Without further ado I present the latest missive from poet Daniel Bouchard: a listing of most of the poetry happenings in Boston and environs. All towns are in Massachusetts except where noted. Give the gift that keeps on giving, and help a starving poet or two and buy their book. They make great holiday presents and the Muse will love you.
Wednesday, December 7, 6:30 pm
Adam Scheffler and Clint Smith
Cambridge Public Library
Free parking available in garage accessed from Broadway
Continue reading Boston Area Poetry Readings for December 2016 and January 2017
Today, the first snow of the winter came whispering down. In cold weather, smells don’t carry as well. Winter brings with it a different kind of beauty made of solitude, clarity, and dreams in the dark. Here’s a moment from warmer days to dream of:
After dark in the park
the feathery larch
smells me her secrets
Three small miracles I saw today because I forced myself outside for a walk:
Two tiny finches circling and twittering around one another, one with a bright splash of orange on the top of its head, and another with a bright splash of yellow in the same spot
Three grey tufted titmice, who used to come to my feeder all the time when I lived closer to woods
A whole little flock of birds I don’t know how to identify, but who may be cedar waxwings: the size of a robin, but with a brilliant side patch of orange and an orange beak.
Also, deer tracks.
Some things keep happening in spite of humanity’s foibles. Even in times of great catastrophe, even in times of war and death and turmoil, the sun rises, the spring comes, the leaves fall, the birds migrate.
As so many writers do, I’ve been letting the perfect get in the way of the good when it comes to these dispatches. I thought it would be a simple matter to re-purpose some of the prose that I sent along with my monthly packets, but the work involved in creating the packets (along with all of my less writerly responsibilities) makes even that relatively easy task more difficult than anticipated. I’m sure I’ll share that work at a later point. But for right now, let me discuss a thorny problem I’ve been having when it comes to my own poems — a craft element, as one would call it in the creative-writing MFA world.
The great problem I’m working on this month is the use of nonlinear time in a single poem — how to transition from one scene to another and to another or back to the first while making the poem feel all of a piece. There’s a lot of talk about keeping the reader in the “moment” of the poem, so this feels like an advanced technique to me, and one that I really want to master.
I did a lot of hunting for poems that use this particular technique and finally had to resort to crowdsourcing (thank God/dess for one particular Facebook community of women poets) to find relevant poems. So far, most of my work this packet has been of the thinking, reading, and researching variety, so it’s a relief to have at least half of one craft annotation finished. I’m trying not to think about the relatively short time remaining before the entire thing is due. As Anne Lamott would say, you do it bird by bird.
Here’s a listing of the poems I’ve found so far, with links where appropriate and bibliographical references where not:
So far, the key seems to be anchoring the work in one particular image or phrase, especially by beginning and ending with it. While I’ve been aware of Robert Pinksy’s work since I moved to Boston 16 years ago, it wasn’t until I read “Shirt” that I became aware of the depth of his own craft. This poem in particular swings back and forth from the moment of putting on a shirt to all the implications of the object itself — stitched together most appropriate with the poetic technique of cataloging and the metric iambs he uses in his lists.
Do you know of a particular poem that also deals with nonlinear time?
Two clock faces photo credit Ron Kroetz via Flickr, Creative Commons 2.0
sun descends into
the leaves of the maple trees
and sets them aglow
Poetry readings in Boston and environs abound well into November this year. Of special note: a celebration of Latin American Poetry at the Center Communities of Brookline on Sunday, October 16; Liz Janick and Grey Held at Newtonville Books on Monday, November 7; and three evenings in a row of readings at the Granoff Center for the Arts in Providence, Rhode Island.
Full listings follow.
Continue reading Boston Area Poetry Readings for October and November 2016
In honor of National Coming Out Day, I present below an essay I first published on my site about 20 years ago. Sexuality and identity run on a spectrum. Today I tend to identify as a queer femme. I like the word queer because it is all-encompassing, placing me in solidarity not only with socially-acceptable gay, lesbian, and bisexual monogamous couples, but with all the rest of us: gender rebels, transfolks, bisexuals, straight supporters, heteroflexibles, kinksters, and others with complicated identities. We all deserve a place in the world and we all have something to contribute.
Because I present visually as gender-typical and my partner is a man, my queer identity is largely invisible today. It doesn’t change the fact that I feel passionately about issues of gender equality in all its forms, and about the ways that gender issues intersect with issues of race, national origin, class, and disability. I’m proud of the way that the queer liberation movement has evolved over the last couple of decades, not only in terms of legal protections for same-sex couples, but also for the new awareness and advocacy for trans folks and for femmes of all genders.
On the Definition of a Lesbian Continue reading Hello, I Am Still Queer
I’m glad you had your babies. I’m glad good people are raising the next generation. Your children are beautiful and special and I enjoy watching them play with you and take their first steps and say profound things at bedtime.
Sometimes I’m annoyed because it seems like some of you have lost your identity and spend all your time posting photos of your children, but then again I’m sure I annoy a lot of people with my endless photos of our cats and our garden — not to mention my #365feministselfie project. Continue reading Open Letter to My Friends With Kids
My son carries the name
of the healing archangel. He
sits on my lap, at the computer’s
luminous screen. We look at photos
of my parents, divorced
when I was two. Their faces
sagging, eyes hopeful.
Still alive, but their visits to us
number less than a handful
in his five-year-old life.
Sometimes, after brushing our teeth
he’ll say, “Mom, make it like a river.”
And I’ll cup my palms together
under running water, and he’ll drink.
Tonight as we sit together
I’m silent, because it’s hard to explain.
He asks,” “Do you still love them?”
So gently, so gently.
— Carla Drysdale, from Inheritance, published by Finishing Line Press. Republished with permission of the poet.
Photo credit: Daniel Padua via Flickr, Creative Commons License 2.0.
wind rustles the leaves–
a different song in autumn
than it played in June