be disinfected used a medical-grade cleaning solution before it is vacuumed away. Without correct treatment and disposal, dangerous, fungus-y particles are released into the air. That last thing I want is to be a patient with a mystery disease on an episode of House.

And speaking of better uses of Google, here's a link to a poem by Claudia Emerson that I love. It's called "The Bat" and first appeared in Blackbird. By the time the poem makes its way into her Pulitzer Prize-winning Late Wife, the ending has evolved into something even darker and more ambivalent (in the version from the book, she cuts the last sentence, "I have never forgiven you"). Still, this version is pretty great too.

And did you know that a search using the keyword "bat" on the Poetry magazine website produces 315 entries? It's true that some of those bats are baseball bats, but still. Impressive, no?

Marinating

2011-05-29T20:25:00.001-07:00

Quiet lately in the land of the Stuffed Fish Review. I've been recovering from the end of the semester but am already in the thick of a 6-semester grad class. That's right, spring has barely had time to become summer, and yet here I am teaching "Adventures in the Graphic Novel." I'm talking Eisner, Speigelman, Ware, Satrapi, Thompson, O'Malley, Luen Yang, and Bechdel, plus Scott McCloud's Understanding Comics thrown in for a little critical reading. And did I mention that I'm on-call for jury duty during the whole month of June? My thanks to Kent County for holding me to my civic obligations. Isn't summer vacation supposed to be a, you know, vacation?

I've been busily revising Red Army Red this past week. Big changes are happening in the final third of the manuscript: poems cut, poems added, poems shifted about. I'm happy to return to the project, after nearly 9 months of letting the collection marinate. The Arranged Marriage has so dominated my writing-hours since September or October of 2010, that I've barely had space in my imagination to think about All Things Cold War. I love these moments of gear-shifting, when I am allowed or I allow myself to return to something a little older, some idea that's been waiting (patiently) for me to revisit it. Hello, Poland circa 1989. What will you teach me about myself now?

American Life in Poetry

2011-05-09T08:24:00.001-07:00

Months and months and months ago, I was notified that my poem "Chernobyl Year" would appear as one of the spring columns for American Life in Poetry. The poem first appeared in the March 2010 issue of West Branch, one of my favorite literary journals.

"Chernobyl Year" was a poem that I wrote during the 2009 NaPoWriMo. It was one of those rare poems that came out almost completely whole, nearly done from its first draft. Those kinds of "gift" poems don't happen very often (although I do believe they're more common during NaPoWriMo, when one is forced to write daily); and when they do arrive fully formed and strangely polished, it's easy to spot them. I had been researching the Chernobyl disaster and had spent a lot of time reading "Voices from Chernobyl," from the Winter 2004 issue of The Paris Review. I remember finishing the first draft of "Chernobyl Year" in under an hour. I looked at the poem. Where had this thing come from? Was this my poem?

Now the poem is part of my recently completed manuscript, Red Army Red. In fact, it's the first poem in the book. That strange, creepy poem--it turns out that the poem is a thesis statement for Red Army Red. I had no idea when I drafted the poem that it contained the DNA for an entire poetry collection.

So, here is the column. I'm honored to be included in American Life in Poetry.

On Vinyl

2011-05-04T16:17:00.000-07:00

Hooray! I have three Red Army Red poems in issue #3 of Vinyl, which went live this week. Lots of great contributors in this issue, including Anna Journey and Jessica Goodfellow. Go see the whole issue here.

Big Winners!

2011-05-02T08:36:00.000-07:00

I didn't end up using a hat for April's book-drawing. Instead, Argos lent me the use of his blue, plastic food bowl. It was the perfect size for all of those folded-up names. Congratulations to Matt Thorburn, who is the winner of my Stateside and C. Dale Young's Torn. And Charity Philips won a copy of Stateside. I'll be in contact with the two winners later on today. Thank you to everyone who stopped by Notes from the Gefilte Review. I loved having so many visitors!

Here's One More Reminder...

2011-04-23T12:12:00.000-07:00

...to drop your name in the hat for the 2011 Big Poetry Giveaway. On May 1, I'll be giving away two copies of my latest book Stateside as well as C. Dale Young's Torn. Just follow this link and put your name and contact information in the comment box.

"Putting the Human Back"

2011-04-20T17:34:00.000-07:00

I never met Jeanne Leiby, but three weeks ago she phoned me at home to tell me that she was taking three of my poems for The Southern Review. Since I first began submitting work, I've only received two other phone calls from editors. One was years ago: C. Dale Young. I remember that I addressed him as "Mr." or maybe "Dr." and sounded like a complete starstruck idiot. The other phone call came last year or the year before that: an acceptance of one of my essays, from the nonfiction editor at Black Warrior Review. In both cases, the pieces needed to undergo a final vetting process before the "official acceptance." Still, I was honored to receive a real, live telephone call from someone who liked my writing enough to dial my number.

When Jeanne phoned, we talked for 30 minutes: about the poems, about my work in general, about a mutual friend. "Do these pieces come from a manuscript?" she asked. "I think they do," I told her, realizing that maybe the poems were part of a new book. We discussed my mother, whose story the manuscript is based on, and Honduras and El Salvador and arranged marriages and violence and the history of the prose poem. "Do these pieces come from a manuscript?" It was her question which made me see that my poems belonged to something bigger, a manuscript that was already coming together, filling with a life I didn't know it had. But Jeanne saw what the poems could become. "It's going to be an amazing book," she told me.

When I thanked her for the generosity of her phone call, she said, "I'm trying to put the human back in the humanities." Sweet and funny, I thought. And when I read her essay "Why I Call" (over at The Southern Review website), I could see that same sweetness and humor. Putting the human back in the humanities seems like a good place for all of us to begin. Putting away the laptop and picking up the phone seems like another kindness.

I was so sorry to learn of Jeanne Leiby's death. We never met, and yet she showed me such kindness.

If You Haven't Signed Up Yet...

2011-04-17T14:41:00.000-07:00

...be sure to toss your name (and contact info) into the 2011 Big Poetry Giveaway right here. On May 1st, I'll be giving away two copies of Stateside as well as a copy of C. Dale Young's lovely, new Torn.

Spotted: In the Santa Fe Writers Project

2011-04-14T11:05:00.000-07:00

I'm so grateful for the good attention that Stateside has been receiving from reviewers. My latest thank-you needs to go to poet Jacey Blue Renner (isn't that a great name?) who has written about the book for the Santa Fe Writers Project. Here's a little sample of the review:

England’s Queen Victoria and Prince Albert had one of the greatest love stories of all time. When he passed, Prince Albert’s room remained a shrine to Queen Victoria’s continued love. Nights she slept with a photo of him by her side. Much like “In Penelope’s Bedroom”, changing the room’s dynamic would reflect an admission that the beloved will never return.

The language and movement in many of Dubrow’s poems is full of beauty and measured breath despite inevitable anxiety that appears in the last section of poems. The transition from “overseas” to “stateside” is addressed with an intensity of voice that reflects both the measure of circumstance, and the measure of a woman in constant pendulum. In Part Three’s “Situational Awareness” she writes, “—I’m hypersensitive,/stretched thin as a length of wire, a hair–/trigger mechanism”. In “Stateside”, the title poem, this feeling continues with, “then we are stretched/nearly to the breaking./The wait becomes my pulse,/come home come home”.

Devoting valuable time and energy to a review of another poet's work really is what we Jews call a mitzvah, a moral deed, an act of generosity and kindness. So, even though April is the busiest time of the semester, I plan to attempt a review of a new collection. This will be one of my small contributions to National Poetry Month '11. And I'm open to recommendations--send me your suggestions. What excellent, new poetry collections deserves a little more attention this spring?

Take Two Poems, And Call Me in the Morning

2011-04-11T19:13:00.000-07:00

My contributor's copies of The Bellevue Literary Review arrived a few days ago. I have two pieces in the latest issue. Both are prose poems that come from my new project, tentatively titled The Arranged Marriage.

I've probably said this already, but I'm really excited about my adventures in prose poetry. So far, these new poems have found homes in The Southern Review, Copper Nickel, Crazyhorse, and Ninth Letter. Fancy, no?

This summer, after I finish teaching my grad class ("Adventures in the Graphic Novel"), I hope to spend a lot of time immersed in The Arranged Marriage. If I can get a better grasp of this animal called "the prose poem," I would also love teach a new class about the short history of the form. Can you believe it? Me, the sonnet-writer, now in love with prose poetry?

The Big Poetry Giveaway, 2011!

2011-04-01T07:37:00.000-07:00

A lot of people have already entered to win free books. But, if you haven't signed up yet, I've posted information about the giveaway below:

In honor of National Poetry Month, I am excited to participate in Kelli Russell Agadon's brilliant scheme: The Big Poetry Giveaway, 2011!

On May 1, I will be giving away two signed copies of my latest book Stateside as well as a copy of C. Dale Young's Torn.

Here's what you need to do:

Write your name and email address in the comment box below.
Wait until May 1, when I will do a drawing of names from a bowl/hat/kitchen sink.

One person will win two poetry collections (Torn and Stateside), and a second winner will receive a copy of Stateside. I'll pay for postage and all that good stuff.

That's all there is to it. So, enter now!

Two words: Sick. Grumpy.

2011-03-27T15:02:00.001-07:00

Still sick. Still grumpy about being sick. Still grumpy about being grumpy. Still sick of being sick. Still sick with the grumps. Still grumping. Sick still, grumpy. Silly to be still sick. Grumpy, why are you still sick? Sick, what's with the grumpy? Grumpy? Still? And sick? And grumpy. And sick. And still.

Spring Fever

2011-03-26T18:38:00.000-07:00

It's that point in the school year: I'm sick and am now feverishly (haha) trying to get well. All the grading is happening at once, all the student conferences. Even Argos is feeling less than his usual bumptious self; we had an emergency visit to the vet yesterday, when his ear began to show signs of a nasty, gloppy infection. Poor guy--there's always a price for having such fuzzy ears.

On top of all the mid-semester excitement, this coming Friday, Washington College is hosting its annual Sophie Kerr Weekend. Natasha Trethewey will be our big speaker. The students have been reading Native Guard and Beyond Katrina, in preparation for her visit. I've been studying too; it's my job to introduce Trethewey at the the start of the reading, which means that I feel the need to be extra-prepared for the event.

And the day before Trethewey's arrival, my dear friend Kristin Naca will be reading from her debut poetry collection, Bird Eating Bird, at the Rose O'Neill Literary House. It's going to be quite a week of poems and fancy visits. Now, if I can only keep my voice until next Sunday. Everyone, please send anti-laryngitic (is that even a word?) thoughts in my direction!

But, even in the middle of stuffy noses and kvetching, there's always an email with a little nice news. One of my friends spotted Stateside on this week's list of poetry bestsellers, over at the Poetry website. I'm at #24 and in pretty good company, in between Nikki Giovanni and Rosmarie Waldrop.

Jehanne, The Dog Groomer

2011-03-24T16:32:00.000-07:00

So, a few weeks ago, my groomer of 2 1/2 years "broke up" with me. Seems that she was tired of Wheaten Terrier softness. I guess that Eastern Shore groomers prefer Yellow Labs and other dogs whodon't have any actual hair. And then there's Argos: fuzzy, wuzzy, and more fuzzy.

Fast forward a few weeks. I'm standing in the bathroom with Argos, trying to figure out what to cut off. I ended up grooming conservatively, a little snip here, a little chop there. I'm not really sure what the groomer was so cranky about. Yes, Argos is soft (i.e. the name "Soft-Coated Wheaten Terrier), but the worst kind of fight he puts up is a little head-turn or paw-retraction. If only I actually knew how to groom my dog. Now that would be something!

Here's Argos sitting in the yellow light of the kitchen. You can see in the sadness of his eyes that he's not too pleased with his new 'do.

And, a few minutes later, here are a few snapshots taken on the Wheaten's porch. He is staring out of the storm doors, clearly plotting an escape. Nasty grooming lady, he thinks. I'm sorry, my Pup. Perhaps, with a few more tries, we'll move away from hair-mangling to champion-dog-magnificence.

In the Cave

2011-03-22T15:51:00.000-07:00

Cave Wall has been one of my favorite literary journals, almost from the minute editor extraordinaire Rhett Iseman Trull began publishing it. Cave Wall is one of those journals with a simple, old-fashioned cover that reminds me of how Poetry used to look before it turned so fancy and rich. And the poems! Here is Sandra Beasley's "Another Failed Poem about the Greeks" (from Issue #4) and Dan Albergotti's "Surprising the Gods" (from Issue #1).

And now, here I am in the brand-new Issue #9, which just arrived in my mailbox today. I have two poems in the journal. You can read "November 1989" right here. This is another one of my Red Army Red poems; with each publication, I can the manuscript moving closer and closer to something real. A book.

Cave Wall has inspired me to write many new poems--the contents are always that interesting, the journal's overarching narrative always that persuasive. So, go submit your work to Cave Wall. Or, better yet, support the journal by subscribing.

ForeWord BOTY Finalists

2011-03-14T10:40:00.000-07:00

The finalists have been announced for the ForeWord Book of the Year Awards. And, in the poetry category, my Stateside is in very good (read: awesome! impressive! go out and buy some new books!) company:

A Suit of Nettles by James Reaney
All That Gorgeous Pitiless Song by Rebecca Foust
Beauport by Kate Colby
Beso the Donkey by Richard Jarrette
Casanova in Venice by Kildare Dobbs
Complete Physical by Shane Neilson
Death-Defying Acts by Erin Keane
Divina Is Divina by Jack Wiler
Dogged Hearts by Ellen Dor Watson
Father Dirt by Mihaela Moscaliuc
Gallowglass by Susan Tichy
God, Seed by Rebecca Foust
How to Catch a Falling Knife by Daniel Johnson
Kaleidoscope by P K Page
Karla K. Morton: New and Selected Works by Karla K. Morton
Letters from the Emily Dickinson Room by Kelli Russell Agodon
Memory's Daughter by Alice Major
Monkey Lightning by Martha Zweig
Parable of Hide and Seek by Chad Sweeney
Phantom Noise by Brian Turner
Poor-Mouth Jubilee by Michael Chitwood
Portrait of Colon Dash Parenthesis by Jeffrey Jullich
Psaltery and Serpentines by Cecilia Martinez-Gil
Rookery by Traci Brimhall
ShadowSounds by Joan Kantor
Shahid Reads His Own Palm by Reginald Dwayne Betts
Stateside by Jehanne Dubrow
Suck on the Marrow by Camille Dungy
The Alchemist's Kitchen by Susan Rich
The Forest of Sure Things by Megan Snyder-Camp
The Giving of Pears by Abayomi Animashaun
The Lightning That Strikes the Neighbor's House by Nick Lantz
The Sensual World Re-Emerges by Eleanor Lerman
The Trials of Edgar Poe and Other Poems by Ned Balbo
Too Bad by Robert Kroetsch
Voices from the Bitter Core by Ursula Krechel
Walking With Ruskin by Robert Cording

How a Poem Happens

2011-03-07T15:12:00.001-08:00

Yes. That's right. Today you can find me hanging out at "How a Poem Happens" and talking about my poem, "Eastern Shore." I have been a dedicated (we might even say ardent) reader of Brian Brodeur's blog almost since the moment it first went live. So, I am very excited to have become a member of the HAPH clan (family? forum? circle?).

Is it weird to quote myself? Well, here's a small taste of the interview:

Could you talk about fact and fiction and how this poem negotiates the two?

True things: that some people are afraid of the Bay Bridge, that the Beltway around DC is scary too, that my husband and I used to fit into one very small bed when we were college sweethearts, and that I went through a Billie Holiday phase.

Fiction: the giving up. “Eastern Shore” is an elegy, a what-if. What if this happened to my marriage? In the poem, the marriage has become an erotic figure itself. The lovers see the sad gap between their current feelings and what they once felt; that space is Eros.

I love this kind of poetry Q&A the way I love James Lipton's Inside the Actor's Studio. And I think one of the secrets to the success of "How a Poem Happens" is that the interviews focus on craft: what's your drafting process? what were you reading? who helps you revise? who is your audience? With "How a Poem Happens," questions about fact and fiction are asked in order to get at the matter of narrative: how we construct it, which "true" details we use to tell stories, how we move toward invention. Poets appreciate these questions because they show respect for the work of making poems. And readers appreciate these questions because they provide real insight into the process.

Over at Blogalicious...

2011-03-03T07:30:00.000-08:00

...Diane Lockward has written a really warm, beautiful review of Stateside. I was especially excited that she focused on two moments in the book, which I view as "stealth poems." Neither "Instructions for Other Penelopes" nor "VJ Day in Times Square" is as flashy as some of the other pieces in the collections, but both poems were still important "teaching texts" for me, when I was in the drafting process.

Here's a little excerpt from the review:

Dubrow has a remarkable facility with forms. They are handled with such deftness and grace that the reader is barely aware of their presence. A close inspection reveals a number of sonnets scattered throughout the collection, other poems in blank verse, some in syllabic verse, and others in rhymed couplets and rhymed quatrains. There's even a triple triolet!

I also love the idea that I am the "Poet du Jour," which is what Diane calls these featured reviews on her blog. You can learn more about Diane's work by visiting her website here. And check out her latest poetry collection, Temptation by Water (Wind Publications 2010), here.

Snowpup

2011-02-22T07:44:00.001-08:00

It might have snowed here on the Eastern Shore. And, Argos might have had something to say...er, I mean...snuffle about at all that white stuff everywhere.

In the Midlands

2011-02-12T06:28:00.000-08:00

It turns out that I am occasionally a "midlands" author, which is just fine by me. Although I sometimes felt as if I had moved to a new country, my five years in Nebraska were full of poems, adventures in the creative writing classroom, and even new discoveries about weather (i.e. green sky = tornadic conditions).

So, it was nice to see Stateside written up as one of "10 to Try," in the Omaha World-Herald:

Dubrow started this collection of poems while she was at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln working on her Ph.D. A Navy wife, her poems look at military service from the point of view of the people left behind when their loved ones are deployed to another state or another country.
It’s a subject close to her heart, and readers can’t fail to be moved by her words. Includes an introduction by Ted Kooser.

You can see the other nine books here.

Blackbird Says, "Read Jehanne's Book"

2011-01-31T17:37:00.000-08:00

I've been so focused on a couple of really pressing obligations--the start of the new semester, the deadline for my 3rd-year review dossier, AWP preparations--that I haven't had an opportunity to post any updates recently. But, here's a nice update:

Susan Settlemyre Williams has written a really beautiful and generous review of From the Fever-World for Backbird, which is my favorite online literary journal (and one of my journals of any kind).

A “Translator’s Note” at the end tells us that Ida was probably born around 1906 in a town called AlwaysWinter and died in a flu epidemic in 1938—i.e., shortly before the Holocaust, a choice on Dubrow’s part that, as she wrote in an essay for Blackbird, allows her “as Ida Lewin . . . to speak without postmodern irony about Poland and the Jews.” Schoolchildren discovered Ida’s work, some “fifty crumpled pages,” in 1986, buried near the synagogue. So we have a poet about whom almost everything of importance must be learned from the inherently unreliable testimony of her untitled and undated poems.

This is one of the first reviews that has addressed the "veils" of fiction in FTFW, and I really appreciate Susan's explanation of the book's unreliable speaker. A fragmented, elusive speaker who constructs or offers partial narratives continues to interest me. Even now, as I'm working on a new poetry collection (of prose poems, no less!), I feel pulled toward broken storytelling. As I told a group of students today, our era is one of fragments and our stories should reflect the pieces.

That One Intemperate Thing

2011-01-20T21:13:00.000-08:00

I have a big batch of poems in the current issue of Prairie Schooner (three cheers!). One of these pieces, "Puberty, As Poem by Akhmatova," is posted over at the magazine's website. And you can go read it right here.

"Puberty, As Poem by Akhmatova" came out of NaPoWriMo 2009. I remember my apartment was very cold, because Wretched Landlord claimed that raising the thermostat's temperature would make the water in my pipes "dangerously hot." Perhaps, but the result was that I spent a lot of days under a blanket known as The Purple Squish, and I ended up with a whole stack of this-is-a-freezing-world poems. Everything I wrote contained some theme or variation on frost and blue toes.

Now, I live in a house, and I am my own Wretched Landlord. Earlier today I told myself, "Self, it's cold in this living room." And then I stood up from the couch, walked the three steps to the thermostat, and remedied the situation.

I am the Boss of Me.

Ut Pictura Poesis

2011-01-11T19:25:00.000-08:00

I'm very excited about an exhibit that will open at the end of January:

University of Maryland’s The Art Gallery, in collaboration with the departments of English and Art, have partnered with national and international artists to create new works of visual art inspired by literature.

The exhibition entitled "Poetic. Aesthetic. An Exploration of Creativity in Poetry and Visual Art" features 40 works in various media, including paintings, sculptures, videos, drawings, screen-printed posters, and installations. They are also joined by new video works inspired by poet Lucille Clifton’s The Book of Light and performed by Jefferson Pinder, multi-media artist and UM assistant professor of art and high school students from area schools. Each visual artist will create three new works of art based on the poems of one poet.

The artists exhibiting new works in the exhibition are: Kris Chau, Audra Buck-Coleman, Bill Dunlap, John Foster, Tim Gough, Dan Grzeca, Hero Design, David Hughes, Mirta Kupferminc, Ruth Lozner, Jefferson Pinder, Strawberryluna, Julianna Swaney, and James Thorpe.

The poets highlighted in this exhibition are: Elizabeth Arnold, R. Dwayne Betts, Lucille Clifton, Michael Collier, Jehanne Dubrow, Michael Glaser, Joseph Harrison, Ethan Huang, Linda Pastan, Maryland State Poet Laureate Stanley Plumly, Dave Smith, Saul Sosnowski, Elizabeth Spires, and Joshua Weiner.

I haven't seen the exhibit yet and don't know which artist is working with my poems, but I'm very honored to be in such wonderful company. I feel lucky to be in such a poet-rich state and can't wait to visit The Art Gallery at UMD.

What's Up, My Blog?

2011-01-11T19:16:00.000-08:00

So, apparently I am a "person to watch," at least in my snowy corner of Maryland. There's a cute photo and profile about me in the current What's Up, Eastern Shore? Here's a little sample:

In the next five years, she hopes to have at least one new poetry collection out, as well as a series of essays. Eventually, she’d like to explore travel writing. At the top of her list of places to visit is Krakow. “My dream is to live there, and practice my Polish, and eat plum cake,” she says with a smile.

Now, unfortunately, my name is misspelled on the website. But what else is new? It isn't a news story unless I appear as Jehanna or Jeanne or Jahanne. That's the problem with being so super-snazzy in the name department.

Stolen Poem Syndrome

2011-01-01T21:38:00.000-08:00

I've heard about this kind of thing happening. Recently, a friend of mine sent me a link to a blogger who had retitled my poem "Sea-Change" and was claiming it as her own. It was a truly surreal experience to read my poem, now named something like "Dreaming" with words like "husband" changed to "lover" and the so-called "author" thanking her dedicated readers for their praise and admiration of her work.

"Sea-Change" comes from the first section of Stateside. It originally appeared in Prairie Schooner and was later published on Poetry Daily (July 4, 2009). The shape, meter, and rhyme scheme of the poem is modeled on a poem by Josh Weiner. It is about my fears of being unable to save my husband--in his work as a Naval officer--from falling into the ocean and drowning.

I left a little comment for the "poet" at her blog, but I doubt she'll publish it. I recommended that she purchase a copy of Stateside. Hey, who knows. Maybe she'll find some other poems worth borrowing.

***And now for a news update.***

My poet-doppelganger removed "Sea-Change" from her blog today. Poof! I guess she decided that she didn't write the poem after all.

2010: A Year In Review

2010-12-30T08:17:00.000-08:00

Since the semester ended a week and a half ago, all has been quiet here in C-town. And now that we're at the nubbins of 2010, I thought that A Year In Review might give me that warm-fuzzy feeling of accomplishment. So, here's a little round-up of good stuff that happened to me in 2010:

I survived a nine-month deployment. J left for dark waters, I managed to distract myself during his long absence, and then J returned. And, although it was lonely-boring-sad-endless-isolating, the deployment was not the end of the world.
Stateside was published in March. Northwestern created a beautiful book, and I'm very proud of the work inside it. Thank you to everyone who has bought a copy. Thank you to everyone who has written kind words about Stateside. If there's anyone out there who still wants to review the collection, let me know. I'll send you a copy right away.
My mother and I survived our mini summer book tour. It wasn't a huge success in terms of book sales. But we had a great time on the road, and learned all sorts of important truths about what kinds of venues to avoid in the future.
In addition to my little book tour, I gave readings at the U.S. Naval Academy, the West Chester Poetry Center, Cafe Muse in DC, the AWP Conference in Denver, the Armory Building in NYC, WriterHouse in Charlottesville, and the War, Literature and the Arts Conference at the U.S. Air Force Academy. What am I leaving off the list? I also have a stack of readings scheduled for 2011, thanks to my mother, press agent extraordinaire.
I attended the Sewanee Writers' Conference as a Fellow, where I studied with amazing teachers (the "Dynamic Duo," Emerson & Hass) and made some dear friends.
Lots of poems published or accepted. Prairie Schooner, Diode, Cerise Press, Verse Daily (can't remember all the places and am too lazy to move from the couch in order to check the list). Let's not forget lots of rejections too.
I finished what might eventually become a 4th poetry collection: Red Army Red. The manuscript is currently out for review. Keep your fingers crossed, folks.
I began work on a new project, The Arranged Marriage. For the first time ever, I have ventured into the unfamiliar landscape of The Prose Poem. Absolutely terrifying. No, absolutely thrilling. I love this new project but suspect that I may need to go on a research trip to Honduras and El Salvador. Plus, it's time for me to brush up on Latin American poetics. In other words, I have plenty of reading, writing, and thinking to do.
I was on the radio and in the newspapers talking and talking and talking about the milspouse life. What I discovered is that I love the radio, I love radio stations, and I love those insulated, soundproof recording rooms.
I applied for many desirable things: writer's residencies, fellowships, book awards. Who knows if I'll get any of them. But the important thing is that I'm participating in the process.

And that's really the point of this list, the old "you gotta be in it to win it." Some nice things happened to me this year--readings, publications, adventures--but none of these things would have come to be without numerous missteps, failures, and disappointments. Writing is a tough business. Hell, writing is tough even when we don't try to make it a business. The white page is a sonabitch, even when we're not hoping for readings, publications, or adventures.

So, to all of my poet-friends out there, I hope you had a 2010 that was equally full of triumphs, very small and very big. You are dear to me. I am grateful for your friendship and community. Let's make sure that 2011 is AWE------wait for it-----SOME.

much love,

Jehanne

When the Schooner Pulls in to Town

2010-12-07T10:18:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I received my contributor's copies of the Winter 2010 issue of Prairie Schooner. I have five poems in the new issue, all from Red Army Red: "Fancy," "Puberty, As Poem By Akhmatova," "Velvet Revolution," "Returning to West Berlin, 1987," and "Our Free Market Romance."

I have very warm, nostalgic feelings for the world of Prairie Schooner. During my five years in Nebraska, I spent hundreds of hours going through Schooner submissions, first as a general reader, and later as the "senior poetry reader." Working for Prairie Schooner was perhaps one of my favorite privileges of being a grad student at the University of Nebraska.

To see how much really excellent work the journal receives every semester and to realize how much of that work must be rejected (out of necessity) was a powerful lesson in the business of being a writer. When people say Journal X "rejected my poems" or Contest Y "rejected my manuscript," they prove that they don't fully understand the submission process. Yes, we call it "rejection." But the process is really a winnowing down and often involves putting very good work in the "no" pile. This seems especially true when it comes to book manuscript submissions. The "no" pile in a book contest is often filled with excellent, "yes-able" books.

So, although I once worked for Prairie Schooner, I certainly recognize how fortunate I am to see my own work in its pages. I'm especially pleased to be part of an issue that contains two poets whose work I admire tremendously: Leslie Adrienne Miller and K.A. Hays. Now, those are some powerhouse poets!

Always a Bridesmaid?

2010-12-02T07:30:00.001-08:00

It's always nice to be nominated for something. And so I was very pleased to receive an email from Mary Biddinger and Jay Robinson, letting me know that my poem "Wiretap" (from issue 3 of Barn Owl Review) has been nominated for a Pushcart. I'm in excellent company. Two of favorite poets, Erika Meitner and Dora Malech are also nominees. I've been a "bridesmaid" many times, but it remains a great feeling when a literary journal thinks enough of my work to nominate it for a Pushcart.

New Review of Stateside

2010-11-30T10:41:00.001-08:00

I was very moved to read a new review of Stateside written by Djelloul Marbrook and published on his website (www.djelloulmarbrook.com). Here's a little sample of this incredibly thoughtful and generous review:

Feminists may revisit Penelope and her appeals to Artemis and Athena all they like, but until we hear the shield maidens and the Penelopes, hear them and not about them, they remain less real than the larger-than-life male figures to whom they are furnishings. In Stateside we do hear them, and this is a landmark of sorts. This is one of those books that changes the landscape of our poetry, not in the grand way Ezra Pound’s Cantos change it or the poems of his friend, William Carlos Williams, but change it they do.

Wow. You can see why Marbrook's words have made my day. I barely know what to do with my gratitude.

In the Papers

2010-11-16T12:10:00.000-08:00

When we lived in Poland (during the bad old days of the early and mid 80s), we usually drove to West Berlin every three or four months, as a way of escaping the gray landscape of Communism. We would spend a week at the US military hotel in town, watch American TV, and stock up on American sugarsnacks at he PX and commissary. We would see American movies, buy American books, and every morning read the Stars and Stripes. So, it feels strange to now see myself in latest issue of Stars and Stripes, both online and in print:

For Navy wife Jehanne Dubrow, writing poetry is both art and coping skill. Jehanne is the author of “Stateside,” a collection of poems about life as a military spouse. The book came out this spring, fittingly, while her husband was at sea.

“Poetry is the way I think problems onto the page. It helps me to order the universe if I can put a difficult problem into fourteen lines and call it a sonnet,” she said.

“To hear the music that poems create is incredibly reassuring to me.”

Sonnets, she said, are “like these beautiful perfect machines that contain terrible, difficult things and make them a little bit beautiful.”

It's a really nice article. I'm so grateful to Terri Barnes for writing such a generous, warm piece about my work.

Media Blitz; or, When Jehannes Attack!!!

2010-11-11T17:12:00.000-08:00

Who knew that there could be a place for poetry in Government Executive Magazine? But here I am in the latest issue:

Dubrow, who is married to a career Navy officer, knows firsthand how creative writing can ease the unique stress that comes with life in the military. Four years ago, when it looked like the Navy was going to send her husband to Iraq or Afghanistan, Dubrow said she was terrified and began writing poems to deal with her anxiety.

That didn't happen, but earlier this year he deployed to the Western Indian Ocean for nine months to conduct anti-terrorism and anti-piracy operations. The result for Dubrow was Stateside (Northwestern University Press, 2010), a collection of poetry encapsulating her experiences before, during and after her husband's deployment.

Could Jehanney TV be next? J Magazine?

At the West Chester Poetry Center

2010-11-09T07:23:00.000-08:00

That's right. That will be me, at 7 tonight, LIVE! at the West Chester Poetry Center (at West Chester University, also home to the West Chester Poetry Conference). I'm excited to be part of the Center's annual reading series, which has previously hosted some poets I love and admire, including Jill Alexander Essbaum, Rhina Espaillat, and Lynn Chandhok. So, if you're in the neighborhood, stop by and hear me read from Stateside. Maybe I'll even do a few Red Army Red poems, if I'm feeling on the boldish side.

In the News

2010-11-08T17:55:00.001-08:00

Cute story today in The Virginian-Pilot about, well, me. Here's a taste:

Of course, Jehanne Dubrow knew what her husband did for a living when she married him in 2005. He was a lieutenant in the Navy - a fire control officer aboard the cruiser Anzio. But Dubrow says it wasn't until a year or so after their wedding that she came to what might seem like an obvious realization: I'm a military wife.

And while I look a bit dour and pensively poet-ish in my photograph, I think J looks quite adorable (he claims that he looks like a pterodactyl, but that's just crazy-talk). And, of course, our photographs had to be taken separately, with J in Norfolk and me in Chestertown. Because that's the usual story, isn't it? The usual distance of things.

The Old Stomping Grounds

2010-11-03T18:18:00.000-07:00

Has it really been almost a month since I last posted an update on the Gefilte Review? I guess it turns out that de-blogging my system wasn't so hard after all.

Tomorrow, the husband, the P.U.P., and I head to Annapolis for a day of poetry stuff. J and I met and fell in love and broke up and pined for one another in Annapolis, first as seniors at St. John's and later as young adults working our young adultish jobs: barista, salesperson, line cook, wooden boat builder. So, it's always fun to revisit our salad days in Nap-town. I'll be reading from Stateside at the US Naval Academy, visiting some classes, and then doing a public poetry reading at the Annapolis Bookstore (on Maryland Avenue) at 7 pm.

For many, many years, Maryland Avenue was the street I knew most intimately of any street in Annapolis. I was the first barista hired to work at the brand-new coffee shop--just across from the bookstore--on Maryland Avenue and I later became the manager of that shop, now called "City Dock Cafe." I can't count all the early mornings that I trudged those cobblestones, unlocked the shop door, and dragged gallons of milk from the storeroom up to the front of the shop. All those steamed drinks and poured shots. All those coins in the tip jar.

Seems like a long time ago. Seems like yesterday.

Diode

2010-10-10T16:17:00.000-07:00

I'm really excited to be part of the Fall 2010 issue of Diode, with four of the sexier poems from Red Army Red. It's a great issue and includes knock-out poets like Kelli Russell Agodon, Amanda Auchter, J. P. Dancing Bear, Gregory Donovan, Jesse Lee Kercheval, Aimee Nezhukumatathil, and many more. Snazzy company, nu? So, many thanks to editor Patty Paine for letting me hang out with the cool kids!

The Review Review

2010-09-28T07:14:00.000-07:00

Did you know that there's an online literary journal that reviews other literary journals? No? I hadn't heard about The Review Review either, until someone told me about a recent review of the summer 2010 issue of Cerise Press, which contains my poem "A Small History of Shopping." I've always loved the monthly review feature at Newpages.com, but I think The Review Review is a really helpful addition to the field. These kinds of meta-reviews are not only interesting to read but also very useful when it comes to deciding where to submit work. Here's a little of what editor Becky Turch says in her mission statement about The Review Review:

So I decided to make this website. Here, writers can get a deeper sense of the
journals by reading reviews of the latest issues. This is not intended as a
substitute for the actual journals, but merely a way to guide writers toward the
journals that most interest them. Plus, this site offers a way for writers to
keep in contact with editors. A story might not be right for a magazine, for
instance, but a thoughtful and heartfelt review will be sure to make editors
aware of your writing skills.

And I think she's absolutely right that writers--especially those who are new to the field--need guidance in deciphering the publishing biz. And, in addition to its reviews, The Review Review contains interview, lists and links of literary journals, and a wealth of "tips" on subjects such as writing the perfect cover letter and facing failure. I always tell my creative writing students to visit Newpages.com, but I think that The Review Review is going on my list of highly instructive sites as well.

First Book Interview

2010-09-24T06:13:00.000-07:00

I've been remiss in my duties as a blogger (and even remiss in my duties as a slacker blogger). So, I'm very late in posting this link. The valiant Keith Montesano, who has continued the "First Book Interview" tradition that Kate Greenstreet began, recently posted his interview with me. Collecting these interviews in an enormous task, requiring Keith to read a ton of books and to do a pretty significant amount of research on each of his subjects. The labor is unpaid, but I think these interviews have great value to the poetry community. So, go check out my interview here.

I've Been Barefooted...

2010-09-01T14:34:00.000-07:00

...That's right, no shoes, no socks. I'm the "featured poet" in the current issue of The Barefoot Muse. The issue includes sample poems from Stateside as well as a very thorough and engaging review of the book by Rick Mullin. Many thanks to Anna Evans, editor supreme (she also heads the masthead of The Raintown Review). And, although I don't think we've ever met, I'm also grateful to Rick Mullin for his thoughtful treatment of Stateside.

Poetry from the Rooftops

2010-08-16T16:48:00.001-07:00

Hello, New York friends.
Feeling like a little poetry this week? The Academy of American Poets hosts a star-studded reading series every summer. It's called Poetry from the Rooftops:

"This summer, the Academy of American Poets continues its tradition of summer poetry readings by working with the New York City Department of Parks & Recreation to present Poetry from the Rooftops. This outdoor reading series is held on the newly renovated rooftop of the Arsenal Building in Central Park. Step out of the flow of traffic and hear these poets 'bare their brains to heaven.'"

I'm planning a little visit to the city. So, come hear me read along with Terrance Hayes and Tom Healy, two poets who will make your trip more than worth the while. Date? Thursday, August 19, 2010. Time? 6:30 p.m.

I would love to see some familiar faces in the audience!

Back From the Wars

2010-08-01T17:30:00.000-07:00

As readers of the Gefilte Review know, this blog has been quiet lately, not because I've had nothing going on but because I've completely exhausted from all the goings-on. Let me explain.

First, there was the Sewanee Writers' Conference, a blur of readings, workshops, evenings at the French House, marathon conversations about the highbrow and the gutter, the summer cold I caught halfway through, capped off by heavy Southern food, the racket of cicadas in the midnight trees, and the general grandness of being a Walter E. Dakin Fellow. And speaking of Fellows, let me say how much I loved all of my fellow Fellows.

The poets--Beth Bachmann, Cody Walker, Catherine Wing, Will Wells, and Jim Murphy--were all lovely, funny, and of course terrific, amazing poets. I felt honored to be part of such an impressive crowd. The fiction and playwriting fellows were equally entertaining, smart, and every other positive adjective I can think of. I met a new BFF, James Magruder whose novel Sugarless you must go buy right now. I just started reading it, and am completely in love.

And then there were my workshop leaders, Robert Hass and Claudia Emerson: two of the kindest, most sympathetic writing teachers I have ever met. I learned so much about empathy from watching how gently and sensitively Hass and Emerson approached the work of their students. I imagine it must be challenging to teach at a place like the Sewanee Writers' Conference, where the participants enter the classroom with a very broad range of professional experiences, different levels of training, and a variety ambitions for their poetry. With the broad strokes of this description, I'm not doing justice to the magic of watching Hass and Emerson in action. Having now seen the benefits of compassion and gentleness in the classroom, I'm going to try emulating the Hass-Emerson approach in the future. A kinder, gentler Jehanne? Perhaps.

I came home from Sewanee completely exhausted, a little sad to have left behind all of those kindred spirits. My left eye keeps twitching. I keep wanting to sleep in until 2 in the afternoon. I miss being around so many interesting, quirky people. Did I dream that place where people talk poems all day, the precision of language is a valued commodity, and others have already read my poem without bribery or physical force?

But here are some nice things that have happened since my return.

Stateside received a very enthusiastic write-up by Lauren Winner, in Books and Culture:

It's pretty rare that I read a new volume of poetry straight through, but that is how I sat with Jehanne Dubrow's Stateside last Thursday.

In this absorbing volume, Dubrow, whose husband is an officer in the navy, takes readers into the experience of military wives during wartime.

And then, Alison Buckholtz (a milspouse whose book Standing By is definitely a worthwhile read) talked about Stateside in a movie review for Slate Magazine:

I have a rule: No war movies. Or TV shows or HBO specials or even the nightly news, at least when coverage turns to the conflict in Iraq or Afghanistan. Avoiding the topic is essential to my mental health, especially during my husband's deployment to Baghdad this year. No one explains why better than writer and military spouse Jehanne Dubrow, who catalogues a list of celluloid offenders in the poem "Against War Movies," from her collection Stateside. She confesses what I'm not brave enough to admit:

He's burned or gassed, he's shot between the eyes,
Or shoots himself when he comes home again.
Each movie is a training exercise,
a scenario for how my husband dies.

And then I received great news from the Gods of AWP. I'll be part of not one, but two panels at this year's AWP Conference, which is scheduled to be held in Washington, DC:

The Mezzo Cammin Women Poets Timeline Project
Anna Evans, Kim Bridgford, Erica Dawson, Jehanne Dubrow, Dana Gioia, Kathrine Varnes
In March 2010 at the National Museum of Women in the Arts, Kim Bridgford launched The Mezzo Cammin Women Poets Timeline Project, an online database of essays about women poets and their work. The Timeline Project aspires to become a comprehensive resource of women poets, spanning all periods, countries and schools of poetry. This panel will discuss the need for, and importance of, the timeline, along with its ongoing development, such as handling copyright issues and contributing an essay.

Washington Writers’ Publishing House Poetry Reading
Jehanne Dubrow, Holly Karapetkova, Brandel France de Bravo, Carly Sachs, Bruce MacKinnon, Piotr Gwiazda
Celebrating a nearly forty year history, the Washington Writers’ Publishing House is a collective press run entirely by volunteers. Since 1973, WWPH has published over 50 volumes of poetry. Come hear six poets read from their prize-winning collections and discover the diversity of the DC-area literary scene.

So, although I'm completely wiped out, there's plenty activity swirling around me. Now, if only my eye would stop twitching and I could shake the feeling that Sewanee was just a little dream that won't return:

If we shadows have offended, / Think but this, and all is mended, / That you have but slumber'd here / While these visions did appear. / And this weak and idle theme, / No more yielding but a dream, / Gentles, do not reprehend: / If you pardon we will mend. / Else the Puck a liar call. / Give me your hands, if we be friends, / And Robin shall restore amends.

Verse Daily

2010-07-15T22:46:00.001-07:00

So, have I mentioned that I'm up at Verse Daily today? Yup. I'm up at Verse Daily. So go check me out.

Poets in a Box

2010-07-14T22:06:00.000-07:00

Boxcar, that is. You can find me being generally silly with Leslie the Awesome-est over at the Boxcar Poetry Review starting today. We're talking about first books (and beyond), not to mention engaging in our usual goofballery. Many thanks to the charming and dashing Eduardo who is not only mensch but of course an amazing poet on top of that. And while we're on the subject of amazing poets, go buy Leslie's Displacement here.

Fever-World, Again

2010-06-30T12:24:00.001-07:00

I can't remember if I've mentioned this in any recent posts, but From the Fever-World has been getting some nice reviews. For instance, Kristin Bylar wrote a really thoughtful analysis of the book for the current issue of DIAGRAM. Here are the opening paragraphs:

The poems of Jehanne Dubrow's From the Fever-World come as an offering, surrendering both the spiritual and physical in an exchange passed between the pages, one that draws awareness to our own existence in her fever-world while, at the same time, drawing us from it.

In a voice similar to the Shulamith of her chapbook, The Promised Bride, and with an immediacy more penetrating than her first collection of poems, The Hardship Post, Dubrow gathers for us the writings of Ida Lewin, the persona of an imagined Polish woman who lived in the town of AlwaysWinter. In the book's dedication, Dubrow devotes the poems to her two grandmothers, "...who sent [her] the ghost of Ida," and perhaps it is a gift of the senders that Ida's voice is one of familial intimacy and warning. The first poem begins with, "Dear one, I saw it in a dream./ Avoid the red house in the forest," which holds onto the prophetic conscious of Ida's dream.

I love the fact that Bylar has read some of my other work and places Fever-World within the context of those projects. How cool is that?

And, over at Lines and Stars, Janelle Elyse Kihlstrom has some very perceptive things to say about the book; the reviewer's response makes me feel as if my intention with the book was successfully achieved (at least for one reader):

Before the final poem in which Ida relinquishes her hold on the fever-world ("... Why wish for ice,/ when ice comes soon enough?") she exhibits again what Dubrow's translator's note refers to as her "gift of Sight," recognizing that her lyric incandescence is both harbinger of her personal destiny and an assurance that her furtively scribbled testaments will endure: "All cooking brings a death/ to its ingredients/ an alchemy that promises/ eternal taste, although/ a life must be consumed/ before it spoils."

Although Ida's natural death, of a fever, would spare her the all-encompassing horror she sensed would overtake her world, her haunting, prophetic voice, though invented, emerges as a movingly authentic tribute to the voices of the women like her who Dubrow claims, and then convinces us, must certainly have existed.

From personal experience, I know what hard and time-consuming work it is to write a book review. So, I'm doubly appreciative of these two responses to From the Fever-World, a collection that I always understood to be an odd duck of book, a weird project that might not find readers. My thanks to Bylar and to Kihlstrom.

Gasland

2010-06-30T08:26:00.000-07:00

A quiet morning. Not much going on. So, I watched the documentary Gasland on HBO. It's a terrifying and lovely film made my Josh Fox, which began when Fox's family was asked to lease its land in Pennsylvania to a firm that wanted to drill there. The filmmaker ended up traveling across much of the United States, visiting communities in places like Texas, Colorado, and New Mexico whose water tables have been affected by (no, I should say contaminated by) so called "safe" drilling practices. Halfway through the film, I brewed myself a cup of tea with water that came from my kitchen tap. And by the conclusion of the movie, the tea sat cold on the table in front of me.

I wasn't thirsty anymore.

To Harrisburg and Back Again

2010-06-28T11:03:00.000-07:00

I'm back from yesterday's stop in Harrisburg where I participated in the Harrisburg Book Festival at the Midtown Scholar, a really adorable used bookstore in a part of the city that it is clearly mid-revitilization (is that a word?). During my visit, I met one of the owners, Catherine, who perched a toddler on her hip, even as she moved around chairs, welcomed customers, dealt with inventory, and generally kept the machine of the shop running smoothly. Mothers are amazing creatures, aren't they?

I had the pleasure of meeting some really nice and talented people at the festival, including nonfiction writers Jen Hirt and Paul Cockeram and fellow poet Matthew Roth, whose debut collection Bird Silence I'm already enjoying. It's a beautiful book. You can read his poem "How Memory Works" and a few other samples from the book, online at Stonework.

Despite the lovely setting and my impressive colleagues at the Book Festival, I did experience a few moments of weirdness (read: snark). There was the crazy man who told me I don't want to hear about that, after I began to tell him that Stateside was about the experience of being a military wife. And let's not forget the woman who said rather nastily, You don't look anything like your picture, and then eyed the size of my waist and the frownlines on my forehead suspiciously. Hmmm.

So there were some good moments. And some bad ones. And now I'm very tired. Apparently, I should go take a nap, in order to look more rested and therefore more like my author's photo.

Booktour '10

2010-06-26T18:51:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I took my first trip to Scranton, PA, where I read at the very cool independent bookstore, Anthology New & Used Books. The store is adorable, filled with terrific book deals, great jewelry, random cute stuff, and it even has a cafe on the first floor. I had a good time hawking Stateside and met some very interesting, quirky people. Many thanks to the lovely Andrea who was my hostess for the evening and who made my stop in Scranton such a warm, welcoming experience. She even pointed me in the direction of a delicious Lebanese restaurant, where I ate some shanklish that rocked my world.

Independent booksellers do truly heroic work in this land of big box stores and strip malls. In fact, in Washington, DC, the current hysteria has to do with my beloved Politics & Prose, which has recently gone up for sale:

Politics and Prose, the iconic independent bookstore on Connecticut Avenue NW that has held on against withering competition from Barnes & Noble, Amazon.com and Costco, is announcing what customers and employees have long feared: The place is for sale.

The store's owners, Carla Cohen and Barbara Meade, both 74 and so in synch they often wear the same colors without planning to, said they are simply too tired to keep steering Washington's most prominent non-chain bookstore -- a premier stop on top-shelf author tours and a frequent setting for book talks on C-SPAN -- through the uncertainty of an industry threatened by e-books. Cohen is also seriously ill.

Let's hope that someone can save the store. I've spent many contented hours browsing the shelves of P&P or meeting up with poet-friends to discuss All Things Poetry in the coffee shop downstairs. Hell, if I had the money, I would buy Politics & Prose tomorrow.

Army Wife Network

2010-06-21T20:39:00.000-07:00

I've decided that I'm slightly jinxed when it comes to the radio and book promotion. Now, on the one hand, I've already some wonderful opportunities to talk about Stateside over the airwaves. On the other hand, my experiences with WYPR and NPR were made a bit too exciting (think: damsel tied to the tracks with the express-train baring down on her), as a result of an unwelcome case of laryngitis.

Tonight, I was scheduled to do a quick interview and read a few poems on the radio show of the Army Wife Network. Stateside is slated to be the Network's "BOTB" for July. Cool, no? I love the idea of military wives reading this book; I wrote Stateside in the hope that other milspouses might read the poems, might see themselves in the collection, and maybe might even find poetry not so scary after all. So, of course, 25 minutes before I was slated to call in to the show, I fell down the stairs of my parents' house, landing in a jagged pile at the bottom of the steps. My dog was not happy to see me land there. My father and mother were not happy. My tush was definitely not happy.

By the time I began the interview, I was sitting on an ice pack, my feet curled up under another one, a whole bunch of Motrin in my stomach. Was I coherent? I don't remember. Did I read some poems? I think so. Do my toes hurt? Yes.

When it comes to book promotion, it seems that my problem isn't a bruised ego but rather a bruised backside.

I Was In the Show for 21 Days Once; Or, Why This Ain't the Minor Leagues

2010-06-19T19:47:00.000-07:00

I know that I'm on my way to old, because it took me nearly seven days to catch up from the sleep I lost at West Chester. Yikes. How on earth am I going to survive a second Sewanee, if I could barely recover from four short days in the WC? A few cocktail parties and a couple of evening readings are nothing compared to Sewanee's nearly two weeks of French House escapades and non-stop event-going.

I need to start training.

Training means staying up until 3 every night, while trying to conduct heated conversations about the false binaries of lyrical and narrative poetry.

And since I don't drink, training means practicing inebriation. Or does training mean practicing not becoming inebriated?

This is very complicated.

Training also means sitting in fold-up chairs for several hours on end, shifting from cheek to cheek, crossing and recrossing my legs.

Practice listening.

Practice eating grits and okra. And, in a related area of training--practice avoiding hidden gluten in Southern foods. On second thought, practice not eating altogether.

Practice buying books.
Practice signing books. Or is that overly optimistic?

Practice humidity.
Practice mosquito bites.
Practice sudden rainstorms.

Oy. I've got a lot to do before I go to the show.

And, a final note...

Crash Davis: It's time to work on your interviews.

Ebby Calvin LaLoosh: My interviews? What do I gotta do?

Crash Davis: You're gonna have to learn your clichés. You're gonna have to study them, you're gonna have to know them. They're your friends. Write this down: "We gotta play it one day at a time."

Ebby Calvin LaLoosh: Got to play... it's pretty boring.

Crash Davis: 'Course it's boring, that's the point. Write it down.

Psst, Navy Network Information Center

2010-06-14T13:16:00.000-07:00

Don't worry, NNIC, I swear that I'm not giving away any military secrets in between my ramblings about the PoBiz and my lyrical meditations about Argos the WonderPup. After all, this is the only secret I know: that the Naval uniforms for women are much less flatteringly cut than are those for men. And that's not much of secret--you just have to do a quick visual comparison of the tush region.

NNIC, my site meter tells me that you've been stopping by the Gefilte Review.

Is there a poetry-lover at the Navy Network Information Center? A fan of Soft Coated Wheaten Terriers? Someone looking for a recipe for gefilte fish?

West Chester: It's a Good Thing

2010-06-13T13:02:00.000-07:00

I'm back from my third time at the West Chester Poetry Conference and am feeling the usual mix of exhaustion, happiness, and more exhaustion. It was a good year: handfuls of gossip, people-watching, catching up with old friends, making new ones, and just good conversation. The food was better this year, more salads, fruits, and vegetables. It only poured on the first day of the Conference, a nice change from last time's constant downpour.

For the second year in a row, the faculty readings had a predetermined time-limit, which meant the pleasure of hearing poetry wasn't marred by having to sit in a cold auditorium for 2+ hours (there really is such a thing as too much of a good thing). I actually made it to breakfast and to a few of the morning events, despite the many late-night discussions, outings to town, and my generally irresponsible behavior. I treated this West Chester as a warm-up for the true marathon of Sewanee. After all, West Chester is a mere 4-days-long, while Sewanee lasts nearly 2 weeks and has an equally packed, alcohol-drenched schedule.

Let's see. Who was on the faculty this time around? The roster never changes much at West Chester: Dave Mason, A.E. Stallings, Harvey Hix, Mark Jarman, Tim Steele, Molly Peacock, Dick Davis, Rachel Hadas, Andrew Hudgins, and some others I'm forgetting. Mike Piech, who co-founded the Conference with Dana Gioia was retiring this year, after decades in academia and 16 years of overseeing the Conference. As you can imagine, the long-time attendees and faculty members were all extremely sad to see Mike leave. He's a lovely, warm man who always has a hug and smile ready. Although I've only known him for three years, I too will miss his kindness, energy, and inclusivity.

I am, however, quite excited about the Conference's prospects for the future. Poet (and visionary) Kim Bridgford is now the new director of the Conference. I know Kim from her terrific work as the co-founder and editor of the on-line literary journal, Mezzo Cammin, and also from her incredibly ambitious project, The Women's Timeline. In fact, for the second year in a row, contributors to the Timeline met to discuss new essays that will become part of the site, to plan future events to promote the Timeline and women's poetry, and to discuss recurring themes, patterns, and tropes in the history of the poetry of women. We're a lively bunch that includes poet-scholars like Kathrine Varnes, Marilyn Taylor, Julie Kane, to name a few. Last time, I wrote about Maxine Kumin, and this year it was Emma Lazarus. Much to my surprise, I fell in love with Lazarus when I began to research her life and work. What an amazing, bold, politically engaged women! So, I'm looking forward to revising the essay for its publication, six months from now. In the meantime, you can read my Kumin essay here.

Much to my surprise, I even enjoyed the musical event on the last night of the Conference: Natalie Merchant performing songs from her newest album, Leave Your Sleep, musical adaptations of British and American childrens' poetry. I say "much to my surprise," because I haven't always found the musical events at West Chester to be so engaging, not to mention educational. Merchant clearly did extensive research during the writing and compilation of the album, and her knowledge of such poets as Robert Lewish Stevensen, Ogden Nash, and Edward Lear, was truly impressive.

So, all in all, a very successful and engaging four days. I'm exhausted. Sleep is my highest priority right now. More from me later, once I've found my way to the other side of a nap.

When Poems Attack!

2010-06-04T19:35:00.000-07:00

Recently, I finished a very tentative first draft of a poetry collection, Red Army Red. In fact, for the past four or five months, I had been close to completing the draft but kept yanking out poems and putting new ones in. For a long time, the manuscript hovered at around 55 pages but its contents kept shifting, shuffling and reshuffling like an indecisive deck of cards.

This has happened to me before. It happened with Stateside. And I'm pretty sure that it happened with The Hardship Post, but for a much longer and more depressing series of months (after all, that was my first book, and first books always take forever). The only exception to this pattern is From the Fever-World, which was such a quirky, unpredictable project that I never knew when one of Ida Lewin's fragments was going to attack. Each time, I tell myself: it's just a first draft. But this reminder never helps. And the result is that, for what seems like an unbelievably longish time, I feel stuck in a limbo between generating new work and deciding on a certain, narrative shape for the manuscript.

So, three weeks ago, I finally printed out a copy of the manuscript-in-progress, bunched the pages together with a black binder clip, and gave the stack of poems to my writing partner. Although she had seen more than two thirds of these pieces as they were being drafted, I knew that Meredith would still be able to read the collection as though with new eyes. If nothing else, the manuscript's meta-narrative would make the poems sound strange again.

This past week, something started tickling me. Some idea began to flit at the edges of my vision. It was a new poem, a Red Army Red poem, despite the fact that I had just ordered myself to stop dwelling on Red Army Red. This has also happened to me before. It happened with Stateside. And I know it happened with The Hardship Post too. It's like the infertile couple who becomes pregnant immediately after adopting. Or the the problem of thinking about elephants, just after someone has said don't think about elephants. For all those months, the final poems resisted me. Now, here was a poem when I wasn't expecting or looking for one.

What is it about the subconscious? Has anyone else ever had this kind of poem-visitation?

Radio Daze

2010-05-29T08:31:00.000-07:00

Dear readers, please forgive all of the shameless horn-tooting that seems to be happening recently on The Gefilte Review. Although I still have very little voice, thanks to my laryngitis, it's hard not to shout good news from the rooftops.

So, you can now find a tiny bit of my interview from "Maryland Morning," which aired yesterday on 88.1 WYPR, right here. In the next few days, the whole conversation should be posted there as a podcast.

And, you'll be able to hear me on "Fresh Air" on NPR this Monday, in honor of Memorial Day:

Coming up May 31: A tribute to those in battle. First, Kelly Kennedy tells us the story of a platoon hit hard in Iraq. Next, we talk to Tim O'Brien who wrote The Things They Carried, the classic book about the Vietnam War. And we'll hear poems from Jehanne Dubrow, a military spouse, about her relationship with her husband.

I'll be the last segment on the show, reading a few sonnets from Stateside.

Even J is in the news right now. This morning, my mother opened up The Washington Post and found an article about his ship and the capture of Somali pirates. Sometimes, in the midst of this deployment, my husband feels so distant. It's strange to turn the pages of newspaper and discover him there.

Mesh Bear

2010-05-27T07:13:00.001-07:00

I have come down with one of my terrific colds this week. My throat is sandpaper. My nose evokes a certain Christmas reindeer. Well, better now than in two weeks when it's time for West Chester or, worse, in a month, when it's time for Sewanee.

Strangely, this cold began with laryngitis, which is not my usual pattern at all. So, I lost my voice. And then I went on the radio. Twice. And the second time was a pretty great opportunity that fell from the sky. Let's just say that three of my poems are going to be read on Memorial Day, on a show that rhymes with the title of today's blog post.

So, I lost my voice two days ago. On a scale between human voice and frog, I was very close to ribbitting. What followed was my best impression of an operatic diva: dramatic hand gestures in place of speaking, enormous quatities of ginger and lemon steeped in hot water with lots of honey, and a decent amount of panic thrown in for good measure. You know the old expression, "she has a face for radio?" Well, I had a voice for charades. Sigh.

Anyway, here's hoping that I ended up sounding relatively human and not too tree frog for my big radio debuts. I'll post more information about dates, times, and links, when I have them.

Sunday Stuff

2010-05-23T10:59:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning to a slew of lovely emails and kind Facebook messages. My poem "Before the Deployment" was the Academy of American Poet's poem-a-day and, apparently, all of my friends are on the mailing list. So, despite the fact that my whole Sunday will be spent typing a paper (and typing and typing and typing), it was a warm-fuzzy way to start my morning.

My Friday reading in Annapolis was a fantastic experience. I've never seen such a packed house for a local poetry event. The audience was attentive, engaged, and so friendly. While I was reading from Stateside, I couldn't help smiling at the row of midshipmen (some wearing summer whites, some dressed as civilians but still so very clearly Nay-Vee) who stood at the back of the room. They all looked so very young. There smooth, fresh faces reminded me of what discussed all semester long in my "poetry of war" course: it's always children who are sent off to war.

My mother came with me to Annapolis for moral support. It's always important to have a witness at these kinds of events, someone who can cheer when a reading goes well or comfort if it goes wrong. After the reading ended, we drove back over the Bay Bridge, stopping on the way to pick up some great Mexican food. We had a midnight feast. It was a very full and rich day.

Annapolis Time

2010-05-21T11:26:00.000-07:00

After eight years of living Annapolis, I grew pretty tired of seeing t-shirts that read, Annapolis: A Drinking Town with a Sailing Problem. Still, now that I'm no longer living in a apartment behind one of my favorite cafes, 49 West, and no longer trolling the side streets for manageable parking spots, and no longer pushing my way through the crowds of tourists, aspiring boat-buyers, midshipmen, and my fellow-Johnnies, I don't mind returning to Annapolis every once in a while.

So, if you have an evening to kill, come to Annapolis and hear me read from Stateside. I'll be at the top of High Street, at the Starbucks in the basement of the Maryland Inn, along with a bunch of other poets from the area. The reading starts at 6:30 and goes...well, who knows how late the poetry madness will continue into the night. I hear there's going to be quite a crowd!

Conversations in Poetry

2010-05-18T19:32:00.000-07:00

I had an outing to DC today: to witness a "conversation" between Dana Gioia and Kay Ryan at the Aspen Institute in Dupont Circle. I had never heard Kay Ryan speak or read her work before, and it was lovely to discover that she's as funny in person as she is on the page. Really, she has wonderful comedic timing, and I was quite impressed with Gioia's willingness to play the straight man in the discussion.

I admired Ryan's fierce advocacy of something as "unfashionable" and "unprestigious" as community colleges, her uneasy truce with the PoBiz, and her resistance to making grand statements about all All Things Poetry. She said that when she was asked to become Poet Laureate she felt extremely nervous about the prospect of speaking on behalf of all of poetry, of speaking in generalizations when poets are at their best in the land of specifics. She used the word "bloviate" (one of my all-time favorite words) in reference to the kind of speaking that Poets Laureate are often asking to do.

Then she read a poem called "Blandeur." How many people in the audience don't know what the word "blandeur" means? She asked. Two or three people raised their hands. Well, I made it up, she said matter-of-factly, so of course you don't know it. I actually knew what "blandeur" meant immediately. Made up or not, it clearly meant a grand blandness:

Blandeur

If it please God,
let less happen.
Even out Earth's
rondure, flatten
Eiger, blanden
the Grand Canyon.
Make valleys
slightly higher,
widen fissures
to arable land,
remand your
terrible glaciers
and silence
their calving,
halving or doubling
all geographical features
toward the mean.
Unlean against our hearts.
Withdraw your grandeur
from these parts.

And she read a lovely poem about a sewing needle floating in a glass of pure water, which she said had become a "wedding poem" although she never considered that occasion when first writing the piece:

A Plain Ordinary Steel Needle Can Float on Pure Water
--Ripley's Believe It or Not!

Who hasn't seen
a plain ordinary
steel needle float serene
on water as if lying on a pillow?
The water cuddles up like Jell-O.
It's a treat to see water
so rubbery, a needle
so peaceful, the point encased
in the tenderest dimple.
It seems so simple
when things or people
have modified each other's qualities
somewhat;
we almost forget the oddity
of that.

In the audience, were many poets I know from West Chester and even Sewanee. It was a lovely surprise to arrive and find all those familiar faces. And the very great Richard Wilbur was sitting in the front row. The audience gasped when Dana Gioia called our attention to his presence. Gasped. It was lovely to hear people so impressed and startled and delighted by the presence of a poet in the room. I find it impressive and startling and delightful that, at 89-years-old, Wilbur is still listening to poetry, still attending events, still doing readings of his own. Tonight, I believe he read at the Folger. I only wish that I could have been there to hear him.

The Push to Publish

2010-05-17T21:07:00.000-07:00

Recently, I was remembering an experience I had in grad school. I had reviewed a poetry collection in which the author wrote a villanelle in the persona of a Native American woman. The poet was an expert in American Indian literature although she didn't identify as having tribal affiliation herself. In reviewing the book, I described the diction used in the villanelle as "pared-down," pointing to the poet's omission of articles, her compression of syntax, and even the starkness of her imagery.

Not long after my review was published, I heard from the journal's editor--who also happened to be one of my mentors--a woman who is not only a sensitive reader but also a very socially conscious teacher; she would never support work that engages in stereotypes or overly easy tropes. So, when my mentor handed me a letter-to-the-editor that had just arrived in her mailbox, I could tell she was quite stunned by the contents.

A fellow grad student, a student whose office was a few doors down from mine, had written a letter accusing me of perpetuating the "myth of the Indian savage." How dare I use the phrase "pared-down," the letter demanded. I was shocked. And, of course, I was upset too. After all, one of the jobs of my review was to characterize the poet's diction, not only in this persona poem but in a number of the other poems on which I performed close readings. It was the poet who had chosen to use a pared-down diction in order to represent a Native American speaker; I had simply identified an adjective to describe the poet's diction. The letter-to-the-editor made a lot of mistakes that I couldn't point out without sounding catty: incorrectly assuming that the poem was autobiography rather than persona, arguing that my phrase "a Native American voice" was the same as "the Native American voice" (had no one ever explained the difference between a definite and an indefinite article to this guy?), and confirming that it's unwise to write a letter to the editor if you haven't actually read the book in question.

But what most upset me was the proximity of our two offices, so close I could have called his name from my desk and he would have heard my voice while sitting at his own desk. He had probably passed me in the halls a dozen times after reading my review and had never said a thing. So, he wasn't brave. And he was an opportunist who wanted to see his letter published. And since he didn't publish book reviews of his own, it was easier to write a letter in which he demonstrated his own problematic thinking about poetry. Had no one ever quoted Wallace Stevens to this guy? After all, poetry is called "the Supreme Fiction" for good reason.

And that was how I learned that the internal push to publish can make people do nasty things. The Publishing Goblin sits on many students' and scholars' and writers' shoulders, a little spiney creature who whispers in all of our ears, submit submit. And that was how I learned that we have to beware. Be wary. And ask, To what am I submitting? It was a hard lesson but one that I often consider when I'm sending my own work out into the world.

Books, Bad Dreams, and Boring Lives

2010-05-13T07:02:00.000-07:00

Every Thursday, I have a poet's lunch with a friend who lives in Chestertown and who works in the administration at Washington College. This week, rather than writing a draft of a new poem, I promised to bring in a full draft of Red Army Red. I think the collection is ready for a first read. That said, I had horrible dreams all of last night, dreams in which poets I know and admire kept saying things like, your work is too easy and there's nothing in your work beyond the obvious.

In the dull light of 10 a.m., I can easily explain the roots of the anxiety that produced these bad dreams: (1) I'm finally showing Red Army Red to someone other than my dog and (2) in a few weeks, I'm doing a poetry reading with someone whose aesthetic is wayyyy different from my own and who I suspect may be too-cool-for-school. Since I'm planning to read from Stateside, a book that is incredibly sincere, incredibly earnest, I am a little nervous about sharing the stage with a poet from the School of Slouching and Sarcasm. It's junior high all over again.

But, I don't have a lot of time to worry about bad dreams and other intangibles. I'm facing down a deadline for a 10-page paper that will eventually be part of the Women's Timeline Project. Last May, while I was busy moving in to the new house, I was also rushing to finish a draft of my essay on Maxine Kumin. This time, I had a little false start, when I began researching Wislawa Szymborska, only to discover there's not enough biographical information on the poet to fill half of a 10-page essay, as the guidelines require. Who knew Szymborska has lived such an uneventful (not to mentioned undocumented) life?

Note to self: don't spend your whole life living in one city and doing nothing but writing poems. Second note to self: don't spend your whole life living in one city and doing nothing but writing poems UNLESS you want to write a bunch of awesome poems. So, I've now switched to Emma Lazarus who had a hell of an interesting life, was a real iconoclast in her day, and who has been a little ignored (from a critical perspective) until very recently. "The New Collossus," here I come.

World Domination through Poetry

2010-05-11T16:54:00.000-07:00

Remember about a month ago when I announced that I was going to be that annoying writer at AWP 2011, the one who was always saying things like, "I would love to have lunch with you but I'm on a panel at noon" or "I've got to go--I'm part of a reading that starts in 15 minutes." Well, ask and ye shall receive. As of this afternoon, I've been asked to be on 9 separate panel proposals. NINE. When did I become Miss Popularity? Since I also submitted a panel proposal of my own, this means that I've had to say no to 7 of these 9 requests (AWP only allows you to be on three panel proposals maximum). Now the AWP panel is an incredibly difficult get to get, but at least

And remember my whining about the difficulties of setting up a mini-booktour? Well, the process of contacting potential venues continues to be difficult, but I'm starting to get a few more nibbles and am feeling much more optimistic about the possibility of World Domination through Poetry (cue theme music from "Pinky and the Brain"). People have actually been answering my email inquiries, a small triumph in itself!

And, in other news, I'll be teaching a two-day workshop over at the Bethesda Writer's Center this summer. The course is called "The Prolific Poet." Here's a description:

How do some poets do it? They write every day and they never seem to run out of interesting ideas. In this workshop, we’ll imitate the habits of prolific poets, using writing prompts, journaling, newspapers, snippets of conversation, and other sources of inspiration from the outside world around to generate new material. We’ll practice techniques for avoiding the plague of writer’s block and discuss ways to make poetry a daily part of our own lives.

If you're interested in signing up for the class, it will be held Saturday, July 31 and Sunday, August 1, from 1 - 4 pm. Just go to the Writer's Center website right here and search under "workshops." This fall, it looks like I'm also going to be part of some kind of "milspouse" or military families creative writing workshop at the Center. I'm not yet sure what this will involve but, when I have more details, I'll let you know!

I suppose this rapid burst of blog-info is suddenly pouring out now that I've well and truly finished all of my grading for the semester. I feel elated. I feel exhausted. I feel the sniffles coming on. My summer is shaping up to be busybusy, what with conferences and readings and World Domination through Poetry. Right now, however, this little Tyrant of Verse just needs a nap.

PBS, Again!

2010-05-05T13:27:00.001-07:00

A big surprise: another one of the Stateside poems is posted as the poem-of-the-week over at Art Beat, the cultural blog of the PBS NewsHour! This week, it's a poem in quatrains called "Reading Stephen Crane's 'War Is Kind' to My Husband."

This poem has always held a special place in Stateside because, when I first drafted the piece, it felt like a breakthrough. It was a poem that (I believed) had finally found a balance between the narrative and the lyrical. The poem also resists a circular movement back toward its beginning, which makes it very different from much of my other work. I don't know why it is that we adopt some poems as personal favorites, even when no one else pays much attention to these "precious darlings." But, that said, I'm glad to see "Reading Stephen Crane's 'War Is Kind' to My Husband" featured on Art Beat.

Dead Poet Society

2010-05-03T14:39:00.000-07:00

Not much happening lately on the blog-front. Classes have finally ended, but now I'm really dealing with the cost of having taught an extra course this semester. In other words, I'm grading, grading, and GRADING, which has left me near-dead. Why didn't I simply ask my students to build dioramas depicting lines from "Dulce et Decorum est" or decorate big, bright posters with "fun facts" about 20th century war poetry?

I'm also trying to put together a mini-booktour and, so far, have turned out to be a complete disaster as a tour manager. No one wants me! In late June, I'm heading up to Vermont for a poetry event and have been trying to arrange other readings along the way. I had a little nibble from Scranton (thanks, Scranton!) but, other than that I've been striking out. It turns out that rocking-the-East-Coast with my Poet Awesomeness is a lot harder than I anticipated.