On Friday my husband and I and our two dogs are all piling into our car and heading north on the I-5 out of L.A., destination: Sisters, Oregon. We’re leaving at 5 A.M. (well, between 5 & 6) to avoid traffic and get through the hottest part of the state before noon. About half way through the day, when we get up near the Bay Area, we’ll take a left off the 5, go west on the 580 and stop in Pleasanton to pick up our son, who’ll be waiting at the BART station with his backpack to climb in and join the troop. By early evening we hope to reach our stop in Dunsmuir at the foot of Mt. Shasta and relax at the Cave Springs Resort (rather rustic, but right on the Sacramento River under some tall pines).

In the morning, after breakfast and the obligatory dog walk, we’ll keep driving north (with a possible detour for a dip in a hot springs), over the California-Oregon border, pass by Crater Lake and all the while more and more trees, more and more green and above—those clear, blue skies that just make ya wanna dance or sing or cry, depending on the moment. We should roll into Bend by about 3 or 4; hit the health food store to stock up for the weekend and then the last twenty miles west, where the mountains will rise into view with their white cover and startling majesty.

When we come into Sisters we’ll take a slow turn right onto Camp Polk Road, drive three miles past the Sisters airstrip on the right, Indian Ford Ranch on the left then curve right, turn left at Sage Meadows. We’ll pull up into the driveway, park the car under the Ponderosa Pines, with the aspens and wildflower meadow to greet us. The doors will open and the dogs and the three of us will pour out, exhausted and exalted. And, there we will rest for the week. And play. And walk. And watch for deer and geese and owls and eagles. And look up at a million stars at night. And breathe deeply. And be thankful. Be so thankful.

*************

Mt. Jefferson and the meadow from our yard.

*************

The house in Sage Meadows

In my poetry group we have been playing with sound, writing a poem where we are asked to focus on one or two vowel sounds (as in: how now brown cow) or a one emphasizing consonance (as in: hickory, dickory dock). The process can be torturous–trying to get the sounds and the meaning of the poem to jive in any way, trying desperately not to go down the road of the nursery rhyme or commercial jingle. Sometimes making sense has to go by the wayside. If the sounds work well enough to bypass the rational and can penetrate at a cellular level where there is an instinctual knowing of what the poem conveys then there is a kind “visceral” sense that occurs. Another way to approach a sound poem is to let the sounds reveal the meaning as you write them.

We are very reactive to sounds, they influence our moods, our nervous system, and our state of mind whether we are aware of them or not. Sounds like crack, back, rap, tap, whip, pick are hard sounds and produce a particular response: a tension, an alertness. Words like blow, cloud, want, stall, lawn, down are gentler, we lean back, they flow over us, rather than coming at us in a straight trajectory. When the sounds of a poem support the narrative or the emotion the reader will resonate, will connect with their own experience more quickly and deeply. It’s like a built-in surround-sound system, enhancing the visual with dolby stereo.

One of the masters of the sound poem was Gerard Manley Hopkins. His poems are wild and wonderful and entirely unique to him and his sense of how a poem can be made. One of my favorite poems of all time is his Pied Beauty. It brings me into a space of awe and a playful kind of wonder at the many forms of creation. I have also included some notes on Hopkins sent to me by my friend, Hilda (one of my poet-group mates). These notes were excerpted from a book she was reading on Hopkins to better understand how he did what he did and why.

*************

Pied Beauty

Glory be to God for dappled things–
For skies of couple-color as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh firecoal chestnut-fall; finches’ wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced–fold, fallow, and plough;
And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.
All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; a–dazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.

*************

I also offer a poem I wrote for the above-mentioned poetry group exercise on consonance. Coming to the poem was a very useful process that will serve many poems in the future. If you have any favorite sound poems or you’ve written one yourself, email me with it or write a comment and include it there.

*************

Eros with Pistol
The sight
the squeeze
the crack the

wrack the smack
kickback
the lick

of it the spit
of it split of it,
the track

contact to
impact to shatter
to scatter

to scraps to
bits that skitter
that litter to

splinter rend
bend strip rip
apart part

yet

the heart
the heart
beats back

beats back

beats back

*************

Gerard Manley Hopkins (Image taken from Wikipedia)

^^^^^^^^^^^^^
The following information on Hopkins is taken from an essay by Frances Fennell called “The Terrible Crystal”
that is in the collection of essays on GMH called The Fine Delight, Centenary Essays on the Poetry of GMH (published in 1989).

Enduring Strengths or qualities of his poetry are:

• Originality of voice and vision
- He has a unique voice. No one sounds like him.
Example: I caught this morning morning’s minion, king-
dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon
- His uniqueness has appeal. It sounds like him and likable. Endearing per FF.
- Uses alliteration, assonance and colloquial diction
- Per FF, He prized his distinctiveness of voice and deliberately cultivated it.
I consider my selfbeing, my consciousness and feeling of myself, … more distinctive than the smell of walnut leaf…Nothing else in nature comes near this unspeakable stress of pitch, distinctiveness, and selving, this selfbeing of my own. Nothing explains it or resembles it, except so far as this, that other men to themselves have the same feeling.
- Avoided other’s style: “The echoes are a disease of education, literature is full of them; but they remain a disease, an evil.”
- Ideas and approach are unique. Example: in “Spring and Death” he juxtaposes contrasting ideas; per FF he blends regret and acceptance

• Command of language
- Coins new words: shivelights, shadowtackle, (in That Nature is a Heraclitean Fire)
- Hyphenates to create new word ideas:
Hurrahing in Harvest
Summer ends now; now, barbarous in beauty, the stooks rise
Around; up above, what wind-walks! What lovely behavior
Of silk-sack clouds! Has wilder, willful-wavier
Meal-drift molded ever and melted across skies?

I walk, I lift up, I lift up heart, eyes,
Down all that glory in the heavens to glean our Saviour;
And, eyes, heart, what looks, what lips yet gave you a
Rapturous love’s greeting of realer, or rounder replies?

And the azurous hung hills are his world-wielding shoulder
Majestic—as a stallion stalwart, very-violet-sweet!—
These things, these things were here and but the beholder
Wanting; which two when they once meet,
The heart rears wings bold and bolder
And hurls for him, O half hurls earth for him off under his feet.

- Heightens ordinary speech; obsessed with language; sees language as pliable
- Values words for their ability to suggest by sound or by analogy to other words and meanings, but avoids cheap effects. Does not let alliteration & assonance trivialize the poetry by turning it into an incantation.
- Uses sound to help establish meaning
- Uses language to express the ornate (baroque) aspect of the sacred.

• Immediacy
- Absorbed in the now. Rarely nostalgic.
- “In tasting every moment, Hopkins through his poetry textualizes himself, and triumphs over his often dismal and banal everyday life.”
- Very sensuous, direct, physical orientation to his content
- Wants reader to sense (see, hear, smell, taste, feel) the content
- Photoerotic; causes the reader’s eye (physical & mental) to experience pleasure
- Earnest; determined to be candid, even confrontive. Speaks directly (with feeling, even beseeching) rather than ruminating to himself. Hopkins says:
“A touchstone of the highest or most living art is seriousness; not gravity but the being in earnest with your subject—reality.”
- Seriousness must be about oneself and one’s own experience. Lack is per Hopkins “the deepest fault a work of art can have.”
- Integrates and transcends the masculine and feminine. Presents the archetypally feminine self by using a variety of voices, formats & devices.

• Craftsmanship
- Rigorous standards of perfection.
- Gives his short pieces a fine degree of finish. Small and polished.
- Went through many drafts
- Weighed the effects of each consonant and vowel; researched and experimented with words from a wide variety of sources, mastered the intricate relationships of form and structure.

I used to think that to be a writer required that I designate a sacred time of day when I would go to my writing room, the one where hundreds of books line the walls on dark mahogany shelves, a green shaded lamp glows warmly on the worn, but classic writing desk, and an orange cat or aged golden retriever is curled up on the floor. I was sure a writer needed this kind of ambiance to bring about stories, to conjure up tales or imagine poems. In this setting one could close and lock the door, leave a sign on the outside, Do Not Disturb and come out four or five hours later with another chapter or essay or a few poems under one’s belt. And, one did this every day, at least Monday through Friday. This was the best of all worlds, the time and space components that led to a writer’s literary satisfaction and success. Even though there are some writers who do write like this—Stephen King comes to mind—for most of us it’s a squeeze job. We have to wedge writing time in between our jobs, taking kids to school, practices, etc, along with the innumerable errands and chores that, if not done, can leave the whole family without food, toilet paper or clean clothes for days. Then there are social engagements evenings and weekends, friends and family to keep in touch with, and if you’re married your spouse does deserve a smidgen of your time now and again.

What I have come to learn in the last few years is that to be disciplined as a writer doesn’t mean following any one particular regimen, sitting in any one particular space, with a candle lit and soft music in the background. It doesn’t mean I am not a writer if I go a month or two without getting a word down. It doesn’t mean hang up the pen, shut down the computer if I’m not sending poems out to journals every week. It doesn’t mean I can’t create good work if I have to juggle a few things at one time and get the writing in when there’s an opening between 3 and 5 on a Wednesday afternoon. What matters, I found out, is that I keep myself in the game. If I am not writing then I want to be reading—fiction, nonfiction, essays, and poetry. I want to be communicating with other writers; going to workshops or readings, calling or emailing, listening to CDs or online recordings of readings. Keeping a journal, even if sporadically, can be a treasure trove of material when I get back to it after a month or a year. All of these endeavors are a vital part of writing, of keeping the internal machine oiled and ready for when the time and space arise to get it down on paper.

Discipline is an important attribute; it can carry me through when I’m lacking energy or enthusiasm, but it will not sustain me in the long run. What will is devotion, devotion to a craft, to expressing what is important to me, to contributing to the well-being of others, to creating community. No amount of chiding or poking or guilt-tripping is going to get me to the desk and the pen unless in my heart I see it as a blessed opportunity, a treasured gift in this life to experience joy and fulfillment. This is truly the sacred space and time that I imagined to be my writing room. It exists inside of me. I carry it around. It is portable and flexible and ever ready to be put into action. It fits me, fits who I am and how I create. This is trusting that my way is the best way for me. This is being a writer who charts her own path and grooves to her own music. This is being a writer as only I can be a writer.

I took only four photos when I was in New Mexico this last week. My friend and I were driving on the road from Santa Fe to Espanola and I had her pull over so I could take these. I figured I would post one but they are all spectacular so thought it best to share the wealth. The vastness, the amazing beauty is transcendent.

?

To go out and return, to step into the fire and come out shining, to face the fears inside and triumph. This is what we hear in fairy tales, in epic books of ancient times and today in the movies and in song and even comic books. Repeated over and over are the stories of rising up, of falling, and of rising again. It is what sustains us, what gives us hope that this life is not about accummulation and status and power, that we have a higher purpose, that we were born into this world to leave it a better, more enlightened place. Mary Oliver, in her poem When Death Comes, says:

When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real,
I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.

I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.

This past week I went to New Mexico for a few days to renew and revitalize my spirit. It was hot, in the 90’s, and dry and my body put up a fuss. I had to sit on the floor, cross legged. I had to meditate for long minutes and even hours. No, I really didn’t have to do any of this, in fact it was my choice all the way, but there is always The Grumbler, who insists on blabbing away, insists on coming up with any number of reasons why I’d be better off sitting by the side of a pool with a lemonade rather than submitting myself to a discipline, a test of my grit. But, as Mary Oliver says, I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world. I never have. To me it is far more frightening to think of breathing that last breath knowing (and we all know) that I did not give it a go, that I did not walk into the belly of the beast and tame that beast, the one that dwells in my fears.

As poets, as writers, as artists we are the singers of this world. We bring what is necessary to the attention of the people. It is a duty, a duty we take up because we must, because if we do not tell what we see, tell what is in our hearts, do not bring to light that which is beyond this illusiory world then this whole mess of human existence stays just that…a mess. What we seek is wholeness and when we know that we are more than flesh and bone, thought and emotion, when we know that we are spirit, then we can rise when we fall, we can triumph.

I love the poetry of Charles Bukowski. Yes, it is rough and mean and edgy sometimes, but in this man was a lion’s heart. He knew pain, both physical and emotional. He could have killed himself (and almost did) or someone else and no one would have been surprised. He could have stayed a bitter and hateful person until the day he passed and no one would have blamed him. But he did neither. He wrote. He wrote poetry. He saved himself through his song. He gave himself a chance to know his greatness. Here’s one of my favorite poems of his, if i had failed to make the struggle. It really says it all.

if I had failed to make the struggle

there would be no peace, no solace, no
wisdom.
night would follow night
like a string of ants
come to carry you
off.
in a world cluttered with the falsely
famous
there would be no
escape.
you would face a hard impossibility while
chewing on your toast
or cleaning your
teeth
or waiting for the
result
of a photo finish
or a cancer
checkup.

there would be no voice to
listen to,
no acceptable
god.
even the laughter you once
enjoyed, they would have
stripped even that from
you
and left you
to be worn down
finally
like water upon
stone.

in the beginning youth
fought them
off;
middle age was there to contemplate the
wounds;
and now
maturity
is here to record
a simple
victory.

… is sending me away…away from the desk, the keypad, the screen–to the east, not too far, to New Mexico where the sky is forever and the air dry and sweet. It’s one of my places of refuge, of regeneration. Usually I go for a week or two in the summer for our 3HO Summer Solstice to share with the 1500 travelers the restorative practices of kundalini yoga, meditation, healing, prayer, singing, dancing, walking, talking, eating and vibing together on the ancient land we call Ram Das Puri where the Native American tribes of the southwest gathered for pow-wow and a sacred healing walk in past times. The souls, both visible and invisible, that reside there during these ten days seek to raise their consciousness and the consciousness of the planet. This year I will not be there, but rather participating in a 3-day course focusing on a Sikh prayer written by Guru Gobind Singh, the tenth and last, of the Sikh Guru’s. I look forward to filling up with the food of this powerful meditation. It is truly the juice I need right now. My candle is burning a bit low. So, I’ll be back with photos and thoughts from the Land of Enchantment on June 15th. I may be able to post while I’m gone, but then again, may choose not to. Loving all your comments and good wishes. We’re only getting started. Who knows where we’ll go? Peace, love, light.

I had to figure out a way to get a picture of my beloved pups up on this site so I thought I’d share a couple of my favorite dog poems and that would justify it. The first one is by Mark Doty, Golden Retrievals. Mark is one of my favorite poets, not only for his poetry but for who he is and his approach to poetry. I saw him a couple of years ago at the Dodge Poetry Festival (see links for info and more on this later) and heard him speak and read. His workshop was packed and he was so fun and real. Another poem I love of his is called Fish R Us and is in his book SOURCE. You can find it in Poems I Love. Okay, here’s the poem with pictures of my pups, Yoshi (the foxy one) and Ria (the Elizabeth Taylor lookalike). Yoshi’s a Shiba-Inu, the national dog of Japan…he licks himself like a cat, loves fishy food, and freaks out at even the thought of pain. He’s no samurai warrior but he is cute as a bug and a real sweetheart. Ria’s a bit bossy. It’s her nature to herd whatever she thinks is her flock and my husband and Yoshi and I qualify. She worries a lot about us and eats bits of paper out of the trash when we’re gone. They’re both eight and healthy as can be. So here’s to the canines and those who loves ‘em…

Yoshi & Ria at the beach. Just youngsters here
but they’re still lookin’ good at 8 years old.

MARK DOTY

Golden Retrievals

Fetch? Balls and sticks capture my attention
seconds at a time. Catch? I don’t think so.
Bunny, tumbling leaf, a squirrel who’s – oh
joy – actually scared. Sniff the wind, then

I’m off again: muck, pond, ditch, residue
of any thrillingly dead thing. And you?
Either you’re sunk in the past, half our walk,
thinking of what you never can bring back,

or else you’re off in some fog concerning
– tomorrow, is that what you call it? My work:
to unsnare time’s warp (and woof!), retrieving
my haze-headed friend, you. This shining bark

a Zen-master’s bronzy gong, calls you here,
entirely now: bow-wow, bow-wow, bow-wow.

Here’s another cute dog poem from the anthology Unleashed: Poems by Writers’ Dogs Edited by Amy Hempel and Jim Shepard.

JIM SHEPARD

Love Song of Audrey

The door, friends, will not
Open. My kidneys urge
The tedious quotidian.
I have measured out my life
With quiet whines.

I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
In endless dogs’ manure I’ll have rolled.

No! I am not Ch. Dandie Dinsmore,
Nor was meant to be;
Just a beta dog, one that will do
To swell a pack, start a fight or two
Advise the alpha, deferential,
Glad to be of use,
A rear-sniffer, meticulous,
Politic, cautious, a bit obtuse.

Shall I drink from the toilet? Do I dare steal from the plate?
I shall sleep upon their bed, on those nights they return late.
I shall steal away his slipper, then steal away its mate.

It’s close to, or at, 90 today here in L.A. The air conditioning in the car didn’t work so great and I don’t have any in my house, but I do have a pool so that’s the place I cooled my steaming body after going on errands to the pet store, Bed, Bath & Beyond and Whole Foods. I pulled all the fans out of the closets and their all set and blowing. Summer is here.

I’m still working my way around this blog site. I want to change the header and fonts and put some photos in but can’t quite navigate that part of the technology yet. I have friends, though, who I’m relying on to put this whole thing right. It’s funny just typing away not sure who’s going to read what’s here and if anyone will read what is here. Ah, therein lies the faith part of this blogging–that someone, a few someones want to hear what I’m jotting down and share their own thoughts and, I hope, poems. Speaking of which…I’m heading over to the bookcase here in a second to find a nice cool poem to jot down…

I know you won’t believe this (I wouldn’t except it just happened to me) but the first book I pulled out was Queen for a Day by Denise Duhamel and the first page I opened to was a poem called “Summer.” I hear all you doubters out there. You gotta believe…Here’s the poem. Oh, if you’re a fan of Duhamel or want to know more about her, her husband, Nick Carbo (also a poet) has a blog that’s fun at www.carbonator.blogspot.com.

Summer

My mother’s wet feet left paw prints on the deck,

her arches fallen like a bear’s

She sat in her polar white bathing suit,

her calves dangling in the pool.

Once we were sure she’d eaten our father

when he didn’t come home from work.

Her hands pounced at the innocent air

as a bee circled her hairsprayed chignon.

Then she slept in the lounge chair all afternoon.

Last week, while I was driving (really the only time I listen to the radio) I heard Billy Collins being interviewed by Terry Gross on NPR’s Fresh Air. He was talking about a new recording of poets reading their poetry called “Poetry on Record. ” It’s the first half of a two-part series and there are readings by W.B. Yeats, William Carlos Williams, Robert Hayden, Muriel Rukeyser. You can hear it on NPR at www.npr.org. Go to Fresh Air, Previous Shows for Weds, May 17th. You can purchase the recording at www.amazon.com.

Dear Poets and Friends of Poetry Evolution…

A new evolution, a revolution has begun. A blog. A way for you and I and you and you to talk about poetry, about spirit, about life and poetry and spirit. A way for you to find out what’s happening in poetry, as I know it. A way to link to some of my favorite sites. A way to send in your poems and read other poets. It’s just a beginning, but it’s really been underway for a long time. It’s evolution, after all.

Plans for the Near Future: Poetry Evolution School...Yes, Hari Bhajan (that would be me) is stepping out there offering new ways to grow in your poetry and in your life. I am, after all a Life Coach and a Poet, so why not marry the two and get on with it. It’s been brewing now, this idea of facilitating online poetry “classes” for about a year. (We Taurus’s can be slow sometimes.) I wanted a way to talk to you on a more regular basis and have you talk back (well, nicely, of course). I believe in dialogue. I believe in community. And I thrive on seeing others thrive. Well, back to what’s in the plans…the classes, yes and weekly postings, possibly more. I’ll have to get in the swing of this and see what’s going to be fun and what might be overkill. I do like to write, but, hey, I don’t want to bore you to death.

Already this week I’ve learned that I probably won’t need a website, that all I want to do can be done here on the blog, such as: an archive of all past Poetry Evolution e-letters by date, book recommendations, events, readings and workshops that I’m either involved in or highly recommend, alongwith postings and descriptions of what is happening at Poetry Evolution School with upcoming sessions and a secure pay-on-line option. Can you see how ultra-sophisticated I’m getting (really just catching up with the times)?

In the Long Run…This is even more exciting, because I don’t know what is going to happen. One thing I am working on is writing a book. Yes, dear poets and friends of poetry. The writings, my notes, musings, ramblings from Poetry Evolution have been calling me to sit down and put them in some kind of order and get them into the hands of more folks. It’s hard to know how this all is going to unfold–impossible, in fact–but when you hear the call you have to answer. Life is just more rewarding and challenging–and don’t those two go together most of the time?

As for anything else in the future, I’ll have to get some dream time in soon to see what’s out there. For now, I’m thrilled to be up and running with this blog-thing. Thanks so much to Sopurkh Singh for pointing me in the right direction. He’ll be my blog and web guide in the next few months as Poetry Evolution evolves (enough already). I invite you all to post your thoughts, what you’d like to see on the blog, in poetry courses or on the website. You undoubtedly have some great ideas that would save me a lot of dream time coming up with on my own.

What I want you to know is that this blog is not about me–although I am its steward. Just as so many of you, I am pushing to break through, to go beyond what I was ever told I could or would do. I am defeated in many small ways every day, but in the end, when I exhale my final breath, I want to know that I have triumphed–that my life was the best that I could do! I want that for you too. It’s the only thing that matters.

So, join in. Write a few lines. Share a poem.

I believe in poetry. I believe in love. I believe in the human spirit.
Hari Bhajan