Poetry Postcard 18

It was a busy poetry weekend. The latest issue of Little Patuxent Review went on sale Saturday, launched with a fabulous contributors' reading. I love these events. As editor, I get to stay behind the scenes and cheer on all of the readers.

The Winter 2013 issue, Doubt, features
a Renaissance masterpiece on the cover.

This issue is tight (apologies for the slang). And it includes a piece Poetry Friday by blogger Irene Latham. You can purchase a copy at the LPR website.

Sunday, it was my turn to read. About seven of us were featured at Baltimore's Watermark Gallery, there was prose and poetry. Thanks to Eric Goodman, Manzar (who owns the gallery) and co-host Nitin Jagdish (fellow NYU grad -- go Violets!) for putting together such a great variety of readers.

My love of purple teams goes back
to my NYU days. (Go Ravens!)

Although I'd printed poems for the reading -- two from my book, several postcard poems -- Manzar mentioned the poet Rumi in her art-talk. I had a postcard poem "after Rumi" sitting in my Dropbox folder. Which meant it was on my phone. I've never read from my phone before. I leave that to younger, hipper folks like the Word Pimp. But it went pretty well.

The postcard poems were well received. It's great to get so much positive feedback on the project.

Today, I have an antique tourist postcard:

I have never been to Germany, so I had to do a little research. The Drosselhof is a wine tavern on the Drosselstrasse, a street well-known to tourists for its music and taverns. You can pay a virtual visit to the Drosselhof, which has a website.

Still, I didn't have enough to go on. Until I learned that one translation for Drosselstrasse is "Thrush Lane."

I'd had an encounter with a little bird, maybe a thrush, in the early fall. At the time, it seemed too ordinary an experience to write about. Birds often crashed into my grandmother's glass breezeway when I was a child. Some survived, some didn't.

http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Song_Thrush_on_Flickr.jpg

I don't know why the postcard made this bird-story work as a poem. Perhaps what is working is the habit of writing a poem nearly every day. Or not  feeling like I have to knock one out of the ballpark every time I sit down to write.

As you will see, it's apropos to post this poem after such a busy weekend. 

Thrush Lane

That thump

on our glass door –

a thrush. It let me

scoop it whole

into my palm,

stroke its

dappled breast,

make it calm.

I spoke to it

of taverns

crowding

the Drosselgasse

with song.

The thrush replied,

Tut-tut,

oh-lay oh-lee,

chortling

to the quiet

afternoon.
by Laura Shovan

Postcard Information:

Rüdesheim – Drosselhof

Reproduction und Druck: Wödicke & Gemberg, Berlin

Verlag C. A. Stachelscheid – Düseeldorf, Pressehaus – Bestell-Nr. 010

I sent this card and poem to Poetry Friday blogger, Susan Taylor Brown. Susan is a bird-lover and photographer, so she's talented all around. Several weeks ago, Susan sent me two original photo-postcards of birds for the project. I thought she'd enjoy "Thrush Lane."

I have used a bird-call website for a couple of poems now. It's a cool site for bird enthusiasts. You can find it at Birdjam.com.


We had another bird encounter this fall. My husband, Rob, discovered a little bird, maybe a wren, stuck in our bathroom fan. 

Can you see the bird's tail on the left?

The bird was so wedged in the fan blades, we were sure it was dead. But my handy husband removed the fan from the ceiling and the little thing was alive, just very squished. 

Almost free!

We had to break the fan to get the bird loose, expecting its wing to be broken. But the bird flew for the evergreens the moment we popped the fan apart. Now I know what it means to make a beeline for something.

Tabatha (The Opposite of Indifference) and I were supposed to meet for lunch today, but Mother Nature had other plans. Still, I know Tabatha is thinking of me. She's featuring music-themed postcards at her blog today, including a band of creepy clowns.

National Poetry Month Issue 27

National Poetry Month is almost over.

Before we write an elegy for NPM 2011, I have four more Maryland poets I'd like you to meet.

First is Eric Goodman. Eric says he's more of a  fiction writer than a poet. Tracks, Eric's novel in stories, comes out in June.

Eric keeps a writing and Baltimore literary events blog, Writeful and helps run a local readings series, Lit and Art at the Watermark.

A veteran of the slush pile, Eric sent me a group of poems with an acknowledgment that they might not make it past a first reading. All experience writers have been there.

In the poem I chose for today, Eric Goodman draws a contrast between how we feel when we're embarking on the writing life -- filled with exuberance and, hopeful confidence in our talent -- and how we feel when reality, or even just maturity, sets in. 

Finding an audience for our writing takes effort. Submitting work to journals, agents and publishers takes more faith than we have some days.

Do you feel lucky, poet?

Even if you don't, take a second, like the speaker in "Submission to a Student Journal" to remember that initial spark.

Submission to a Student Journal

(from a writer who’s burning out)

by Eric Goodman

You don’t know me

yet

but someday you will.

I know you

like the crow’s feet by my eyes—

You with your geyser talent

spewing young faithful words

that burn.

Inspired lines cool off,

dry up,

soak into the earth of age and detachment.

It gets harder.

Not the writing—holding on to the belief that your words matter in

a world with

one hundred thousand writers.

There used to be a show about old people

called Thirtysomething.

You’re too young to remember it

but I can’t get it out of my mind.

I attend the college reading

celebrating another literary journal that has

rejected me.

I try to mingle

but find apprehension in your eyes.

I’m out-of-place.

The young writer is suddenly not.

I shake your hand and want to cling to it, to

hold it until you understand,

until you can feel what I feel and know what it means to be one in

a hundred thousand writers.

On the way to my car

I see the man wearing his sign:

Will write for by-line.

The reflection fades.

I’m parked on the fifth floor.

I make twice as many circles as I descend,

words spinning in my head

as I search for

a poem

you’ll

take.

Published with permission of the author.

Writing Exercise (This one's for adults):

"Submission to a Student Journal" is a rant from an older, longtime writer who's feeling jaded. The student-editor he addresses in this poem seems like an earlier version of himself -- a geyser talent burning with words that have since cooled for our speaker.

In this exercise, let the twenty-something or teenage writer in you respond to the older author.

I am picturing myself in my NYU days. What if 40-something-poet me walked in to the student cabaret where we wrote, performed and directed short shows? What would 20-something me think of her and where she is in her writing life?

Funnily enough, I'm heading to the Blackbird Festival at Howard Community College today. HCC does have a student art/lit journal that takes outside submissions. If you're interested, check out The Muse.