Miserably Cold

After several weeks of highs around 20, 

I'm missing summer desperately. What about you?

Rookie Recommends

I went with the kindred spirits from my writing group to dinner and this film. I can only say this: see it. It is still smoldering and stretching inside of me with all of its tragic beauty. Much longing, pining, writing and losing will ensue. I love John Keats. I loved this film. I hope you do too.

And in case my word isn't enough for you, go ahead and read the NY Times review here.

One of Many Geeky Talents Which English Teachers Possess

(With my deepest apologies to the Bard himself)

I hear iambic pentameter's out
I should leave it to that Willy Shakespeare
(if you even know what I'm talkin' about).

If you don't see any news this week, don't fear--

I shall be half a fortnight on the road

for a three act adventure with me mum.

In future blogs, great stories shall be told:

"I made it alive" or "Cyrano got some!"

Things like, "That shrew Kate, does P-troosh beat her?"

Until then I will be out, off and gone

Wait for news from the City of Cedar

and Les Miserable (whoop) at Tuacahn!

The Bard's swift words which offer fun for all

(at) The Utah Shakespearean Festival!

See you in a few days. I'm heading to the Utah Shakespearean Festival and onto the Tuacahn Amphitheater with my mom (let us all pray that I survive the ride in the car). Oh, and please forgive my lame attempts at a Shakespearean Sonnet with shady iambic pentameter at best. I simply couldn't resist.

Writers @ Work

This past week I've been in Salt Lake City at the annual Writers at Work Conference.

Faculty writers included Steve Almond, Dean Bakopoulos, Victoria Redel, Abigail Thomas (her writing happened to be my favorite-favorite and what I would recommend first and foremost to any of you--specifically her memoir A Three Dog Life), and my poet-extraordinaire workshop leader for the past five days, Kim Addonizio. And that woman can bring down a house during a reading--blues-y rifts on the harmonica and a light joking fodder that keeps you riveted. Poetry readings are not the sterile, benign events they once were with that woman reading. The woman puts on a great show, people. So great, you may not recognize her poetic prowess and know-how. (For more information on any of these writers, click on their names.)

It was an inspiring and educational week. I am still reeling with all of the information, the entirety of the experience was intense and overwhelming. I was doing 12-13 hour days soaking in information, attending workshops and panel discussions, and meeting individually with poet and editor, Martha Rhodes, to discuss more about my poetry, fitting writing into my schedule during the school year, and how to move towards publication.

I am so appreciative for the opportunity, the expertise and pure brilliance of my instructors--each were specialists in the craft of writing. Already, I am writing poems and already I can tell that I'm growing as a writer with their supportive voices in my head. And already, I am certain I'm forgetting some of what was said. But oh, what a week!

Poetic vs. Pathetic

It is April, people. April. And you know what that means...(cue crickets chirping)...





National Poetry Month! Yes, isn't it grand for the pathetic souls such as myself--those that delight in stanzas and sonnets. And I seriously dig A MONTH-LONG celebration of all things poetic.

The Diet starves January. February is in honor Black History Month (and great President's Day sales). The Irish are dyeing March green. But April...April is for poetry. And I, slacker that I am, haven't posted a poem in a while--an unforgivable error.

In honor of the festivities, check out this hot spot for your daily poetry fix...or simply to dabble in the epics and ballads. And don't forget: April 17th (next Thursday) is Poem In Your Pocket Day. The day that you...well, imagine this: you carry a poem around in your pocket. All day. And share it with friends and family and strangers in need of a good poem, of course.

In order to kick National Poetry Month of right, I'm going Chilean. Yes, every poetry reader needs some Pablo Neruda. If ever I were to pluck a Latin Lover from the field, Pablo Neruda would be my perfect wildflower (does that damper his machismo a bit?). He is my poetic soul mate. Enjoy the translation.

Tonight I Can Write
by Pablo Neruda

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write, for example, "The night is starry
and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance."

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is starry and she is not with me.

This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

Another's. She will be another's. As she was before my kisses.
Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.