Fall for Poetry -- Events, Contests, Festivals

Lots of news to share, poetry gang! Here we go:

Sunday, September 26
Laura & Shirley Brewer at the Baltimore Book Festival
POEMS AND GEMS: LETTING IN THE LIGHT - two luminous poets illuminate the writing craft.

4-5 PM in the CityLit Tent
 
The pink is in honor of Shirley. She is fabulous as a person and as a poet. We always have a lot of fun together. Join us and you'll have fun too.
 
Friday, October 1
Deadline
Clarinda Harriss Poetry Prize and Chapbook Competition 2010
Submit 20-25 pages of poetry (and $25)
Prize is $250 and publication. Final judge is Dick Allen.
 
My chapbook, Mountain, Log, Salt and Stone won the inaugural Harriss Prize. I had an amazing experience with CityLit Press. Highly recommended!
 
Tuesday, October 5
Howard County Poetry and Literature Society hosts poet Mark Doty
 
I'm sad to have to miss this one. Doty is a remarkable poet, but he's also a wonderful speaker. You will leave this evening feeling enriched.
 
Thanks to HoCoPoLitSo to bringing national voices to Howard County, MD. Info: www.hocopolitso.org
 
Thursday, October 7 - Sunday, October 10
13th Biennial Geraldine R. Dodge Poetry Festival
New Jersey Performing Arts Center, Newark, NJ
 
If you've never been, do yourself a favor and GO! This is the biggest poetry festival in the nation. It's amazing and Friday is free for teachers. Wow.
 
Info at www.DodgePoetry.org
 
Saturday, October 16 - Sunday, October 17
Women's Poetry Retreat
Harpers Ferry, WV
 
Three of my favorite local poets are leading the retreat: Shirley Brewer, Barbara Morrison and Christine Stewart of the Maryland State Arts Council. For just $99 including lodging and meals, you can't go wrong.
 
Info at http://baltimorewriterscollective.blogspot.com
 
Wednesday, October 27
Deadline: Maryland Writers Association Poetry Anthology
 
The theme is Love, in all its facets.
Members are encouraged to submit 1-3 poems on this theme. Non-members are encouraged to join!
www.marylandwriters.org
 
More exciting news on this anthology in a separate post. I'm very excited to be editing the anthology.
 
 
Monday, November 1
Deadline: Little Patuxent Review
www.littlepatuxentreview.org
 
The next issue's theme is Water.
 
LPR is a beautiful local journal that consistently supports local poets, essayists and fiction writers.
 
Anyone would think it's National Poetry Month! Good luck with your submissions. Get out there and hear some poetry.

NPM 50 State Tour -- Maryland, My Maryland

Please come in and welcome to my neighborhood, Maryland!

We've lived in the Baltimore 'burbs for ten years and I admit, I still feel land-locked. (New Jerseyans get anxious if we're more than 45 minutes from the ocean). Remind me to tell you that funny story about crossing the Mason-Dixon line some other time.

Maryland welcomed me with open arms. I've been a poet-in-the-schools for the Maryland State Arts Council for eight years. And Baltimore's CityLit Project is publishing my new chapbook for National Poetry Month. More exciting news on that in a second.

Some Maryland facts: 7th state, joined the union 4/28/1788, home of the very awesome Berger Cookie (it's a black and white cookie without the white) and the Baltimore Honfest.

Another reason I've proudly adopted Maryland? Unlike my home state of NJ, *we* have a poet laureate -- Stanley Plumly, a professor at the University of Maryland. Go Terps!

To help you celebrate spring, I'm sharing Plumly's poem, "Wildflower."

Wildflower
by Stanley Plumly
Some--the ones with fish names--grow so north they last a month, six weeks at most. Some others, named for the fields they look like, last longer, smaller. And these, in particular, whether trout or corn lily, onion or bellwort, just cut this morning and standing open in tapwater in the kitchen, will close with the sun. It is June, wildflowers on the table. They are fresh an hour ago, like sliced lemons, with the whole day ahead of them. They could be common mayflower lilies of the valley, day lilies, or the clustering Canada, large, gold, long-stemmed as pasture roses, belled out over the vase-- or maybe Solomon's seal, the petals ranged in small toy pairs or starry, tipped at the head like weeds. They could be anonymous as weeds. They are, in fact, the several names of the same thing, lilies of the field, butter-and-eggs, toadflax almost, the way the whites and yellows juxtapose, and have "the look of flowers that are looked at," rooted as they are in water, glass, and air. I remember the summer I picked everything, flower and wildflower, singled them out in jars with a name attached.

Read the rest of the poem here.

The exciting news? SAVE THE DATE! April 17 is CityLit Festival at the Enoch Free Pratt Library in Baltimore. I'll be reading with Stanley Plumly, 1:30 PM, and signing the new book. Hope you can make it!

Tomorrow morning, we'll continue our National Poetry Month tour of the 50 states. We're leaving bright and early for South Carolina. No Wall of Shame for them.

Poetry Friday: A Chapbook!

Poetry Friday friends, I'm so excited to share my news with you!

My chapbook, Mountain, Log, Salt and Stone, has won the Clarinda Harriss Poetry Prize, sponsored by Baltimore's CityLit Project.

The book comes out for National Poetry Month. Here is the press release, which includes the ISBN.

The final judge was poet, physician and all-around Renaissance man Michael Salcman. After the contest was over, Michael generously helped me to fine tune my manuscript. I feel blessed to call him a mentor. What a gift!

Michael is a master of ekphrastic poetry. Today, I'm sharing one of his "Eight Eakins Portraits" -- "Portrait of Walt Whitman." It appears in Michael's book, The Clock Made of Confetti (which has a lovely series of ekphrastic poems).

PORTRAIT OF WALT WHITMAN (1887-1888)

You see me now as the fierce friend of my final years
saw me; though he painted me resting, I'm  not at rest
my brain whirls with continents. My eyes are open,
thought death is limned in me like sweet drunkenness
and my cheeks remain ruddy. Around my head
and lips the gray hairs billow like wisps of smoke
or a final breath. On my shoulder, a flat collar flares
a white epaulet -- none owned by Falstaff nor painted
by Hals was ever finer though I'm hardly a gay toper
like them. Sorely vexed when first we met, he wrote
"My honors are misunderstanding, persecution and neglect,
enhanced because unsought." I think he caught me dreaming
of his resignation and bitterness; I never liked this likeness
much (not that I told him).

Posted with permission of the poet.

Don't you love how Whitman's "brain whirls with continents"?

If you're in the Baltimore area, mark April 17 on your calendar. It's the CityLit Festival  -- a day long, free event -- at the Enoch Free Pratt Library.

There are readings by poets, novelists, children's author Patrick O'Brien, and spoken word performers. The full line-up is here. In the afternoon, Michael Salcman is hosting a reading with me and Maryland Poet Laureate Stanley Plumly.

I hope you can make it! I'll need a big cheering section to calm my nerves.

Have a wonderful Poetry Friday, everyone. Our host is Becky at Becky's Book Reviews. Enjoy!

Get SPARKed!

I wish I could remember who sent me an email about "SPARK: art from writing, writing from art" so I could thank that person profusely.

SPARK is an online art and literary gallery. Every few months, Amy Souza pairs up artists with writers. Your partner sends you an "inspiration piece," and you send one to him/her. Those of you who read the blog know I'm a huge fan of ekphrastic poetry. Did I mention that you have 7-10 days to produce your new piece?! Yowza. Forget perfection. Just write (or paint).

I sent my partner, Virginia artist Judy Zatsick, a poem that's included in my chapbook, Mountain, Log, Salt and Stone. (My chapbook recently won the Clarinda Harriss Poetry Prize and is coming out for National Poetry Month, but more on that another time.)

Here is the inspiration piece I sent to Judy. Alongside is the companion painting she created for it, "Celadon Spring." Just wow.

The Listening of Plants

Laura Shovan

On the buffet where she kept her celadon dishes,

Mother placed a vase of pussy willows

hurried out of their branches.

The buds were cat toes walking up a mottled branch,

miniature koalas hanging on their eucalyptus

in a scattered line.

I snapped one off the twig and rolled the bud

on the flats of my thumb and finger,

its smoky gray coat how I imagined koala fur might feel.

I rubbed the willow bud along the bone of my jaw

wanting to know how a plant can wear animal skin.

It was too small, like touching nothing.

I splayed my hand along its curves,

felt the hairs rise in the divot of my palm.

I would have needed a sweater of willow to be satisfied.

Instead I slipped it into my ear. How did I know

a pussy willow was the right shape for the foyer of my ear,

long hall leading to the eardrum and the bones behind?

The bud rested there and I listened,

wanting to hear what it had to say

which was quiet, which was the muted listening of plants.

When I asked Mother to extract a pussy willow

from my ear, I couldn’t explain its presence

how I listened and heard its secret.

And here is the art that Judy sent me to SPARK my inspiration. It's called "Window to Her Soul." Since I crazy, I set myself a poetic challenge, a sestina inspired by the painting. The six repeating words are Oil (Judy's medium), Window, To, Her, Soul, and Words (my medium). You can find sestina rules here.

Window to Her Soul

after Judy Zatsick

Shadow of a blue dress moves like oil

on water.  Beyond the window,

I watch the cloud-curve of her spine press into

autumn woods, unaware of me. Her

shoulders rise up and curve, soul

stirring like a river. Her bones are made of words.

Her memories can’t be held by words.

They are slick as oil,

bent out of shape by the wind, rooting her soul

beneath the window-

less ground. Instead, her

mind sees colors. They are memory too.

The ground is on its side, to

blow its colors into the sky. Words

spin in the air. Orange, brown and beech call her,

leaves crisp with cold before they spoil

on the ground, blown against the window.

When she rakes them, it quiets her soul.

She is barefoot and the soles

of her feet press leaves flat, two

eyes underneath her -- two windows

that need no words --

tell her leaf, crunch, smooth. Colors like oils

pressed from tubes she carries with her.

Why do I sit and watch her?

She’s nothing special – just another soul

kept upright by muscle, oxygen -- the blood’s oil.

Should I invite her inside to

share a few words?

Should I open my window?

The leaves kick up again – it’s the wind. Oh,

I know I won’t call her.

If I spoke, the words

would break something, stop her soul’s

press into nature. Maybe I should go too,

walk in the woods, feel my feet on the soil.

Is this the window to my soul,

watching her blue dress fade into

an autumn palette of words, paper and oil?

Laura Shovan

Happy Poetry Friday, everyone! Our  host this week is Danika at Teaching Net. Next week, I'll post more poems by my Northfield Elementary third graders. We're getting ready for their Poets Tea on Friday.