Finals.

Today I had my final cultural criticism class. It was the last I’ll have with one of my graduating friends; she’s been waiting for the end to happen and here it is. Even though the class has now ended, I still feel as though there is so much I need to learn.

In a turn of events, today I went to the library with my elementary companion. Her mom has tried to convince us to go to the library but we always go to a cafe instead. I personally don’t care where we go because I can do my work either way. Per usual, child stole my phone about five times every ten minutes to see what time it was.

When I picked her up from school I had two library books in my hand; Lost City Radio by Daniel Alarcón, and Buzz by Hallie Leiberman. The latter book was about the history of sex toys. “What books do you have?” she asked. I told her about the war one. She wanted to see the second. “It’s not for a ten-year-old,” I say, then I continue. “Do you want to see it?” I ask, because I didn’t want to completely shut her down. She had no idea what the book was about and the subject went right over her head. Crisis averted, I thought, sighing with relief on the inside.I often wonder if everything I say is susceptible to being questioned, prompting her to ask “Mom, what’s a…?”   Kids are so malleable. It’s weird. They are kind of like eggs.
I’ve since returned the book.

I just finished Women by Chloe Caldwell. In some reviews, readers swallowed the text in one sitting. I read the book in bits and pieces, frequently revisiting passages that moved me. I absorbed the rawness of Caldwell’s rocky relationship with a woman who had a girlfriend, which only made a complicated, beautiful mess. The two spend time together and fall in love. Then, they fall out of it, but not without pain. It’s a great freakin’ book.

‘Til next time. I will probably post about the books I got for Christmas…

The Manhattan Review

I chose this magazine from McNally Jackson because of course I would. You’re sick of me saying that because by now you know there’s only about two places I go to buy literary magazines. As noted above, this one’s called The Manhattan Review. Published annually, the magazine was founded by Philip Fried in 1980; Fried is also the editor of the publication. 

Admittedly, I skimmed a great deal of these poems because some of them were very dense. It doesn’t help that I read late at night. I don’t claim a poem to be dense because I just don’t feel like reading, but because the poems and subjects just don’t seem to strike anything in me. The ones I enjoyed most were in the very beginning, by an author named Irena Klepfisz. “Her Birth: Warsaw 1941” was my particular favorite of the two. It’s about a child born to parents who don’t want a child. “The baby just wouldn’t die (to spite them all inside and out).” The child is referred in the beginning with the pronoun “it,” which later shifts to “she,” after the father expresses his love for her. “But then the father changed/so changed/oh so changed/and began to love it.” But then, she gets taken away. The poem is about abandonment but paints the girl as headstrong and unmoved. I’m terrible with history, but I’m pretty sure this poem is about the Holocaust, given the date and the nature of the family’s separation. Stylistically, the breaks between the words in a singular line felt like the speaker was gasping or pleading for something, maybe to live.

Yesterday I went to a “de-stressing” event at school (even though I feel distressed) that entailed painting and poetry. I read two pieces, both of which I submitted to Aphros around a month ago. I liked painting and listening but it only took my mind off of the endless roster of assignments I have for a little while.

The literary magazine at the American University of Paris has a deadline of December 20; I have to remember to send something in to them.

Currently I’m at a point where I’m exerting as much energy as possible, but I feel like it’s not enough. There’s so much I need to do but my schoolwork has me in a bind and I can’t focus on anything else. The end of the semester is near and so is my level of caring. I’ve chosen to write essays for a few of my classes and those take a lot of thought. I haven’t written a new poem in a while and the latest jot will be subject to heavy edits without mercy.  I want to get to a place where I can absorb and write a satisfying poem again. It’s difficult.

American Poets

“Unlike writing, life never finishes.” – Robert Lowell

This week I picked up a magazine from Housing Works called American Poets. The publication is a journal of the Academy of American Poets and has been in print since 1996. I read it while sitting in a cafe near Chinatown, my charge beside me. Her dance class didn’t start until about 5:15, so we were trying to pass the time. I showed her some of my poems; of all the complex work I have, this amuses her the most. “I like the one about oatmeal, and chocolate chips,” she said, or something akin to this. Of course, the poems weren’t about oatmeal or chocolate chips. These were symbols. She then commented that I would be a good mother one day. I melted. Three mints and fifty-something minutes later, I took her off to dance. Although my writing intrigues her, everything I read seems to bore her. There’s an adultish density she can’t wrap her mind around.

Maybe what I write feels more accessible? Maybe because she knows me? I don’t know.

American Poets runs profiles and submissions of up-and-coming poets who take a very traditional approach to the genre (read: they are not Rupi Kaur.) I read about “Dear Poet,” a project that ran during National Poetry Month this year (it’s in March, how suitable because it’s my birth month), which involved students from the fifth to twelfth grades sending letters to poets whose work influenced them.  Both the poet and the student shared a communication poetry offers and bonded between the messages within.

Some of the poems were dense; I found myself attempting to browse the publication casually only to be thrown by the thickness of metaphors and imagery that I just couldn’t quite image. One poem I really enjoyed was called Pleasure, by Katie Peterson. It’s about love and being wrapped up in somebody and getting lost. She mentions bodies of water, and smooth cake frosting. I don’t quite know how cake frosting fits, but I do know what she means by “now is the right time to cut up your shirt” (is that not just the sexiest line ever?). I’m in love with the tone I imagine it being read in. Smooth.

After my first class today, I was talking to my professor about the trajectory of my eventual career as a writer. I lamented the troubles of making a decision to either obtain an internship or take a class to fulfill the 18 credits I need to graduate next semester. I said something (kind of odd in retrospect) about how I can’t just wake up at 42 and be established or put together. It’ll take a lot of mornings.

‘Til next week.

 

 

 

 

Kinky Aphros

“Motherfuckin’ goddamn/I’m really sick of this,” Wayne Patrick

Last week on one of my many visits to the English floor I stumbled across a 1993 copy of Aphros, the Pace literary magazine. I was prompted to pick it up as its black cover with an undetectable design intrigued me. I took the thin book home over break to thumb through its contents, digging deeper into the minds of writers full of nineties angst.

I first submitted to Aphros when I was a freshman at Pace; I was met with rejection then and as a sophomore. The following year the publication accepted one of my poems called “Laundry List.” I fully understand that any publication has a specific voice and my poems will not necessarily fit. It probably also helped that I knew one of the editors of the publication. Of all poems they took, they took the one about sex. It’s worth noting that  my submission also included a poem about God and prayer. Go figure!

The critique that follows is not on the publication itself but the tone of the issue. In Volume #33, some of the poems felt very stiff and pretentious because it felt as though some authors were trying to put on a voice and it just wasn’t quite working. And I’ve frequently thought that my critique would be out of place or wrong, as I have contributed to the most recent editions, but nonetheless, here’s my take.

In “Autumn Epiphany #1” (I wonder what the second one is?)  Marley Gonzalez writes, “So that one glass of cabernet sauvignon and an icy walk across the GW bridge can’t mean much when they’re her bedsheets you wrinkle night after night.” She continues, “But I’m 22 and not sure how much longer I’ll live.” Perhaps she’s heartbroken and feels used by the person who enchanted her with one walk and one glass of wine, but there’s a lot of those to be had if you’re only twenty two. I mean, the chances of death are high every day, simply by virtue of existing. You could get hit by a bus or drink too much hard liquor. These are all possibilities cuz you enter the world one way but can leave it several, you know? The chances of you dying at twenty two aren’t too likely. And of all wines, cabernet sauvignon? You’re twenty-two. Why not a mixed drink? The pretentiousness is in the wine, man. Go get a rum and coke and get over yourself.

Critique aside, one poem that really resonated with me was called “THEY ASK ME WHY I’M ANGRY!”. Its subject and imagery instantly put me in the mind of the Black Lives Matter movement. “Dodgers should be the name for all successful Black men/cuz all have to dodge the shit that is thrown at them,” Wayne Patrick declares in justified anger. The same is true even twenty-four years later; I feel as though I’m always hearing about another Black man who is shot and even in death does not have a decent word said in his memory; he’s always a drug dealer or he got bad grades, or was in the wrong neighborhood, whatever that means. It’s infuriating, but the poem is spot on. “Playing with the lives of young black males/ from a teenager up/ they’ll rough you up/they’ll set you up/they’ll fuck you up.”

YES.

 

Peaches and Schemes

Last Tuesday I went to a panel for the Women’s National Book Association that featured Alice Kessler-Harris, Blanche Wiesen Cook, Jamia Wilson, and Sarah Blackwood (my professor) as panelists.  They were discussing the challenges of being women in the world of literature. No one really showed up to the event, at least no one else from my class, but I was glad I went. When the panel was over my prof urged me to introduce myself to Wilson. I told her about my small origins. About this blog. Then I tried to follow her on Twitter but could’t find her, so I followed the organization instead.

That same day, I met the professor to discuss my overall writing woes. I always show up to class with three hundred to four hundred words for a draft when really we need a thousand as that’s the standard length for a review or critique, generally speaking. I described my writing process and my tendency to wait until the last minute, only to stress myself out. I’m convinced I have all the words in my head but when I go to write them down I judge myself and subtract from what’s already written. She reassured me it’s good I know my vices, and recommended I read Bird By Bird, a book by Anne Lamott. My friend Dana gave me her copy. I have yet to pick it up with all the assignments I have to complete.

This week’s poetic pick is The Broome Street Review. The issue is titled “Impeach,” a strong title for such a cool, creamy orange cover. TBSR started in April 2009 and had a run of seven issues over its eight year literary life until it folded in July 2017. This is the last issue. It was only ten dollars because I bought it at McNally Jackson (where else)? I read the poetry AND prose because the magazine is short. Joanna Howard’s “Relative Economy” was enjoyable and funny because she talks about capitalism and what she calls “the well-made argument.” The well-made argument is a defense for purchasing something totally overpriced. She wants to buy a wildly expensive British dress and consults her friend; to each other, they are “material deniers,” talking each other out of buying useless shit. Pleasure comes from denial almost, but it really doesn’t; in the end, she buys the dress.

A fair sum of the contributors have attended Brown University. Yes, I looked through and counted. Some contributors’ pieces I didn’t really like (not because they were from an Ivy school). But I was inspired to judge them harder; their merit was my motivation. I thought of this as I read “A New Math” by Tyrone Parks. “When you subtract the numbers and add the letters in place you find a new way of seeing things,” he wrote. This made me think of my dad. I feel like he’s worried about my pursuit of a BA in English, and what it can yield besides being a teacher. Like the poem, (and I fully realize this may only make sense in my head) when you take out all the technical bullshit of numbers and stuff, and put letters (which make words, and words equal the liberal arts), you can see things differently.  I wonder what the Brown contributors thought; why didn’t they go to Brown for engineering or science or something? Why English? Did words really rule over numbers for them, then?

A few weeks ago, my young friend was showing me a new math, a new way of doing long division. I nodded in agreement over her technique, half-listening and doing linguistics instead. Maybe math is her strong suit. Good for her—words, an equation in and of itself— are mine.

Near, But Not Dear

Man make madness/man play with fire/Man hang god from the telephone wire…

-Betsy Sallee

Last week, I went to Housing Works and landed on a thin zine titled No, Dear. I was intrigued by the title and the fierce look of the woman on its cover. It is not paginated and though short, it is aesthetically rich—the uneven, sewing-machined pages almost give a deckled-edge feel. You probably don’t care about all that. It feels very hipster-ish (the cover was printed in Williamsburg!) This is not to demote the content inside, which is important. My copy is the 35th out of 150, which is to say it is limited. Ain’t I special?

No, Dear was first published in 2008 and co-founded by Emily Brandt, Alex Cuff, Katie Moeller and Jane Van Slembrouck. The publication features writers in New York City. It is available in few bookstores around the city, and online as PDF files. The current issue is called Republic; that alone explains much of its politically heated content attesting to current issues. While some poems are political, some are not. Need I say some poems are inspired by the orange in office…

One poem I found intriguing was called “Every Day I Don’t Die Is a Near Miss.” On the surface, it can easily be about global warming. “It’s sixty degrees in November and only getting warmer,” Sallee opens. However, heat doesn’t simply describe the weather. It is metaphorical for people’s rage; against God, (rendered powerless with lowercasing the “g”), and against the violence ruining every good thing. The speaker is a lamb, innocent and peaceful. Afraid. Maybe death then serves as an outlet. It is the most prominent theme of the poem.

I’m also analyzing this magazine as a part of my Alternative Media and Literature course, but I thought it would be worth it to examine the more form-based analysis of the poems here. The class’s focus is on examining the role of alternative media against mainstream media. Alternative publications sought to bring a voice to lesser known identities and communities, giving them a presence in the face of underrepresentation. No, Dear is a perfect example of this.

In the class, we’re almost done reading Oreo, by Fran Ross. I’d say the book is probably one of my favorites because it is so damn funny. Based on Theseus, it is a parody of the Greek myth. The story follows a Black Jewish girl on a journey to NYC as she finds the secret of her birth from her estranged father. I  understand how the book ties into the “thesis” of the class (sort of), but I can already sense the disinterest many of my classmates have toward it. Some haven’t read it. We’re not discussing the book’s plot but the book’s role as an alternative text. This is frustrating. No one is really connected with any of the texts we’ve read. We still have one class left to discuss the book, so I won’t give up hope yet (though my capacity for hope is wearing thin).

‘Til next time, friends.

Running in Circles with Washington Square

This week, my adventures took a more corporate turn as I went to Barnes and Noble to pick up a copy of The Washington Square Review. I’ve always loved their covers, especially for their format of the title; it only appears to say “On Sq,” which I can’t help but read it as though it was French (though markedly dissimilar, my eyes see it as on est, which means “we are”). The literary magazine was founded in 1996 (so was I), and is published twice a year by the NYU Graduate Creative Writing Program.

One of the poems I enjoyed is called “ex-slave with long memory,” by zakia henderson-brown, a poem that takes after Dorothea Lange’s photograph taken in 1937. henderson-brown’s name as well as the title of the poem are both bell-hooksianly lowercase (because eff that prescriptive grammar life). The poem is very rootsy. The speaker declares all that has been taken from her was hers to begin with. The use of space evokes a feeling of breathlessness. The declarative repetition of “mine” reaffirms that, despite slavery’s damage to her property and herself, she is owned by nothing and no one. The “tunnels under concrete” reminds me of Harriet Tubman and the Underground Railroad. Looking at the photo, the woman almost looks like Tubman, even. Dorothea Lange was a white female photographer; the title of her work shows a distance, a lack of connection between herself and the subject. Certainly Lange cannot understand the subject’s line of thought as she herself was not a slave. Lange can only infer that her subject’s memory was exhaustive with experiences she never had to endure, hence, simply “long”.

“anything here i want i loaned/in the shed/of a house/called roam”

– zakia henderson-brown

I once submitted to WSQ in October 2015. I waited the standard 2-4 months, wondering if I actually had a chance at being published again after going so long without. The last time I’d submitted anything besides college was when I was thirteen.  As you can imagine, I got rejected. Rather stiffly, might I add. The email read like this:

“Dear writer,

Thank you for submitting to Washington Square Review, and thank you for allowing us the chance to read your work. While we received many great submissions, we were not able to accept all of them. Unfortunately, we were not able to place your work in this issue.

Sincerely,

The Poetry Editors

Washington Square Review”

I dug this message out of my inbox. I was told to never throw out rejection letters but I don’t know why; maybe it’s a simple way of keeping record of my attempts for success. In the case of failure, I know it’s not me. It’s them. Each journal has a specific voice or goal, and just because I don’t fit that voice doesn’t mean my words or style are rendered useless elsewhere. That is probably the most important lesson for a writer to learn.

Poets Who Write Right

This week I again don’t have an official literary magazine to review with you. However, I do have a copy of Poets and Writers magazine, which boasts on its cover a serious white man by the name of Salman Rushdie, some esteemed person I’ve never heard of. Additionally, apparently Lena Dunham is making an imprint for Lenny at Random House. Straying away from the beaten path, here’s a life post.

Last week I attended a poetry reading hosted by the staff of my school’s literary magazine, Aphros. For the readings we usually convene in Meeting Room A on the B level, but because of construction, this room straight up no longer exists. Instead, the reading was held in an amphitheater on William Street. To my and many other readers’ dismay, the space felt drab and very very businesslike. I felt like I was giving a presentation, unprepared, when I got up with my modest red notebook. I summoned my six foot voice (as opposed to six-inch voice), and read two poems. One was called “Affricates are Not From Africa,” a poem inspired by my linguistics class. I cannot stop talking about the concepts of linguistics to anyone who shouts a new word my way. “Neologism!” I told my father on my visit this weekend, though what we were talking about has escaped me now. I am obsessed with what my tongue can do and what my mind can internalize. It, like poetry, is a puzzle.

As the reading continued, I admired the talent of many but could hardly contain my envy for one reader’s achievements. Her work was accepted in an anthology and she holds a position at a prestigious internship. As she chatted with one of the creative writing professors, I withdrew from the conversation as the subject quickly changed to her overwhelming number of writing feats. I know I should not be jealous; I need to be active. It was suggested to me that the Classifieds of Poets and Writers is a good place to begin. Wined, watermarked, and dog-eared it may become, it is a resource nonetheless.

Today I helped a young friend write a poem for her homework assignment. She started off with color as an inspiration, first musing on the color blue. She changed her mind and wrote about red. When she spoke of fire more than once I asked her if she meant to be redundant. “What’s redundant?” she asked. Her vocabulary is impeccable; she’d been describing her reactions to immature boys teasing her and insisted upon “stonewalling” them (I did not use this word when I was ten!)  The process of her putting chunky-lettered words on looseleaf quickly came to an end and she resolved to read the book I let her borrow. She’s stated explicitly that there are certain books her mother won’t let her read. She also knows what subject matter she is comfortable with and is not, maternal guidance aside. When I was ten I would take full advantage of reading things I probably should have waited a few years to dig my nose into. I did not mention any plot points that may make her uncomfortable because I wanted her to read for herself and navigate the text on her own.

Navigating language and literature is a personal journey; we all come to it differently and have our own unique experiences. Texts and literature can impact us deeply from the youngest age. We are shaped by it. My friend is shaping herself how she sees fit, and to do that at such a young age is admirable.

Beaming suns and flower power

This week, in an unusual turn of events, I trekked to McNally Jackson for the coffee-and-paper smell alongside my friend but bought nothing. A few weeks ago, I went to Spoonbill and Sugartown Booksellers in Williamsburg in search of Maggie Nelson’s Bluets.  The second I entered, my eyes went to another gem; Rupi Kaur’s new book, The Sun and Her Flowers. Apparently the book was released on October 3rd, but my trip to the store was in September (don’t believe me? I literally have the receipts.) I snatched the damn thing up, my face aglow with joy. I’ve always enjoyed elements of her sketches mixed with the confessional nature of her words reminiscent of a diary.

Rupi Kaur is an artist and poet from Canada; she emigrated from Punjab, India when she was four. She is best known for her first collection of poems, Milk and Honey, which sold over a million copies and has been translated into more than thirty languages. Her most recent book came out around a week ago, to the joy of several young women such as myself. Her poetry covers topics such as love, loss, and feminism. She deals frankly with the taboos surrounding womanhood; in 2015, she caught heat from Instagram because she posted pictures of herself on her period, with visible stains on her pants. Instagram claimed the picture was taken down accidentally. Kaur’s photograph only demonstrates the bodily shame women face every day. We are so busy being objects, how dare we have periods.

Though her poetry draws a fair crowd, her work has not escaped criticism. Some cite her her work as simplistic. Others have branded her an “insta poet,” as her poetry is commonly accessed through the social media app and resonates with the group most gravitated towards it. Kaur and others who are categorized as such, as Priya Kahira  states “blends the spontaneity and rawness of a teenage girl’s Tumblr with the poise and profundity of lyric poetry.”  Her work can appear cliché, fruity, floral, sure. Even open to (damn hilarious) parodies. The sad thing is she appeals to a demographic that is not taken seriously. That doesn’t make her any less valid. Her work is important because it deals with trauma, self appreciation, and the history of her ancestors. For what it is, it’s beautiful. And that’s not me saying that as a means of putting her into a box; saying that ‘what it is’ is less than. Her poetry is wonderful; its soft tone hits hard with addressing serious issues. It’s needed.

As for me, I do enjoy putting my words to small sketches here and there, but I don’t want to be branded an Insta-poet. Though innovative in title, it feels like a demotion. The title seems synonymous with flimsy. No one takes teenage girls seriously. They write pretty intense poetry, though (source: have you seen my notebooks?)  Either way, I’m gonna write and do my own thing. Whatever comes of it shall come. I appreciate Rupi Kaur. She represents a change in literature. While her simplicity can be cliche, some of her poems stop me in my tracks and indeed spark moments of intense thought. And if Instagram is a medium that yields high reachability, what’s wrong with that?

 

Willow Springs and Body Things

“This is for the mouth. This is for the illusion of perfection.”

—Kate Maclam 

So, I have been very very busy and trying to find a balance. I’m afraid that I won’t be able to fit free writing into my schedule, but that’s what writers do to grow. It has to be done. I guess half the battle is becoming literarily literate (purposeful redundancy), but it’s difficult when you have so much to do.

You’re not here to hear me ramble about that. You want my words about words.

On my weekly trip to McNally Jackson (I know they are not the sole purveyors of literary magazines, but I love how I feel when the smell of pages hits my nose so judge me not), I must admit what really sold me on this week’s literary choice was a poem about nipples. Yes, nipples. It’s called “Almost Everyone.” I was originally put off by the magazine’s creepy-ass cover, but admired the greenery enough to pick it up and find this gem of a poem. After thumbing through journal after journal, I settled upon this one and attempted to put back the ones I no longer wanted in failed alphabetical order. As I’ve stated, I barely have any criteria for my pickings, but this week it obviously wasn’t because of the cover. First, a bit about the publication.

Willow Springs was first started in 1977 and is based in Eastern Washington University. They have published thousands of people over the span of their existence. Click on the link. The end. Now, to the poem.

As I mentioned before, the poem I really enjoyed is called “Almost Everyone.” Kate Maclam uses humor in the piece to describe a bodily flaw that many people share; “Men don’t always like it when you bite their nipples, but women love it. All women love it, all the time.” She declares her unabashed love for them. To her, nipples are even capable of conversation! The poem is honest, and playfully sexy. It hones in on insecurities and laughs at flaws. I really enjoyed how the poem started a line in one stanza, and then ended it as the beginning of another? Does that make sense? So,

essentially it read

like

this and I

 

enjoyed it very much, because I wanted to read on.

 

Loosely related to the topic of bodily flaws, I have been tasked with writing a book review for my cultural criticism class. I figured, what author could any woman relate to on the topic of her formative years more than Judy Blume? I kind of have to dig deep and I’m not sure if I want to go into copious, unabashed detail about the nature of Judy Blume-isms that resonate with us all because they feel very personal. I mean, I never really did the bust dance to increase my bra size (read: I tried. I was eight). I appreciate how Blume taps into the most intimate spaces of a girl in her formative years. And her books were banned for doing it! It’s sad, because we all experience these things (what things!? See, that’s what I’m talking about! I’m so vague!), so for the good of all women everywhere, I should talk about them without reservation. And we all know Judy Blume is a badass, so if that’s not reason enough, I don’t know what is. And bodies are great, we live in them.

With this, I leave you, O reader, with this poem. It’s not about nipples, don’t fret. It’s about periods. You’re welcome.