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Your rainbow is shaded brown.


What is says about you: You are a deep thinking person. You appreciate the roughness of nature. You feel closer to people when you understand their imperfections.

Find the colors of your rainbow at spacefem.com.

I'm always amused by these two-cent personality tests. I always have to resist the urge to analyze how the questions are set up. Talk about answer-driven questions! I mean, really, when you are given two extremes...ah well. This was fun, Angie. Thanks! ;) It was a nice break from working on my edited collection preface for 609, anyway!


Remining myself why I'm such a big fan....

Absolutely love this guy's voice. I think I'd marry him tomorrow, just so I could hear him sing every day of my life. ;) I did splurge and by his semi-new Outside In album, which I cannot wait to hear in full!


Stupidity in Purple

Oh, you expected something to go with that title? Isn't it self-explanatory?


Stayed up late last night to finish.


Now off to read for pedagogy and poetry.

Pretty, pretty sun-through green-turning yellow trees morning.

This coming weekend: a funeral and a wedding. My dad's cousin and sweet lady from my church passed away from cancer this morning. She is the third sister in her family to die of cancer. So sad!


Defying Voyeurism:


The silver is past
and the ship has gone
and all that remains
is this wisp of yellow plume:
spring’s memory,
a duck’s pajamas.

Chuck Kinder Reading, Etc.

I almost didn't take time to go to the reading last night...what with contemplating going to the Dodge Poetry Festival this weekend and preparing for marathon conferences this week, etc. But I decided I should, and am glad I did! As Christina said, he was the first "real" West Virginian we've met since our transplant. When asked why he failed at being a flower child when he moved to California, he said he grew up on road kill, and liked his possum sandwiches too much. I must have had a funny look on my face, 'cause Christina whispered to me, "I don't think he's kidding." Oh! Oh!

So...as of now, I guess I'm going this weekend. It's a 7 hour drive to Christina's home town, but if we split the driving...and if I think of getting to hear Robert Hass read...yeah. I think it'll be worth it.

Sunday Words:

An eventful day in an otherwise lethargic weekend. A lady at church I'd just met wanted to take me home to meet--literally--their community. They live after the tradition of Hutterites, who, in short, have "everything in common." Very sweet people, and students from the university, as I understand it, live in this community as well. I did not go home with them today, as I had reading and class prep I needed to do, but she has my contact info, so I expect I'll hear from them in the near future. Also have a dinner invitation for Thursday night, and tonight, AND--this is SO exciting!--I am contemplating going with one of my fellow poets to the Dodge Poetry Festival next weekend! It's a 7 hour drive, which seems crazy, but, I think I need a little crazy at this particular juncture.

Autumn Gambol

From the midst of a creaking
gold oak sprang wine the color
of rainbow trout, and splashed
the forest with light neither
dry nor wet, and only drinkable
to the subliminal soul in green
leggings and white feathers,
leaning laughing against a giant
muffin boulder oozing blueberries
on which sat tumblers of misted
hollow & maple sun-found morning.

Post-Grading (sort of)

After staying up late to grade last night, and getting rid of ALL my student's papers (almost, late hand-ins, the bane of my existence), I have pledged to think AS LITTLE AS POSSIBLE of my students this weekend, and to devote a sizable chunk of time to poetry. Here's a little piece I just finished (if "finished" is the word).

Red Dress Moment

I perch, a good little Mennonite, behind its sixty’s green-
and-silver bulk, lower lip caught between a row of teeth
and a scowl. I feed a cloud of carnival-colored fabric
through and around this thread-fed ‘foot’ that misses nothing—
plotted seams, tender fingers, misbehaved hair. Somewhere
in these jowls are sleeves, a bodice, possibly even a skirt;
I know this, because wherever my mother’s shadow falls, chaos,
acknowledging its fate, hitches itchy blue bellbottoms
and heads for the briar patch. I acknowledge mine, too
correcting pockets 1/8th inch askew from where my hands
should be and think I shouldn’t be thinking of bright-colored
catalogues, or the mall, where the clothing looks happy
to be mass-produced and painlessly perfection-free.


The Colloquial

Morning Thoughts

Cloudy, lukewarm tea
adagios softening
the voice of crickets
heralding autumnal weather
duties on the other side
of bacon and a grease-swiped
grimace, anxious toes
rhythming their own Morse
Code under the desk
last duvet thoughts drifting
up into the burnished haze
of valley, deer (or cow?), trees.

Morning Thoughts
Gangly stillness--
expanse of air and tree and sky
breath-held, kite flung.
Aqua and plaid pajamas
thrown across a rustic bench--
warm romantic skeleton
of the day's endeavors.
Yellow in the hollow awaiting rain.

"Shitty First Drafts"

Yes, I deliberately chose Grace Kelly to offset my title. It seemed appropriate.

Louise Gluck on continuing a poem one has finally managed to grasp hold of ... and then what happens:

"What follows is a period of more concentrated work, so called because as long as one is working the thing itself is wrong or unfinished: a failure. Still, this engagement is absorbing as nothing else I have ever in my life known. And then the poem is finished, and at that moment, instantly detached: it becomes what it was first perceived to be, a thing always in existence. No record exists of the poet's agency. And the poet, from that point, isn't a poet anymore, simply someone who wishes to be one" ("The Education of a Poet, 16).

There is something to be said for shitty first drafts. Of forests not seen for trees. of attempts. Of the innocence of sincerity. Of illusion that has been bitten by the adder of truth.

Sometimes I am amazed by my ability to be duped. I see a nice green hill and I say, "ah, a rest." But when approached, the hill is the itchy, curly head of a Ludwilliam Blompenhoffner, and one finds, lying down for a nap, ant hills where one's feet once were, upon awaking.