Alfred Joyce Kilmer on "Trees"

I salute the turkey oak tree in my backyard.

It's a tough little oak. I was looking out the sliding glass door a few weeks ago and saw its leaves detach in a strong wind. Looked like late September in Wyoming but it was late July in Ormond Station, Florida. The flurry of leaves caused me to call the city arborist and she asked if the leaves were brown on the edges. They were. "Needs water," she said. She was correct. I started hosing it down every day and now the leaves have magically returned. 

The tree is a denizen of the soupy landscape that makes up my neighborhood. We're not in the soup but I can see it from here. I live in the dry section of the wetlands. We are right at the periphery of  the Hull Swamp Conservation Area and the Relay Wildlife Management Area. Wildlife we got. A neighbor spotted a black bear in his backyard. A big ol' Eastern Diamondback was squashed by an F-250 near our PO boxes. We've seen turtles and birds galore. 

We are interlopers here. But, back to the trees.

One of my father's favorite poems was "Trees" by Joyce Kilmer. It's beautiful, really, with memorable opening lines: "I think that I shall never see/A poem as lovely as a tree."

Dad knew the poem by heart. It's easily memorized, rhymed couplets in iambic tetrameter which makes for a memorable beat. Four iambs instead of the usual five in pentameter poems. I point this out because it would have been a great choice of poems to memorize during after-school detention at St. Francis Catholic Grade School in Wichita. If we seventh-graders transgressed enough to get detention, the nuns gave us a choice of poems to memorize. Because all 12- and 13-year-olds have places to go and things to do after school, we chose the shortest and easiest of rhymes. No free verse, thank you. No epics such as "Child Harold's Pilgrimage" or "Howl," although I am pretty sure Ginsberg and the Beats were not on the list of approved Catholic verse.

I once had a choice between "Charge of the Light Brigade" and some silly love poem. I chose the war poem and can still recite most of it. "Trees" was never on the list. Odd thing is, anything by Kilmer would have out me closer to war than Tennyson. He also would have brought me nearer to my Catholic roots had I known about the 1917 collection he edited, "Dreams and Images: An Anthology of Catholic Poets.

But "Trees" lives on in collections. Kilmer converted to Catholicism in 1913 and wrote of his spiritual life. He joined up at 30 to fight in the Great War. Died at 31 at the Second Battle of the Marne. He was leading a patrol into No Man's Land and disappeared in a shellhole. When his troops caught up to him, he was quietly looking over the bombed-out landscape. He didn't respond. They shook him, then looked at his face to see dead eyes and a bullet hole in his forehead. Death by sniper. He's buried in the U.S. cemetery in France across from the farmer's field where he was killed.

He's been called "the last of the Romantic Era poets." His poems are predictable and schmaltzy. They rhyme, for goodness sake. Across the blasted tundra, the British war poets -- Sassoon, Owen, Graves -- were leading the charge into the revved-up post-war realism of the 1920s. You might see Kilmer's poem "Rouge Bouquet" in volumes of war poetry. It's about 21 soldiers of New York's Fighting 69th who were killed by a random German shelling. His legacy lives on in the names of schools, neighborhoods, and a national forest in North Carolina. The Philolexian Society at Columbia University sponsors The Annual Alfred Joyce Kilmer Bad Poetry Contest. Lest you think this is just an Ivy League Putdown, it is taken very seriously on campus. Here's a description from the scribes at Wikipedia (I donated to the cause and got a cool [EDIT] T-shirt):

The Alfred Joyce Kilmer Memorial Bad Poetry Contest has been hosted annually by the Philolexian Society, a literary and debating group at Columbia University, since 1986, drawing crowds of 200–300 students and participants vying for the title of best of the worst. Columbia faculty members serve as judges. The event is usually held in November and is heralded by the appearance of "Bad Poetry in Motion" flyers around campus (satirizing the New York City Subway's "Poetry in Motion" series) featuring some of the best verses of the last 20 years, as well as door-to-door readings in the dorms, usually performed by prospective new members ("phreshlings").

The event is named for "bad" poet (and Philolexian alumnus) Joyce Kilmer. His most famous work, Trees, is read aloud by audience members at the contest's end. In 2012, the Columbia Daily Spectator listed the Kilmer Bad Poetry Contest #1 among its "Best Columbia Arts Traditions".

 As a writer and arts administrator, I commend the Society's efforts to promote poetry and its performance. I can see my father, an army radioman in The Great War Part 2 and accounting graduate of a small Catholic college, standing tall in the auditorium and reciting "Trees" with Ivy League youngsters and aging fans of an almost-forgotten poet. 

"Trees," Joyce Kilmer, those lovely, lovely trees.

We take a Word Back: What to make of make?

In my 5/21 post, I brought up a term: word back. Used in a sentence: "I want my word back." Words in my English language have been stolen by corrupt people with no clue about the word's origins and what it really means. This is a travesty in my book, and I have a really big book on my side: The Oxford English Dictionary or, as we English majors call it, the O.E.D. Many of our public libraries used to have the book splayed open on a stand. Oddball students such as myself could peruse at their leisure, or make a beeline to it during a heated argument over the origin of a word or phrase. Yes, heated arguments about words. How I miss those. And the main reason I went dateless most of my college career.

Today's word is "make." And yes, it's the first word in the acronym MAGA. Those are the four words I will tackle during the next couple weeks. They are real words, not just initials on a red ballcap. 

What are we to make of make? Let the O.E.D. be our guide.

I hate to begin with a downer but, to save time, I must. Make can be a noun. In fact, it is a variant for maggot. Here's an example from Shakespeare’s “Hamlet” circa 1604: “Your worme is your onely Emperour for dyet, we fat all creatures els to fat vs, and wee fat our selues for maggots.”

In more modern terms, we have this line by Mae West in 1930's "Constant Sinner:" "The double-crossin' heel! The garbage-can maggot!"

You don't see "make" in there. But, it is a variant which means it's rarely used except by historical fiction writers and time travelers. But the reference comes alive in 2025 because critics poke fun at MAGA followers by calling them MAGATS or MAGHATS or just MAGGOTS. We don't use the term as it's below our station to do so even though it's hilarious. 

Make is usually used as a verb that means to produce. Let's let Merriam-Webster have a crack at this: Make (transitive verb): to bring into being by forming, shaping, or altering material; to lay out and construct, to compose or write.

Back to the O.E.D.: The earliest known use of the word is in the Old English Period pre-1150. It has Germanic roots. It's use in Old English includes references in literature, music, and religion. 

Does the O.E.D. have anything to say about sexual references in popular culture? I didn’t look. But I have some examples. Let's make out (kiss, etc.). “Making Whoopee” (song about kissing etc.), "I want to Make It With You," a popular 1970s song by Bread which is really about sex as in "Love the One You're With" or so says Stephen Stills. Let's make a baby is a line used by married couples in rom-coms. "Wanna make sex?" is not a common term although it has been used in dingy bars at closing time.

"To make" is a very positive act. A maker is one who makes. A Makerspace is a place dedicated to making things usually artwork. My artist daughter visits a local Makerspace. Many public libraries have makerspaces in their children's/teens sections. Many of these libraries are under attack by Trump & Company and local right-wing kooks. Many makerspaces are funded by government grants which are being eliminated by the GOP-controlled Congress.

Makers, themselves, are under attack for being too woke and not appreciating all the MAGA Goodness spread like fairy dust by Donnie and Elon. Arts workers jobs are being eliminated along with budgets for state and local arts agencies as well as the National Endowment for the Arts, National Endowment for the Humanities, and the Institute of Museum and Library Services. To tell an artist he or she can't make any more is absurd. That's like telling us not to breathe. But it will hurt all of us, this pilfering of money for the arts and humanities. 

Merriam-Webster lists these antonyms (opposites): Dismantle, destroy, eradicate, abolish, take apart, etc., etc.

To Make. Think about it.

"Writers Who Play" features words & music & fun March 28 in L.A.

This comes from traveling troubadour and poet Ken Waldman:

In Los Angeles the end of this month, my NOMAD co-editor, Rachel White, and I will be getting our new NOMAD literary journal out in the world, and I'm producing a Friday, March 28, show at the fabulous 1642 Bar at https://www.facebook.com/1642beerandwine/ .

Here's the poster:

The event is being held off-campus you might say from the Association of Writers and Writing Programs conference at Los Angeles Convention Center this week. Consider it a break from AWP sessions and the magnificent bookfair where you can buy books and have books thrust upon you. Also a good time to schmooze with editors and publishers. I haven't attended AWP in a number of years but it always was fun and where I recruited writers to come to Wyoming. And always brought an extra bag to haul books home.

Irish poet Eavan Boland: "Memory itself has become an emigrant"

The title poem of Eavan Boland's collection "The Lost Land" always moves me. It begins as a confessional with "I have two daughters" but ends with one of the big topics in Irish and Irish-American writing: diaspora. You know the story: the Potato Famine, the rapacious of the English landlords, the sailing away. The Irish, always sailing away and landing on a foreign shore. The last lines always get to me. I send you to the Poetry Foundation web site to read the whole thing and other work by Boland. Go there now. Read an Irish writer today. Happy St. Patrick's Day. 

The Nomad anthology wanders from the western wilds to my fog-wrapped Florida mailbox

The first anthology of The Nomad literary magazine landed in my mailbox yesterday. Unassuming cover with lots of goodies inside. Last summer Ken Waldman, one of the Nomad founders, asked me to send in two pieces of my work, one that I was proud of and had been published and another that I liked and hadn't been published. He tasked me with writing a short essay on my choices. So I sent editor Rachel White one story that had been published several times, "The Problem with Mrs. P," and one I just finished in June, "That Time We Got Married at a Tent Revival." The first story is set in Wyoming and the second in Florida and South Carolina.

I spent 46 years in Wyoming and Colorado, did a lot of my growing up in East Coast Florida and spent my first two years of a not-very-successful university stint in South Carolina. I've also written speculative fiction that takes place off-world and in an Earth future that I imagined. I have returned to Florida which has its own otherworldly aspects. 

I am in such good company with this anthology. My long-time friend Ken Waldman has two poems, one set in the Alaska he calls home and a villanelle set in New Orleans. New Mexico's Lisa D. Chavez includes a poem which turns the Little Red Riding Hood fairy tale on its head and a nonce sonnet, the meaning I had to look up. Detroit's M.L. Liebler weighs in with "Flag" which dissects yet "another dark chapter in American history" (the one happening now) and "Decoration Day" about Vietnam.

Wyoming friends still talk about 2002-2003 poetry and music performances featuring M.L. and Country Joe McDonald. Buffalo, Wyoming's David Romtvedt explores "another past life" and a childhood dream in his selections. I was undone by the images in Amy Gerstler's poem "Siren" which opens the anthology. Paul Fericano made me laugh with "Still Life with Mormons in My Living Room." Amy and Paul are from L.A. Paul published some of my prose poems on his Yossarian Universal News Service site (yunews.com). New Zealand's Michael McClane got my attention with the long title and World War 2 theme in "On the Disembarkation of Sergeant Nathan E. Cook in Auckland, 13 June 1942."

That's just the beginning. Lots of great selections. You can get a copy of the book by subscribing to The Nomad. It's $25 for one year and $40 for two. You can also donate to this "non-for-profit labor of love by two writers." New submission guidelines are up for 2025. See the web site for the Bountiful, Utah, mailing address.

Remembering Paul Fussell’s great book on the Not-So-Great European War of 1914-1918

I subscribe to the New York Times Online. Because I now live in East Coast Florida, I could also have the print copy delivered. But I already get the Daytona Beach News-Journal delivered before dawn (usually) in a plastic bag at the end of my garage. I fetch it in my e-scooter, braving whatever elements might exist including niceness, wind, humidity, and – occasionally – rain. I pick up the paper with my handy grabber and roll back to the house. I read local news, the sports page, some national coverage. I read obits, especially on Sunday when there are pages of them.

But the NYT has the writers and global coverage that I need, now especially, as we try to survive assaults on reality by Trump, Musk, and their GOP bullies. Also, arts reviews, especially of new and some old books. A few months ago, I read about John Dufresne’s new novel, “My Darling Boy.”  It sounded so good and personally relevant that I bought the e-book on Kindle (and wrote my own review here). I read a Style-section article last June by Alyson Krueger about Miranda July and her “rethinking of marriage and family life.” It also took me to a review of her book. I bought and read it and indeed it is a more-than-spicy take on monogamy. I didn’t post a review on my blog but I did come across a finished piece in my blog files which I was too skittish to post.

This morning I read a Feb. 13 “Critic’s Notebook” piece by Dwight Garner about the 50^th anniversary of Paul Fussell’s “The Great War and Modern Memory.” I read the book 40-some years ago and discovered the dirty truth about The Great War of 1914-1918. Fussell explored the war I the trenches through the eyes of Siegfried Sassoon and Robert Graves, two combatant-writers who wrote the truth about their war. Garner writes that it changed his view about how nonfiction should be written. It allowed me to find those voices that I barely knew. In high school, the only poem of the era I remember is “Rouge Bouquet” by Joyce Kilmer, poet best known for “Trees.” Kilmer died in combat and is remembered for his formal rhymes and is considered as one of the last poets of the Romantic era. He was swept away by the honesty and rage in works by Sassoon and Owen and other poets of the so-called Lost Generation.

Garner urges readers to return to Fussell’s book to find the real story of this war that is no longer a living memory but lives on in the work of so many powerful writers. My grandfather was a cavalry officer in France and my grandmother a nurse with Maryland 42^nd Field Hospital. The dismounted cavalry officer spent a limited time in the trenches and my grandmother repaired the wounds of tr5ench warfare. Neither recalled for us war’s horror. Neither did my World War 2 vet father, who saw action in France, Belgium, and Germany. They left that up to their children and grandchildren in wars-to-come. Those wars have given us great literature and have very little to do with stopping the slaughter.

For me, I have written two novels about the aftermath of the Great War in the U.S., mainly Colorado. I am publishing them myself. I know nothing of war except what I read and see in movies and what I conjure in my imagination. Draftees of Vietnam have done their best to tell it like it is. We read about the senseless slaughter of what Robert Stone called “a mistake 10,000 miles long.” Maybe we learn and maybe we don’t. But books such as Fussell’s can give us glimpses into humankind’s dirtiest business.

How does the fog come in on the day after Christmas?

The fog comes/on little cat feet

Thought of this Carl Sandburg poem as I sat watching the ocean as fog crept in. Cats weren't on my mind as much as the view from Tom Renick Park in Ormond-by-the-Sea. My visiting daughter stood beside me. Waves rolled through the fog and crunked on the shore. The surf wasn't bad. Rollers breaking outside but you could ride them out of the fog like a vampire surfer. Three young surfers appeared suddenly, boards under arms, walking north on the beach. No wetsuits. Gotta admire those guys. Two days ago there was sun and a bit of wind and all the surfers wore wetsuits. Must be the wind. The fog today traveled on a light north breeze. We were shielded by the adjacent condo high-rise. Still, tiny mist dabs fell on my exposed legs and dotted my windbreaker. I kept expecting a cat to appear but the only sound was traffic along A1A and kids on winter break cavorting in the playground. No way to hear little cat's feet. I imagined it just the same.

The night is rescued by the south wind

August Wind from the South

 

The setting sun turns the sky red the west wind

Pushes smoke from fires in Oregon and California.

Red haze settles over Wyoming mountain valleys and

The smoke burns the eyes catches in the throat.

 

The wind arrives after dark it surprises us all

it flows from the south the monsoonal flow

and its saturated air designed to douse the

fires sweep the sky clean send it all north.

 

Pull back the curtains open the windows wide.

I smell the rain or think I do but there are no clouds

no lightning no rumbles of thunder. The wind from the

deserts of Saguaros and scorpions and sweeps of sand.

 

I turn my chair to the open window tune out the ball

game the cell phone the gurgling kitchen noises.

Tonight it’s just me and the wind over the high prairie.

The high dry prairie. The rare south wind.

Your stories will survive you -- write or record them while you still can

I was thinking about this today as I went through some tests at the local hospital.

I like the idea of a National Service Program for 18-21-year-olds. Not a military draft – that didn’t work so well – but a program that puts youth to work doing good deeds. As a college dropout, I found jobs in hospitals. I was called orderly and not nursing assistant or CAN. I was a guy wearing a white uniform that nurses and patients called on when they needed a strong body to perform various tasks: scoot a patient up in bed or turn a patient so a nurse could get at the malfunctioning part of the body, transport patients to X-rays, take temps and BP and fill water pitchers. 

This was Florida so listening to old folks was also a keen skill. Young folks aren’t so good at listening to old people. Too bad – therein those aging bodies are many great stories. So why not put youngsters to work listening to old people’s stories while they also help them get around. Welcome to the Corps of Willing Listeners! They’d get paid a decent wage to push wheelchairs and hear stories. 

If they want to write some of those stories down and turn them into novels, so much the better. Maybe some of them can be made into memoirs for the family, something to remember grandpa by when you see that old face in a photo but can’t really place him. “That was grandpa: he was wounded at the Battle of the Bulge.” “There’s grandma: she raised 10 kids in a house without running water and an outhouse out back.” “There’s Uncle Jack – he was funny when he had a few drinks.” And so on.

Young people are energetic and smart and impatient. Old people tend to be tired and smart and patient and sometimes impatient because they know they are on the downward slide to the grave. I am 72 and that’s my reality. I love a good story but I can tell when the listener isn’t listening. Today a tech in his 20s took me to X-ray and took pictures of my chest. He saw my High Plains Arboretum vest and we talked gardening while the machines hummed. We talked about the difficulties of raising plants and veggies in our climate. I could tell he's had mixed results and I suggested he drop by the Cheyenne Botanic Gardens and ask some questions of the horticulturalists. 

Writing skills are a key element in storytelling. It's good to be able to tell a story on a blog or written on paper or told in a podcast or any of the myriad other ways we relate info. I have some writing skills so I can tell stories to those people in the future who see my e-photo online and wonder about me. Who is it? Why is he in the photo? What did he do for a living? Was he nice? Did he love someone and did someone love him? How did his kids turn out? I’ll leave behind some stories to inspire or bore to tears but I won’t care, will I? I will be stardust. I hope a few of my stories survive.

Poets give voice to the voiceless gunned down in their schools

 

Reposted from a friend's Facebook page. Introduced me to a U.S. poet with Front Range connections whose work I didn't know. It brilliantly says what I am finding so hard to put into words. Thanks to Matt Hohner who has an MFA from Naropa University in Boulder. A friendly nod to Sam Hamill who published so much wonderful work at Copper Canyon Press during his time on the planet. He also initiated Poets Against the War to protest the 2003 Iraq War. 

The day after St. Patrick's Day 2022

I don't have a hangover, that's the main thing. Many prior St. Patrick's Day holidays involved drinking and then hangovers. Some stray guilt feelings. Calling in sick to work.

But not this time. I attended a family-style party last night. Wife stayed home with a sick daughter. We recited Irish poems. Remembered trips to Ireland -- friendly people but kissing the Blarney Stone is a rather disgusting ritual. Devoured Irish Stew and a delicious Guinness chocolate cake built to look like a pint on an Irish pub bar. I drank one Irish Ale made in Kansas City. Stayed away from the Writers' Tears Irish whiskey as I have enough of my own. We sang along to "Zombie" by the Cranberries and remembered Dolores O'Riordan who died too young.

Calm as these things go. Someone asked if they celebrated St. Patrick's Day in Ireland. Apparently, it's a religious holiday there. They ratchet up the festivities for American tourists. The Irish seem bemused by American spectacle. I've never been to Ireland so haven't had the chance to embarrass myself in person. But apparently the American idea of drinking green beer and singing fake Irish songs is not appreciated. U.S. tourist money is. 

I've blogged before about my mixed views on the holiday. Read those here and here and here. My grandfather from Roscommon Martin Hett (no, not O'Hett or McHett) never returned to the old sod. As a teen, I was pontificating about the legendary cruelty of the Brits to the Irish and my grandfather interrupted. "The English treated me better that the Irish ever did." That shocked me due to the fact that I was 16 and knew everything there was to know about the world. Grandpa went on to explain that his evil stepmother kicked him out of the house at 12. He made his way to England and worked in the coalfields until he saved enough money to sail to the U.S. at a 15-year-old. He worked hard in America and ended up in Denver where my mother was born and later, me. He liked being an American more than he liked being Irish. 

What, exactly, is an Irish-American? There is no easy explanation. We come in all shapes and sizes and all political persuasions including Trumpian which is disgusting -- recall how many wackos with Irish surnames served Herr Trump -- Flynn, Bannon, McCarthy, etc. Most of us mark St. Patrick's Day in some fashion. Corned beef and cabbage is a family favorite not always enjoyed by everyone in the family. My mother didn't like it probably because she ate a lot of it growing up. When she had food, which wasn't always the case during the Great Depression. One Christmas, she woke up to an orange in her stocking. That was the only present. I'm not sure if this is true because the Irish embellish almost everything.

I like to think that my proclivity for storytelling was passed on to me by my Irish ancestors. None of my immediate family are writers. Readers, yes. Writers, no. No aunts and uncles or cousins are writers. I am probably the only English major they know. We are known for our cutting humor, which seems to be an Irish trait. And my siblings and I all look Irish and our DNA attests to it. My red hair and freckles earned me lots of ridicule and a few fights. "Red on the head/like the dick on my dog." That's one taunt I remember. Red, Freckle Face, Rusty. They're all good. Shows some creativity. I don't think I sustained any permanent damage growing up white and freckled in America. 

As we read poetry at last night's party, I noticed it was rather light-hearted. I wanted to read something by Eavaan Boland ("The Lost Land") or Yeats ("The Second Coming") but never got the chance. Good Irish writing seems to balance the horrible and the humorous. Roddy Doyle is a great example. So is Flann O'Brien, whose satiric novel "The Poor Mouth" is one of my favorites. Flannery O'Connor too, who combined Irish-American wit with Southern Gothic grotesque to create her unique style.

Go read an Irish writer today. You will probably be glad you did, although it's hard to say.  

Reading Kooser during a short trip to Nebraska

My two sisters and brother-in-law from Florida had never been to Nebraska. To remedy this, I drove I-80 into Neb ("It looks a lot like Wyoming") and pulled off at the first exit. Next to the sign for Bushnell (No Services!), with farm equipment clattering down the road, prairie grass waving in the hot wind, I read them Ted Kooser. Seemed like the right thing to do. We then drove back to WYO and ate cabbage burgers at Sadie's Cafe in Pine Bluffs. A fine day.

Read Kooser's "So This is Nebraska"

Every poetry book tells a story don't it

Chris and Annie decided to round-up boxes of books in the basement and bring them upstairs to me. Disability prevents me from diving into the dungeon's stacks but my wife and daughter are only too happy to do the work if I promise to get rid of books, some of which have been sitting in the basement for more than a decade. I have a keeper box and a give-away box which will go to Phoenix Books or the Laramie County Public Library store. I get a smaller box for the keepers in an effort to fool me into thinking it's a good idea to get rid of books when actually I believe the opposite. But we are downsizing, fixing up our house and cleaning the cobwebby places with an idea to sell and move in 2022. Over the years, I have moved many heavy boxes of books. I'm retired so I have some incentive to divest.

My wife, daughter, and sons all are readers. My grown children live in an e-world but they still read physical books. They know it pains me to decide what stays ands what goes. They also know that they will inherit my library and we all know that I should be the ones making the decisions. Before passing from prostate cancer, my father split up his presidential library into five sections, one for each of his sons. I got Reagan (very funny, Dad) but also Jefferson, Grant, and Kennedy. I will ask my two remaining brothers if they want them. If not, to my son will go the spoils.

I have seen wonderful personal libraries left behind when a dedicated reader dies suddenly. Cancer killed a CSU creative writing professor and friend a few years ago. His will sent his Vietnam War books to the CSU library's special collection on the war. Thousands of others remained. I was among his associates who were allowed to pick through the books. I could have filled boxes but I chose three volumes that I now will put in the keeper box..  

Every book tells a story. I met and worked with many of the authors after I switched careers in 1988. after stints as a sports reporter, weekly newspaper editor, and corporate writer, I went back to school in the CSU MFA program. As a teaching assistant, I got involved with the visiting writers program and eventually the CSU Fine Arts Series. I met many writers in my roles with the Wyoming Arts Council, the National Endowment for the Arts, and on planning committees for book festivals in Casper, Cheyenne, and Denver. 

I have signed books by Ethridge Knight and Gwendolyn Brooks. In 1990, I was only vaguely aware of Brooks and knew nothing about Knight. An ex-con who got hooked on drugs after being dosed with morphine for wounds in the Korean War, Knight wanted to speak to prisoners so I accompanied him to the county jail. He recited his poems filled with African-American vernacular, prisons slang, and voices of the streets. I heard a different poetry that day. Like rap and spoken word, it had its own rhythms. The inmates, many of them Black and Latino, paid attention, chatted with Knight when the performance was over. 

Knight spoke as a member of the Black Arts Movement. He found his voice based on his own experiences but also influenced by Brooks, Sonia Sanchez and other African-American voices of the 1950s and 60s. You could hear similar rhythms in Brooks' poetry. A prime example is her oft-anthologized poem "We real cool." You can hear Knight's influence in rap and hip hop and slam poetry.  You can hear it in groups such as San Diego's Taco Shop Poets and the Nuyorican Poets Cafe in NYC. 

I have a signed copy of Knight's "Poems from Prison," published by Broadside Press the day he was released from prison. It's a keeper, as is Brooks' "The Near-Johannesburg Boy and Other Poems." Brooks won a Pulitzer for an earlier book, "Annie Allen."

I'm keeping Ernesto Cardenal's "With Walker in Nicaragua." Cardenal's life as interesting as his poetry. A priest de-priested by the Vatican when he got too close to the Sandinistas and liberation theology, his role was restored by Pope Francis in 2017. William Walker was a freebooter from Tennessee who conquered Nicaragua and served as its president prior to the U.S. Civil War. He legalized slavery and made English the official language in an effort to link Central America and Cuba with the South's slave states. Imagine if he had succeeded -- our country's politics would be even weirder than it is now. The book from Wesleyan University Press is bilingual with wonderful translations by Jonathan Cohen. 

"The Country Between Us" by Carolyn Forche goes in the keeper box. It includes the "The Colonel," her amazing remembrance poem of a dinner with an officer in El Salvador's death squads. Forche was a finalist in this year's Pulitzer poetry category. 

It breaks my heart when I place a pile of slim poetry books in the giveaway box. Nobody will value them like me. They may sit on the library store's shelves until its next clearance sale. Even then, they may remain unclaimed. Poetry is endangered. Much still is published but a lot of it is online and available only as e-books. The Death of Poetry has been foretold many times. Still, it persists.

Next up: What do I do with all of these novels, story collections, and memoirs? 

In Trump Sonnets, poet Ken Waldman tracks how America lost its mind

I just received a copy of Ken Waldman's "Trump Sonnets, Volume 8: The Final Four Months."

This is good news/good news. Another book of Trump sonnets to read. And, as the title says, "final" four months of the Trump scourge. A traumatic four months. A traumatic four years. Poet M.L. Liebler, who published the book at his Ridgeway Press in Michigan, writes in the foreword:

Ken has successfully brought form to the most unformable and unformidable, mean-spirited, fly-by-the-seat-of-his pants scoundrel who did his damndest to take this country down.

Waldman takes us through the final four months through sonnets in the POV of Americans: a dog walker in Brooklyn, a prison guard in Lexington, Kentucky, and a house painter in Hilo, Hawaii. Closer to home are the words of a baker in Cheyenne and a locksmith in Casper. The baker rhapsodizes about the two Q Girls who are "both up for war against Democrats." The locksmith is more thoughtful. He (I think it's a he) says that a civil war may be on the horizon but is wary of "citizens desperate or angry enough" to assassinate a Supreme Court elder or "wayward" senator. There is also an architect in Fort Collins who blasts the "toxic idiocy" of those who believe that Trump won the election. The Brooklyn dog walker sums it up this way: "Put them behind bars -- him, Jared, the kids. Or send them to Mars."

We hear many voices. I've been reading the selections in a more lighthearted mood than I did the first seven "Trump Sonnets." That is because T has disappeared from public view and is no longer on Twitter to rattle my world. He also is gone from the White House which he treated like his own Scarface villa (he already has one of those in Mar-a-Lago).

As evident during Waldman's 35-year career as an itinerant poet and fiddler, he has a keen wit and is always busy creating. He's published 19 poetry and prose books and nine CDs that "mix Appalachian-style string band music with original poetry." As a touring artist whose home base is in Alaska, most of his gigs since March 2020 were cancelled or postponed. He's been featured at the Dodge Poetry Festival in New Jersey, the Woodford Folk Festival in Queensland, Australia, and the Word of South Festival this weekend in Tallahassee, Fla. He's also conducted residencies in more than 200 schools, including ones in Casper and Cheyenne. He's also served as a judge for Wyoming Arts Council literary fellowships.

Front Range dwellers can see him on stage on May 22, 7 p.m., at the Lakewood Cultural Center in Lakewood, Colo. He will appear with Willi Carlisle and special guests Ben Guzman and Colin Gould. Tickets are $27 and you can get them here. 

I will file volume eight with Waldman's one through seven in my presidential library. My grandkids, if I ever have any, might like to read them and see how America lost its mind in the 21st century. 

You can't actually buy the book until September 1. Get more info at the Trump Sonnets site or Waldman's home page. The book will be distributed by nonprofit literary book distributor Small Press Distribution at orders@spdbooks.org. 

A poem a day keeps the nighttime devils at bay

Every night before sleep, I call up the Poetry Foundation page and read the poem of the day. It's an eclectic mix, featuring classical bards and contemporary voices. In the last week, I've read work by Grace Paley, Naomi Shihab Nye, and Amy Lowell. Lowell's "Lilacs" was featured the other night. I read it twice, not to make me tired but to fix the look and scent of lilacs in my mind so my dreams are more lilacs and less horror story. 

Dream experts say that we can do this, fashion our dreams before sleep. I'm only partially successful at this. Maybe it's a holdover from the bedtime prayer that my parents taught me. Here it is:

Now I lay me down to sleep

I pray the Lord my soul to keep

If I should die before I wake

I pray the Lord my soul to take

The key element is "if I should die." This is not a comforting thought for a six-year-old. I say my prayer and settle in for a quiet night of hellfire and brimstone. It lingers there among the more positive terms such as sleep and soul and Lord. My late brother Dan often complained about his insomnia. I never thought to bring up the horrible prayer that we recited every night. The current version of the same prayer goes like this:

Now I lay me down to sleep

I pray the Lord my soul to keep

May angels watch me through the night

And wake me with the morning light

Much more comforting to have angels watch me in the night. Most angels then were beautiful winged creatures bathed in heavenly light. So preferable to horned devils rising from the fiery pit. Our choice was clear: angel or devil. If we chose devilish behavior, we could confess the transgression in confession, say a bunch of prayers, and start over again. That was the wonderful thing about the American Catholicism of my youth -- a promise of better days ahead. If I disobeyed my parents or conjured unclean thoughts, I could spill it to the priest, a shadowy figure behind an obscuring curtain, the kind CNN reporters use when interviewing whistle-blowers or mobsters. Once released, I could say my penance and flee to play baseball with my friends or to sin again -- my choice. 

Lowell's "Lilacs" is a beautiful poem, one that the nuns may have made me read, although Sister Theresa was more likely to assign us rhyming couplets. A description of "Lilacs" called it a patriotic poem. Lowell was a Boston Brahmin, a New Englander to the core and related to Harvard presidents and famous scientists. She may have had to say the same bedtime prayer as I did. That prayer comes from The New England Primer, the first reading text in the American colonies. It was published by printer Benjamin Harris who so hated and feared Catholics that he fled to the Americas during the brief reign of James II. Quoted on Wikipedia, New Hampshire senator and former college English prof  David H. Watters says that the primer was "built on rote memorization, the Puritans' distrust of uncontrolled speech, and their preoccupation with childhood depravity." No wonder it's still sold online as a text for Evangelical homeschoolers. The primer was based on The Protestant Tutor and taught Puritan children their ABCs: 

In Adam's fall/We sinned all (with drawing of Eve being tempted by big snake and then, presumably, tempting Adam)

My Book and Heart/Shall never part (with drawing of Bible with heart on cover)

Job feels the rod/And blesses God (with drawing of Job plagued by boils and pustules)

My parents were diehard Catholics born in the 1920s teaching their 20th-century children a 17th-century Puritan prayer. This 21st century lapsed Catholic enjoys the irony. Meanwhile, I'll skip the praying and keep reading Heid E. Erdrich, Abigail Chabitnoy, Marilyn Chin, W.B. Yeats, Yusef Komunyakaa and many others. 

Now I lay me down to sleep...

Art and writing share a sense of mystery

My colleague Sue Sommers in the Studio Wyoming Review group opened up her latest review of an art show with this writer's quote: 

“I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means.” —Joan Didion, “Why I Write” (1976, the New York Times Book Review)

This is a theme that I've stressed with student writers over the years. It's a cousin to a quote by Flannery O'Connor: 

“I write because I don't know what I think until I read what I say.”

Before I spent a lifetime as a writer, I would have disagreed with these quotes. "I'm good. I know what I think -- it's right here in my head." I wasn't mature enough to understand what Didion and O'Connor were saying. 

The act of writing is a transition. The idea is a bit of ether, an unformed thing in our mind. Writing transforms what is in my head to another thing altogether. Writing, also an act of translation, gives shape to the idea. Sometimes, results surprise us. We also may be frustrated when the results don't seem quite right. 

It's not just the mind at work. It's also heart and soul, bloodstream and gut. The entire human ecosystem gets into the act.

This is what is so hard to explain to student writers. What is this thing that you are trying to tell me? Reach deep. What does it feel like? What does it smell like? Use your senses. 

My daughter Annie was writing a composition paper on sexism. She knew I had taught a lot of college composition classes. I read it, encouraged her to dig deeper. She wasn't really having it as the paper was due to next day. She insisted that she had satisfied the assignment and I couldn't really argue with her. The professor gave her paper a 90 and she was disappointed. I said nothing.

What could I say? I've spent decades in an effort to unravel my thoughts for the printed page/computer screen. I know the tricks of the trade. In the end, I'm not sure exactly what happens to turn the scrap of an idea into a finished story, novel, or blog post. I'm rarely satisfied with the result. But I keep at it because there's no way I can give up the pursuit. It's part of me.

Sue Sommers' review of "Bold Wanderings" at Pinedale's Mystery Print Gallery points out some of the traits and mysteries of creativity, whether you be artist or writer. Read the review for details (link at the top).

Help save the University of Wyoming Creative Writing M.F.A. Program

This comes from a Nov. 17 Facebook post by writer and UW prof Nina Swamidoss McConigley of Laramie:

Hey friends -- due to budget cuts, UW has proposed eliminating the wonderful, nationally-ranked creative writing M.F.A. program.

As a current student pointed out, this program is a vital way to provide a diverse set of writers fully-funded opportunities to write from and about an underrepresented place. Graduates from the program have published so many books -- last year, Kali Fajardo-Anstine was a finalist for the National Book Award.

If you care about the arts, communication about rural communities, and opportunities for young writers, it would mean the world to me if you could sign & share this petition to save the program:

https://www.change.org/.../university-of-wyoming-save-the...

You can also email your comments to: progrevw@uwyo.edu

This is a travesty. Many fine writers have been through the University of Wyoming Creative Writing Program. It sponsors many visiting writers and has strengthened state's writing community. Along with Performing Arts and Visual Arts, the program makes UW a destination for creative people all over the country and especially in the Rocky Mountain region. To jettison the program just as its value is being appreciated would be a terrible thing.

The state legislature has wasted years ignoring that hard times were coming for oil and coal, traditionally major sources of revenue. The handwriting was not just on the wall but everywhere you looked. Still, nothing was done and now we are facing the loss of an entity that helps make Wyoming great. Don't let them do this.

Sign the petition at the link above. Send your comments to progrevw@uwyo.edu

I earned my M.F.A. in creative writing at Colorado State University. I then went on to be the literature program manager at the Wyoming Arts Council and spent two years as assistant director of the National Endowment for the Arts Literature Program. The M.F.A. took me in unexpected directions. I was a published writer when I entered the M.F.A. program in 1988. I I had no idea there was such a thing as the Colorado Council on the Arts (now Colorado Creative Industries) that gave fellowships m to individual artists and grants to orgs to put on readings, workshops and festivals.

In grad school, I signed up for the artist roster that funds writers in schools. I had my first assignment to a school on the high prairie when I landed the job at the Wyoming Arts Council. My experience in arts administration was limited to a stint on the CSU Fine Arts Series. I helped bring some incredible writers to campus with a budget provided by student fees and grants to the local arts agency, the state arts council and the National Endowment for the Arts. My first grant to Fort Fund was rejected. Damn -- this is harder than it looks. When I interviewed with the WAC in the summer of 1991, I had no experience in what it took to generate money for arts programs. I was a writer with corporate PR experience and stints as a newspaper reporter. The WAC hired me anyway.

I'll write more about my arts council experience later. Now it's time to save the UW program that will allow its graduates to pursue writing careers and act as springboard to the arts administration world. Other grads teach on every level from K-12 to graduate school. They all are on a mission to present the written and spoken word to the world. A tall task. But we are up to the challenge.

As I was writing this, WyoFile published a piece by Jeffrey Lockwood, a prof who splits his time between creative writing and entomology (arts and sciences). He makes some good points in the essay but it comes back to this: UW can eliminate and outstanding yet small program in the liberal arts and nobody will care. As Lockwood tells it:

Perhaps the creative writing faculty and our students have done ourselves no favors by publishing essays, articles and books that are critical of powerful individuals and structures. However, our task as writers is the pursuit of beauty, truth and right — and this may not align with corporate profits, legislative orthodoxy and status quo ideology. I don’t want to believe that the cut is political retribution, although those in power have demonstrated their willingness to punish troublemakers. Rather, I believe that the university’s course of action is based on the assumption that there will be little or no blowback.

It could make all the difference if you found the time to communicate with the UW Board of Trustees, president and the (acting) dean of the College of Arts & Sciences. Or send your support to an email dedicated to public feedback: progrevw@uwyo.edu

Writers write. What are you waiting for?

Read it now or read it when all the election results are in -- "Trump Sonnets, volume 7: His Further Virus Monologues"

As of 11:30 a.m. on Friday, Nov. 6, we don't yet know the result of the presidential election. We do, however, know the result of Ken Waldman's "Trump Sonnets" series. The seventh book in the series arrived today. Subtitled " His Further Virus Monologues," it returns to the single-sonnet form that Waldman made so readable in his first five books. The sixth, "His Middle Virus Soliloquy," is what it sounds like: a long piece comprised of connecting sonnets, two to a page. A 63-page journey of Trumpist ramblings in poetic form. It's a book that urges you to go on Trump's breathless ride through his fevered mind. He is infamous for his rambling monologues at rallies of true believers.  The author gives shape to that.

I read Book 7 in a review copy. We were smack-dab in the pandemic and the election was weeks away. I read it with the same dread and bemusement that I've read the others. Flashing in my mind like a neon sign was this: We elected this man president of the United States? I would finish a sonnet, ask the question, and move on, enjoying the ride. Then something will remind me of that big question:

From July 24, 2020 sonnet: 

I know when I walk off the eighteenth hole  

on November 3rd, I am second to none. 

I'm very prepared for my second term. 

No president's done more in his first term.

I see him at one of his golf courses. I think Yikes -- this man is president! We all are doomed!

I expect different feelings when I reread volume 7. Who knows when we will get all of the election results? Who knows how the lawsuit-crazy Trump will react -- he's already filed a flurry of lawsuits over alleged voting irregularities. Will we get him out of the White House by Jan. 20? 

But I will feel all warm and fuzzy if he is denied a second term. I've already been enjoying memes on Facebook that belittle Trump and his minions. Yes, we can be sore winners too. And it's OK to take a few minutes to gloat. So, as he read what may be the final installment of Waldman's series, I too will gloat. It's been so long since I've had a chance to do that. I will enjoy myself while I can. President-elect Biden's real work begins next week. Trumpists are still in charge of the Senate and Supreme Court. We all need to get busy.

Waldman is a poet and performance artist so it's not surprising that he has developed a video and stage show to go with the sonnets. The video will get more use in the near future because performing artists aren't performing. Due to the president's ineptitude in dealing with the virus, most public spaces are closed. So don't look for Waldman and his partner Lizzie Thompson to be on the road again until 2021. Some have been cancelled and some have been rescheduled for the new year that all of us look forward to. Get more info at kenwaldman.com or trumpsonnets.com.

M.L. Liebler's Ridgeway Press of Roseville, Mich., published all of Waldman's series. Small presses publish many good books every year. Most poets would have few outlets for their work if it wasn't for places such as Ridgeway. Show them some love and buy a book from a small press directly or through an indie bookstore. You'll be glad you did.

The "Poetry Apothecary" prescribes plenty of poetry and art

How have the arts been impacted by the pandemic?

Bigly.

No surprise, since the creating of art can be a solitary act but it's enjoyed with others. We gather for concerts, dance performances, plays. We gather in museums and galleries to appreciate the visual arts. We read singly yet gather for talks and book signings by writers. We gather in book clubs to celebrate our favorite writers and maybe drink some wine.

This is the summer of ungathering.

Many arts groups, not content to start planning for 2021, have come up with creative ways to reframe their events. Impromptu performances from city balconies. Zoom collaborations. Drive-in concerts.

I wrote about one of these groups this week for WyoFile's Studio Wyoming Review.

The coronavirus cancelled the annual June Jackson Hole Writers Conference, one of the most esteemed events on the country’s literary calendar. Since planning is done years in advance, staffers scrambled to put conference sessions online for free (registration is usually around $375) and only charged fees for critiques offered by faculty.

Matt Daly, assistant director of the JHWC, came up with the "Poetry Apothecary" that showcases visual arts and writing. The show is up at the Center for the Arts gallery until the end of July. The JHWC web site features a video tour (updated regularly) of the exhibit along with two other videos featuring artist/poet collaborations.

Daly proposed “Poetry Apothecary” well before the pandemic but needed to do some fancy footwork to adjust to the times. As he was helping to redesign the conference, he also was installing the show at the Center for the Arts. As anyone who works in the arts knows, fancy footwork is part of the job.

Read my Studio Wyoming Review article on the show on WyoFile. It was posted yesterday in a slightly edited form. 

All articles need editors. As one, I have revised, reframed, and rejected many stories. I tell young writers to expect changes to everything you write. My daughter Annie recently submitted a script to the True Troupe. The acting company is reviewing play scripts for the fall. Annie read one of my old short stories and transformed it to a one-act. She asked me to be thorough in my critique. I was. What I wasn't prepared for was Annie's interpretation of my story. She condensed and rearranged it. I had the chance to experience my work anew. She had workshopped my story before I had a chance to edit her. 

One of my Dad the Editor lines is "it's not finished until it's finished." She obviously was paying attention. My story, 15 years on, was still being finished. And it won't be finished yet. If the troupe adopts the script, the director and actors and crew will workshop it again. Lines may be dropped and lines may be added. Characters may change or disappear altogether. It's a wonderful process and not one for the faint of heart. 

Take some time to read Studio Wyoming Review. It's supported by WyoFile and grants from the Wyoming Cultural Trust Fund and the Wyoming Arts Council. 

And then there's this:

From noon to 12:30 p.m. on Thursday, July 23, “Prescribe,” a livestream "Poetry Apothecary" reading, will be presented in the Center for the Arts Mainstage in Jackson. Medical professionals read poems as acts of healing. Masks and social distancing will be in effect.

Coronavirus impacts the West's writers, artists and performers

Millions of Americans await federal stimulus checks or unemployment benefits during the current crisis. Artists are entrepreneurs (artrepreneurs if you prefer) and have been hit hard by social distancing and stay-at-home orders or, in Wyoming, stay-at-home-pretty-please-why-don't-ya. Galleries and museums are closed. Touring musicians are at home. Literary events (readings, book signings, spoken-word performances) don't have venues. Some artists have transitioned to an Internet presence by hosting online concerts, drawing classes and poetry workshops. But, as with most online efforts, it's sometimes difficult to make them pay. For writers, libraries and bookstores are shuttered. On the plus side, online book sales are up. Amazon is an OK resource -- it started with books -- but best to order from one of the indie stores such as Powell's in Portland or Tattered Cover in Denver. 

For writers, resources are available:

The Wyoming Arts Council is sensitive to the inherent economic challenges that are rising in relation to the CDC recommendations for social distancing. In the midst of this ever evolving situation, we will be processing grants to eligible individual artists who have lost significant income due to COVID-19. The Wyoming Arts Council believes that artists must be able to maintain their livelihood during this time in order to continue to create and contribute to the creative economy in our state. To apply visit: https://forms.gle/CPjpEif4adh7jsaY9 or contact Taylor Craig at taylor.craig@wyo.gov or 307-274-6673.

PEN America is supporting writers affected by the crisis through the Writers’ Emergency Fund, with grants of “$500 to $1,000 based on applications that demonstrate an inability to meet an acute financial need, especially one resulting from the impact of the COVID-19 outbreak.” They expect to take 10 days to review and respond to applications.

Summer is an incredibly busy time for writing conferences. For obvious reasons, locales in the West are popular sites. Some, especially those scheduled for early in the summer, have been cancelled, postponed or shifted online.

The Wyoming Writers Conference, originally planned for Lander June 5-7 has been canceled. Visit the conference’s website for additional information. WWI President Kathy Bjornstad said this: "We are tentatively hoping to travel to Lander in 2021 and shift as much of our programming to that conference as possible."

The Jackson Hole Writers Conference, originally planned for June 2020, has been canceled. In response to the cancellation, starting in late April 2020, select components of the originally scheduled programming will be offered online, including workshops, panels, and manuscript critiques. Visit the conference’s website for additional information on the cancellation and on alternative online programming. 

The Squaw Valley Writers Workshops, July 6-13, have been postponed. Workshops in fiction, nonfiction, and memoir have been canceled; the 2020 summer workshop in poetry will be offered online as the “Virtual Valley” from June 20-27. Visit the conference’s website for more info.

Summer Words set for June in Aspen has shifted online. FMI: http://www.aspenwords.org/programs/summer-words/

The Northern Colorado Writers Conference was cancelled and rescheduled for April 29-May 1, 2021, in Fort Collins. FMI: https://www.northerncoloradowriters.com/Conference

Montana's Beargrass Writers Workshop retreat set for May at Ruby Springs has been cancelled. Get updates at https://www.beargrasswriting.com/rubyspringmay