I've been very busy organizing things for Gigantic Sequins. Not only are our submissions open again, but we're about to be releasing issue 2.2, and we are in the middle of our summer lovin' raffle. The cherry on top is that I'll be hosting a Gigantic Sequins reading on Wednesday, June 22, featuring contributing poets Jim Daniels (2.2) and Elizabeth Hoover (2.1). I can't say how much it means to have both of these poets on one bill. You will have to come to the reading to hear me attempt to say why.
Starting next Friday, my older sister Anna and I will be driving to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania (our hometown), but first stopping in Rudy, Arkansas, to stay at her mother's farm. When I was last there in August, I caught a kitten, and the peacocks were just skinny little slips of bird. There were hummingbirds at the feeder, and Pat's old dogs mumbling around the periphery of the house. Every time I get to visit Rudy, I think again about somehow, one day, having a house out in the country, where a train whistles at the edge of the property, the creek runs through it, and at night, the house becomes it's own private lantern in a world darkwashed. Anna and I have never been on a road trip together. It should be beautiful, as long as the Mississippi holds. And if not, well, we will have a great adventure. Babycat is coming along. I have purchased a black leash for her, and a black collar (being an indoor cat now, she never wears on) with a black bell, and a tiny gingham bow. I didn't have a choice about the bow, and she doesn't seem to be bothered. I'm amused at the idea of her prancing through the tall grass at the farm, alongside the sheep, with her tiny gingham bow. At least it matches her - black & white.
"A poem is not a report on an experience. A poem can't really be "about" drug use or recovery; it has to create an experience in language, and then to reach inside that language in the direction of making meaning. If a poem merely tells us a story -- well, is it a poem at all?" --- A very interesting blog post by Mark Doty today, partially on assumption.
I turned 28 last week, and the only present I received was a book of Rilke's poetry, with certain poems marked by the giver. It was exactly what I needed.