Sunday, December 7, 2014

Called Back

Here's a poem from Emily Dickinson:

Called Back

Just lost when I was saved!
Just felt the world go by!
Just girt me for the onset with eternity,
When breath blew back,
And on the other side
I heard recede the disappointed tide!
Therefore, as one returned, I feel,
Odd secrets of the line to tell!
Some sailor, skirting foreign shores,
Some pale reporter from the awful doors
Before the seal!
Next time, to stay!
Next time, the things to see
By ear unheard,
Unscrutinized by eye.
Next time, to tarry,
While the ages steal, —
Slow tramp the centuries,
And the cycles wheel.


I found out later that  "Called Back" is what's engraved on her tombstone.


 

To some women, it means being called back after a mammogram.  That’s a frightening call-back.

 

In Emily’s poem, it seems to me that the speaker feels she had a near-death experience, and has been called back from the doorstep of the land of the dead.  Next time, she says, she’ll go over the threshold.

 

I feel that way about three events in my life:

The first one was a near-car-crash with my two college classmates back in 1972.

The second was the heart attack I had in 2005.

The third was the cancer diagnosis and treatment back in 2009.

Like Emily , I think the next time I’ll cross the threshold.  But not any time soon!

 

I am thinking of this because my poet friend Claudia Emerson crossed the threshold this past week. She was only 57.  She died of invasived colon cancer that metasized to her brain.  She was a gifted poet who won the Pulitzer Prize in 2006 for her book  Late Wife.    I met her in 2011 at the AWP Conference in Washington DC.   I’ve been corresponding with her on Facebook since then, especially in this past year as she struggled with the cancer and the cancer treatments.
 
Here she is at Emily Dickinson's house in Amherst, next to Emily's white dress.
 

She’s a big loss to the poetry community, and to all who loved her.

 

 

Another long space between entries.

 

It snowed here the day before Thanksgiving.  This is the view from my window.


Much has happened . Do I always say this?

I have applications or plans for four poetry things:

·          applied to the Collegeville Institute’s summer poetry workshop;

·          registered for the conference on the Future of the Catholic Literary Imagination in Los Angeles in February ( and got the funding to go);

·         Applied for a scholarship to the Jersey Poetry Getaway ( won’t know until Dec. 20)

·         Sent a chapbook manuscript to Finishing Line Press

 

I enjoy the looking-forward part of this.

 

As the semester winds down, I have been immersed in grading papers for my three classes. One set done, and the other two are in process.

 

I gave a poetry reading at my University on November 20.  The room was packed with students and colleagues. Everyone seemed to enjoy it.  I enjoyed it too.

 

I went to see some great student drama performances at my university.  I’m not much for going out to things that start at 8PM on weeknights, but I went to this , and was so glad I did.

We had an Open House on the day after Thanksgiving in my local community , which has been beautifully renovated.  A much better way to spend Black Friday!

 

On Tuesday, December 2, I drove to Washington DC after my classes to attend a poetry reading in celebration of 25 years of Image Magazine.  It was held at Busboys and Poets – a marvelous place!
 
Busboys and Poets at 14th and V streets... their front room.
 
 

Greg Wolfe, founder of Image, was there and introduced the poets who read.
 
 
Jennifer Atkinson reading. I'm sitting in the lower left corner.
 
 
Socializing after the reading. Rod Jellema is seated, facing forward. I'm in the background, with one of my Sisters.
 
 

Three of my friends went with me, and we had a great time. I saw a number of poet friends there, too.

I stayed overnight then at our Sisters’ House at Providence Hospital.  Can’t do that night time drive back to Emmitsburg in the pouring rain.

Yesterday, I drove to Baltimore ( there and back in the pouring rain) to do a reading/signing at the Parkville Bookworm. 
 
 
 My poet friend Mike Maggio and three other writers also participated. We were almost the only ones there except for three of my “Seton girls”, former students whom I taught almost 40 years ago, with  whom I love to visit.  The little bookstore there has only been in operation eight months and it’s a venture that needs a lot of love and care and tending if it is to succeed.


 
The young woman who owns and operates it still has a lot to do to spruce it up and organize it.  I am itching to make a project of it: to volunteer there and donate five or six book cases and a number of posters, and get those used books out of plastic tubs and on shelves, among many other things. But it’s an hour’s drive away, and I don’t see how I can get on it.

 

Sigh.  Back to paper grading.
 
 

Monday, November 10, 2014

Book Readings and Signings

My new book, Reconnaissance, arrived in very early October.   It looks wonderful!

I gave a reading at the Holy Grounds Café in Emmitsburg on October 16:



Then, this past week on November 6, I gave a reading at the Curious Iguana, an independent bookstore in Frederick MD.  In this photo I am with a woman who was my student back in 1990!



in the meantime, an old boyfriend ( and I mean from way back ... my date for my senior prom!) posted this photo of my on my Facebook page for "Throwback Thursday". This was taken when he visited me in Baltimore in 1971:



I had never seen that photo before.  How my looks have changed in over forty years.

In the meantime, what else has happened?

We moved into our newly renovated quarters in our "convent" - though not a convent, a local community home.   My bedroom is twice the size of the old one, and has a wonderful view. The tree outside is in all its Autumn glory:

Tuesday, October 7, 2014

New Book!

After more than a month of silence...

My seventh book of poetry, Reconnaissance, was published on September 26. 

People tell me I'm very prolific, but this book was accepted for publication in 2009, and finally is here.
The back story:
My friend and fellow poet Palmer Hall, publisher of Pecan Grove Press in San Antonio, accepted it in 2009.  He had a large backlog of books waiting for publication, so he told me it would come out in 2011. Very sadly, in the meantime he was diagnosed with lung cancer, and after a long grueling treatment, he died in February 2013.  Besides mourning his loss, I realized I had to find a new publisher.

But between 2009 and 2014, I have been revising this manuscript.

Finally, early in 2014, Valerie Fox from Texture Press accepted it.  It's a very interesting process these days, with everything digitized and travelling through the spheres. Valerie teaches at Drexel University in Philadelphia. Susan Nash is the managing editor of Texture Press, and lives in Norman, Oklahoma. Arlene Ang, the designer of the book and the cover, lives in Italy.  And here I am, in the wilds of Maryland, collaborating with these brilliant and marvelous women to produce this book.

One of the inspirations for the book is the art of Rene Magritte.  In particular, his painting " La Reconnaissance Infinie" inspired the title of the book.



So when I showed this painting to Arlene, and she read my manuscript, she came up with this cover:


I loved it right away, because it incorporates the binoculars, the Magritte sky, and the fly from my poem  "Like the eyes of Insects".

I have to leave this and go to teach my class, but hope to return much sooner than the last entry.

Saturday, September 6, 2014

Fledglings

Another long space of silence here.  No excuses.

Last Saturday morning, I was in my garden doing a little weeding, and then tying up a few of the branches of the butterfly bushes; three of them all growing together.  Behind them is an enormous Pokeweed plant - easily seven feet tall - which I welcomed, since the birds love its deep purple berries in the autumn. In fact, they are already showing.

Anyway... something flew right by me, almost into me , and into the nearest butterfly bush. It was a fledgling Catbird.  I was so glad to see him/her; haven't had the Catbird visiting my window lately, and thought the family was gone. It seems they prefer the fruit of that Pokeweed, because the young one was squawking for the parent, who showed up very shortly. 

not my photo, but looked just like this:


wonderful closeup view.

Then, the very next day, I was working in my bedroom and suddenly heard a loud crash into my bedroom window.  Definitely a bird strike.  I went down three flights of steps, out to my garden, and was dismayed to see black and white striped wings spread out and flattened on the ground.  A fledgling Red-bellied Woodpecker.  But not dead!  I touched him/her and he was warm, and moved under my hand.  I folded the wings into the body, and picked him up.  Heart was beating strong and steady, bird feet curled around my finger, and eyes open and blinking together.  Hopefully, this guy was just stunned.  I savored the minutes I held him- what a privilege- spoke quietly to him and wished him well, and placed him a little further along on a clear space in the garden. He sat up - another good sign.  Sure enough, when I checked an hour later, he was gone.


also not my photo, but he looked just like this.

Wednesday, August 13, 2014

On Robin Williams and Depression




In the day since his death, Robin Williams has been mourned and eulogized all over the internet, and probably in conversations all over the country. I can’t add anything, really, except that his death makes me think about clinical depression.  This illness has many sources, some of them chemical and genetic, some of them environmental.  It’s an illness just as much as diabetes is an illness. However, most of us don’t view it the same way we view diabetes.  Don’t say that’s because diabetes isn’t dangerous and potentially lethal, because it certainly is.

Depression runs in my family, on both sides. It has led to three suicides: an uncle on my mother’s side,  and two cousins on my father’s side.  All three of those relatives were men, and all three shot themselves.  Perhaps they would still be alive if they hadn’t had guns.  Perhaps not.  It is a great mystery. I’d venture to say that many more relatives have suffered from at least occasional depression, including my father and mother.  Including myself. 

 
Depression seems to be an occupational hazard for comedians, and also for novelists and poets. It’s a great mystery.  

We really do need to pay attention to the signs of clinical depression in friends and family members.
  • Fatigue or loss of energy almost every day
  • Feelings of worthlessness or guilt almost every day
  • Impaired concentration, indecisiveness
  • Insomnia or hypersomnia (excessive sleeping) almost every day
  • Markedly diminished interest or pleasure in almost all activities nearly every day (called anhedonia, this symptom can be indicated by reports from significant others)
  • Restlessness or feeling slowed down
  • Recurring thoughts of death or suicide
  • Significant weight loss or gain (a change of more than 5% of body weight in a month)


I just read this insightful essay by Dick Cavett on the subject, and I’m pasting it here:




Dick Cavett: Robin Williams Won’t Be the Last Suicidal Star

Robin Williams will not be the last cherished performer to be snatched from our midst by depression and suicide.
It’s a melancholy fact that what a musician friend calls “the real blues,” and Churchill called “the Black Dog,” seem to have a much too close affinity to a performer’s life. Depression seems to stalk the lively arts like Jack the Ripper, accompanied by depression’s hand-maiden, suicide.
No one I know claims to know why.

Is there something in the brain chemistry of the actor/performer that produces this woeful result?

I could fill this page and another with the names of famous and less so actors, comics, and musicians who live miserably — and die — in association with that demon of a hound.
And booze is the favored self-treatment. Not surprising, because you will feel a little better, for a bit — but it’s a costly temporary reprieve, since alcohol is a depressant of the central nervous system.
I guarantee you that thousands, hearing of Robin’s death, asked how he could do it when he had everything: fame, wealth, adulation, family love. And another supposed insulator against the worst of the blues, plenty of work. No combination of those adds up to insurance. And the hectic, nerve-wracking ups and downs of fortune in show business are, of course, a major factor for emotional disequilibrium.
You yourself may have thought, “How could he do this to his wife and kids?” Easy. Because what’s been called the worst agony devised for man doesn’t allow you to feel any emotion for kids, spouses, lovers, parents … even your beloved dog. And least of all for yourself.
I know Robin knew this. His death recalled a moment with him years ago in a small club. He came off stage after bringing a cheering audience to its feet. “Isn’t it funny how I can bring great happiness to all these people,” he said. “But not to myself.”
The non-actor has a major advantage because it’s harder to hide the symptoms. The actor knows how to act. To play having fun. Too often it’s “He was the life of the party that night. And then he went home and…”
Robin and I agreed once that it’s galling to hear — when you’re “in it” — the question: “What have you got to be depressed about?” The great British actor and comedian, Stephen Fry, a fellow-sufferer, replies “And what have you got to have asthma about?”
Robin, like his idol Jonathan Winters, must have had one of the world’s hardest talents with which to live and retain personal balance. Sitting next to him on my old PBS show was like sitting in the Macy’s barge next to the fireworks going off. He was at full, manic, comic frenzy for an hour without let-up. (We even improvised a short Shakespeare play together, with and without rhymed couplets.) I caught his manic energy. It was exhilarating. And exhausting.
When it ended, I was wet and spent. It took him a while to come (partially) down, and I thought, “Can this be good for anyone? Can you be able to do all these rapid-fire personality changes and emerge knowing who you yourself are?
But can any of us really see ourselves? I was unable to watch a show I did with Laurence Olivier while I was virtually blinded with depression. I told Marlon Brando I could never watch it, knowing I’d look dead, slow, and stupid. “Do me a favor,” he said. “Watch it.” I made myself watch. I looked fine. My eyes were bright and the silences I recalled were gone.
I called Brando and I asked him what explained that. “Automatic pilot. We all get by on it when the clouds roll in. Too bad they roll back in when the performance ends and you get back under the bed.”
This will not brighten the picture: I said to a brilliant psychopharmacologist recently that there must be a lot of progress and new medications since I suffered depression back in the ’70s. The answer: “No, we’re really not making much progress I’m afraid.”
Some day, will some chemical link be found between great, great performing talent and susceptibility to that awful conqueror of the talented performer?
Are the gods jealous? Do they cruelly envy the greatly gifted and, in the classic Greek manner, smite them low?
The somewhat grim answer: We’d better enjoy them while we can.
Dick Cavett   on Time.com  Aug.12  


Tuesday, August 12, 2014

Santa Fe and the Turquoise Trail

I made it into Santa Fe only three times during my stay at Glen West: on Tuesday, when I took the bus in from the college and wandered about on my own all afternoon; on Friday, when my friends from home who now live there came and took me out to dinner; on Sunday, when the Shuttle bus picked up its other passengers on the way back to Albuquerque.   It wasn't nearly enough time, but here are some photos from the Tuesday trip:
I'm standing beside the statue of St.Kateri Tekakwitha, in front of Saint Francis Cathedral.

interior of the Cathedral   photo by Greg Friedman

screen behind the altar in the Cathedral    photo by Greg Friedman












On Sunday, our shuttle bus back to Albuquerque took an alternate route. Seems that Interstate 25 was closed due to a traffic pileup, so our driver went via the Turquoise Trail - the Scenic Route:

photo from yoelknits.blogspot.com


Golden Mission , Madrid NM from phunnyfarm.blogspot.com


photo from codytheclydesdale.blogspot.com


Garden of the Gods near Cerrillos NM   photo by galenbeck.de


It was a breathtaking ride !



Thursday, August 7, 2014

More from the Glen West Workshop

The weather cleared up, and we've had just beautiful days and nights.  The quality of the air, dry and cool, delights me.  The campus looks like an Old West town to me, but more dressed up: simple yet elegant, and built right into the hills.

Outside the student center is a wonderful pond filled with Koi, and framed with evergreen trees and bushes. I watched a hummingbird catching bugs , darting in and out of the branches of one of the trees.

This morning, three of my classmates and I went birding on one of the hiking trails on the campus.
We saw House Finches, Spotted Towhees, Scrub Jays, Robins, a Red-Shafted Flicker,and heard Goldfinches. Many other birds were in there, in the thickets. We even saw a Raven.  The highlight for me , among the many hummingbirds darting around, was a Rufous Hummingbird, the sun glinting on his brillant rusty throat.

Lots of wildflowers, too, though I don't have photos of them, just these columbines:


The classes, talks, and worship services have also been great.  I have learned many things to help me with my poetry.  Will try to go into those in another entry.




Monday, August 4, 2014

Monday at Glen West

The view this morning from the terrace on the second floor of the Peterson Student Center ; it's more dramatic in the early evening when the sun is shining on that mountain and valley.

We began our workshops today.  Here are a few things I noted down from Scott Cairns' observations:
What makes a poem a poem?
... the poetic operation of language
... the opacity of words ... mirroring and mystery...
your own image is implicated in that.

...word-conscious opacity... musicality  ( I almost wrote muscatelity!)
... the shape a word makes in your mouth...
entering into a conversation that's been going on for centuries...

If you read a poem once and you're done with it, it's not a poem.

The English language: the ghosts of so many other languages in this museum...

A word is a thing and it DOES things...

...words that trouble...
The clarity yields its enormity...

Through much of the three hours of discussion and workshop, I realize I have left my poems, so many of them, too soon.

He read us Wallace Stevens' masterpiece  "The Idea of Order at Key West" ---a poem that he returns to again and again, year after year:

The Idea of Order at Key West

by Wallace Stevens

She sang beyond the genius of the sea.   
The water never formed to mind or voice,   
Like a body wholly body, fluttering
Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion   
Made constant cry, caused constantly a cry,   
That was not ours although we understood,   
Inhuman, of the veritable ocean.

The sea was not a mask. No more was she.   
The song and water were not medleyed sound   
Even if what she sang was what she heard,   
Since what she sang was uttered word by word.
It may be that in all her phrases stirred   
The grinding water and the gasping wind;   
But it was she and not the sea we heard.

For she was the maker of the song she sang.   
The ever-hooded, tragic-gestured sea
Was merely a place by which she walked to sing.   
Whose spirit is this? we said, because we knew   
It was the spirit that we sought and knew   
That we should ask this often as she sang.

If it was only the dark voice of the sea   
That rose, or even colored by many waves;   
If it was only the outer voice of sky
And cloud, of the sunken coral water-walled,   
However clear, it would have been deep air,   
The heaving speech of air, a summer sound   
Repeated in a summer without end
And sound alone. But it was more than that,   
More even than her voice, and ours, among
The meaningless plungings of water and the wind,   
Theatrical distances, bronze shadows heaped   
On high horizons, mountainous atmospheres   
Of sky and sea.
                      It was her voice that made   
The sky acutest at its vanishing.   
She measured to the hour its solitude.   
She was the single artificer of the world
In which she sang. And when she sang, the sea,   
Whatever self it had, became the self
That was her song, for she was the maker. Then we,   
As we beheld her striding there alone,
Knew that there never was a world for her   
Except the one she sang and, singing, made.

Ramon Fernandez, tell me, if you know,   
Why, when the singing ended and we turned   
Toward the town, tell why the glassy lights,   
The lights in the fishing boats at anchor there,   
As the night descended, tilting in the air,   
Mastered the night and portioned out the sea,   
Fixing emblazoned zones and fiery poles,   
Arranging, deepening, enchanting night.

Oh! Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon,   
The maker’s rage to order words of the sea,   
Words of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred,   
And of ourselves and of our origins,
In ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds.
 A cloud in the sky above our building here this morning.

This afternoon, it's chilly and raining.  I'm hoping for a clearing, though they do need the rain.



Saturday, August 2, 2014

Off to Santa Fe!

Early tomorrow morning I'll drive to the Baltimore Washington airport and fly out to Albuquerque and then take a shuttle to Santa Fe.  I'm attending the Glen West Workshop all week.  I've been yearning to go to this since 2001, when my poet friend Kate Daniels was there and told me about it.
Finally going!    I plan/hope to post photos and thoughts about it through the week.

Here's the website information:

http://glenworkshop.com/west/






Sunday, July 20, 2014

Convent Culture 4 : the Annual Retreat

statue of St. Louise de Marillac, outside the wing where I live




Convent Culture 4 : the Annual Retreat

This requirement is one that we all embrace.  Eight days of silence and prayer! Perhaps the extroverts get itchy by the end of it, but we introverts just revel in it.  My congregation prefers us to make the retreat with other community members, so it has a theme and focus related to our charism. I’ve been doing this for , I’d say, 34 out of the 35 retreats I’ve made. Many years it was in Princeton, New Jersey, at the Vincentians’ retreat place, but that closed, regretfully. I loved it there. The retreat planners set up retreats around the calendar and at retreat places around our large province. Last year, I was in Louisiana; the year before, Syracuse NY. This year I was set to go to our campus in Evansville Indiana. It’s a wonderful place to make retreat, and for me, a birder’s paradise.  But I got sick on June 28 and was sick for almost three weeks, and then, recovering. So I cancelled the trip to Evansville and made a private retreat right here at home. Very delightful and peaceful. 
I gardened every morning. The weather went from hot and humid to cool and dry – amazing for July in Emmitsburg.  I finally got the upper hand over the weeds and used the entire mountain of mulch, so the garden looks the best it has in about four years. Maybe longer!

 Lamb's Ears, Lilies of the Valley, Daylilies, Hosta, Sunflower, etc.

Asiatic Lily and Bee Balm


I read James Martin’s book Jesus – a Pilgrimage. It’s a combination of Scripture, History, Geography, Martin’s narrative of what he saw and felt on a pilgrimage to Israel. 





I prayed, went to a late Mass every day, and slept every afternoon.  Crazy as it is, it reminded me of the part in The Nun’s Story when Sister Luke has TB in the Congo, and lives in a tree house for months as she takes the TB treatments. All I needed was Peter Finch and a monkey.


"The Nun's Story"  1959 film with Audrey Hepburn and Peter Finch. Taken from the novel by Katherine Hulme.  One of my favorite novels and films from my childhood.


I fasted from Facebook, but checked my email. I  communed with the birds who visited my windowsill feeders. The hummingbirds emptied the little feeder twice a day.






The eight days went along at a wonderful pace.
Now I’m back, trying to write some poetry.