Weather or Not...


I spent Saturday building a snowman and will spend today building an ark. We went from Winter Wonderland to the Seattle Special, which is rain rain and more rain. People joke about the NW and say that it's really sunny here. Yes, we have beautiful blue skies, we have weeks in a row of gorgeousness, but when it rains, it's intense.

Our winters can be grey and wet. They are grey and wet. Right now, I have my car parked in Lake Garage. Our fish pond is almost spilling over. Rivers of children are rushing down my street. We smell of wet wool. Now we must watch for falling trees, their roots are resting in a flooded ground, so down they will come.

But back to Saturday. I spend the day sledding, drinking hot chocolate with whipped cream and a Hershey mini bar tucked in the white cloud. We watched Mr. Bean's Holiday. I loved how all my unraked leaves disappeared under a neat white sheet. I put on a Santa hat. I thought that the idea of building a snowman is always much more fun than the actual building of a snowman. We sat by the fire. We counted snowflakes.

And now all the snow is pouring into Puget Sound. Wet wet wet. But what I love is that I can stay inside and do nothing and feel good about it. I can write, sleep, read, and there's nowhere I need to be and who'd want to drive in this? I can turn on my space heater, have a snack, a cup of coffee, and watch the water rise.

Poetry News?

Nothing here. Some friends and I are getting together this week to have a "submission party." Basically, we're each bringing information about 6 journals (or more) we'd like to submit to, some poems, some envelopes, some SASEs, some cover letters, and off they go.

I've never been crazy about submitting poems, though I know it's "part of the job." Otherwise, I'd just be journaling. And it's easier to submit with friends, with tea and coffeecake.

I've done this once before. I ended up with a poem in the Atlanta Review from that experience.

Speaking of which, I just received the issue it appears in and there's a wonderful poem by Edward D. Nudelman that I opened to. What's funny, is that when I first started reading this poem, I expected not to like it--a poem about writing poem--but by the end, I was won over. And I think that's what a good poem can do, win the reader over. Anyway, I think it's quite wonderful.

Here it is:

The Wrong Poem

I want to start the poem:
She walks across the room
like a subtle cloud that forms
from the rising waters of my need,

but the poem begins like this:
She stands and stares
with both hands
on their respective hips.

I want the poem to include
this line:
As we slip together
into one long fall of fury,
our bodies move weightless
succumbing only to the death
of our own vainglory,

but this one keeps cropping up:
Still you say you need
much more than I can give,
and I keep saying
you’re probably right.

I’m hoping the poem
will sound likes it’s written
in French
or even Portuguese,
but I’m getting a distinct
lower east side vibe.
A perfect closing to the poem
I’m writing would be:
And then she blesses the Adam
of my apple with her Eden kiss,

but it looks like the poem
is going to end with
me saying:
You have an inflated view
of your self worth,
and as for me,
I’ve got my own problems.


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