“Located in the center of the universe,” as the store’s tagline lovingly puts it, Fremont Place Books is a cozy little independent shop that feels very much the center of something. The store is divided into a couple of rooms, lit with great displays and a wonderfully diverse gathering of books. To be certain, the space isn’t really designed for author readings, which, in this case, strangely made for a more intimate evening. Among other endearing quirks, a bookshelf runs down the center of the main corridor splitting the “audience” neatly in two. Todd and I sat on a nice little elevated nook backed by children’s books while people got comfortable in a few chairs, on the floor and everywhere in between.

Over thai food earlier in the evening, Todd suggested we abandon the traditional poetry reading model where one poet reads and talks, covering their entire set before passing the torch on to the next performer. I agreed. So, after a brief introduction by the incredibly kind store owner, Henry, Todd and I set the space. We would read back and forth, a few poems at a time, attempting a conversation in verse. Poems could call to each other directly or tangentially. We could banter a bit and improvise often. It’s a model Todd uses regularly in the reading series he curates back in Minnesota, aptly titled Verse and Converse.

The structure allowed us to respond to the room, looking up at the scattered faces—to customize the shape of the evening on the spot. It seemed to keep the listeners more animated as well, never allowing them too get to comfortable with one approach or voice. Sometimes Todd would stand to read his poems or recite them from memory. He also passed a stack of his books out to the audience so they could read along and feel the work of the words on the page. I sat, leaning forward on my knees, reading from a binder clipped manuscript of newer poems, knowing fewer of them by heart.

Our styles, both in presentation and on the page, played well together. Todd saved me from the trap of heaviness by reading some lighter poems, of which I don’t have too many. He also read the best sex poem I know of—a spicy piece—and everyone was blushing because it was that good. Even with our different voices, we both favor a rich musicality in our poems, something that, I like to think, makes us poetry cousins.

The evening began as a good conversation should—naturally and with something to say. And as we wrapped up it felt as though we had come to some understanding, some new ground. Todd graciously ended—or tried to end—with a new poemrecited from memory. He blanked on the last two couplets and we all laughed as a room of friends. The space was absent of the pomp or ego I often feel at other poetry readings (if not from the poet, then from the host or members of the audience). Sure, there was reverence on occasion, but with pretension removed the poems could do their talking a little more easily and it seemed that everyone had a better time.

On Saturday, April 17, 1 PM, Toadlily editor and poet Meredith Trede will moderate a panel discussion entitled “Conversation: Maintaining the Poetic Self” (
Heimbold Auditorium) with panelists 
Ada Limón, 
Lynne Procope , and Brian Turner.

On Sunday, April 18, also at 1 PM, Toadlily editor and poet Myrna Goodman will be part of a panel on Publishing in the 21st Century. Other panel members are Zachary Schomburg of Octopus Magazines and Books and Sarah Gambito of Kundiman.

Hope to see you there!

Star-struck isn’t something I feel too often. Fondness, respect, admiration—these are regular parts of my life as a reader, in particular. But with a few folks I can’t get past that feeling that the legend of the person overshadows any chance I might have at a normal interaction with them. I love Jim Harrison’s work, but I think I could sit down to a gourmet meal with him and shoot the shit. If Larry Levis were still alive I’d buy him drinks and offer to light his smoke. But Sherman Alexie. I don’t know how I would talk to him.

I’ve written him many letters over the years, but I have never sent a single one. I just wrote another one this morning and this time I’m determined to put it in the mail.

Like many other writers, I just returned from this year’s AWP conference in Denver where, among other amazing things, I saw Sherman Alexie read at a Beloit Poetry Journal event. During the conference, I met up with old friends, made some new ones, chatted casually with Pulitzer-prize winners and many fabulous writers. I stayed out too late and had fun doing it. But Alexie’s reading made all the extra costs and slight discomforts, the feeling of being a lonely anonymous shape among 8,000 other mostly-lonely-anonymous shapes, worth all of it.

So what is it? What puts the twinkle in my eye when I speak of him? What makes him different?

I’ve been reading his books—poetry and prose—for years and they were some of the first books that really gave me the sense that I could do anything with my own writing. Not that I already had the skill or means to make anything work, but that I didn’t need to feel so confined in certain ways of approaching the world.

I think there is a sort of one way intimacy that makes a possible personal interaction strange and uncomfortable. From his words, I feel I know his mind. Even if it is a trickster mind. Inside the words I forget that he doesn’t know me. To chat with him would be like talking to a best friend with Alzheimer’s. “You mean you don’t remember anything about me?”

Okay, maybe that’s stretching it a bit far, but I think I’m getting closer to understanding what it is I mean to say. Perhaps it is because in his writing, Sherman wears so many different, but very convincing masks, that I’m not sure who I would be talking to. I think, without knowing for sure, that I can see Jim Harrison in his words. The same is true for Levis and countless other writers I care deeply for. Even another trickster like T.C. Boyle.

To resolve this rather complicated non-issue I have waited a long time to make sure that what I have to say is something of substance. I’m glad I haven’t gone up to him at a reading yet just to offer the same bland comment—however heartfelt—he hears all the time. I’m also glad I didn’t chase him down in Denver to ramble and stutter about his work (his work!) striking him as a crazy person to be avoided or forgotten. No, I waited. And now I’ll send a letter that says what I have long wanted to say, so that if we meet someday I can at least pretend he knows me a little, too.

Elizabeth Austen (Seattle, WA)                    
Andrea Bates (Wilmington, NC)
Carol Stevens Kner (New York, NY)                
Sarah Suzor  (Venice, CA)

Our great thanks go to all who submitted work during our January submissions period.

And she believed me.

For the next twenty minutes or so we bantered back and forth about the general cliches of the writerly life and I was very willing to oblige. She was kind enough and I didn’t have the heart (or the energy) to talk about the long bouts of rejection and doubt that make up my life as a writer. She assumed I wrote novels or something salable and I saw that glazed-over dreamy look in her eyes as she imagined me “making it big.”

I couldn’t bear to utter the word poetry in her presence.

I’ve done alright for myself, especially considering I’m a young lad, ringing in at 26-years-old, but I’ve been digging deep in the doubt pit lately. What the hell am I doing calling myself a writer? Can I really say that any of my work is any good?

That’s the general track my mind has been rolling on and, as the rejections stack up, that track seems long and unswerving. What I really want to think on here, though, is not the current state of my confidence, but rather the way I (or anyone) responds to a wavering faith.

It’s been said that doubt is a necessary part of a strong faith and I believe it. And even when I don’t believe much of anything, I keep putting myself out there just to avoid standing still. This is the drive that counters my doubt—the push that overcomes the pull.

I think patience is a key piece in this puzzle too and I’ve been saying that word to myself, mantra-like, for years. But somewhere along the line I stopped meaning it.

The word has the feel of a bell without its clapper. I hold it in my mouth, but nothing rings.

So, that too, needs some work. And even though I don’t know how it will happen, or what I would tell that lady if I ran into her on another flight, I’ll keep putting words down on the page, hoping to be shocked back into assuredness with a quick kick of surprise.

This last bit is something I’ve written about before, but I’ve been thinking even harder on it lately and have come to feel that (contrary to my earlier beliefs) needing another job is a good thing. Poetry and other writing pursuits fit easily into the definition of a career, but I believe the work itself is deepened by whatever else one must do. Yes, oftentime that is teaching and for those who love it I believe it is a great pairing. I’m not so convinced that’s my path. We have folks like Phillip Levine, Bob Hickok, Dorianne Laux, Steve Scafidi, B.H. Fairchild and others who’s work shows a familiarity with the working class life. Others are doctors and lawyers infusing their writing with a sense of the world beyond the word. And sure, there have been some fine trust fund writers, but if we could all just write, I’m starting to believe, I don’t think we would be as good.

When one has to make time for their writing practice, that sense of urgency and necessity comes to the surface. So, let’s praise sabaticals and fellowship years, MFA’s or whatever focused writing time we get—but let’s also be thankful that we are pushed to engage in other aspects of the world. I’d love to hear from folks who have something to say about this, whether it is to share your own personal vocation and avocation combo or to further ponder the possible benefits and drawbacks of being a working artist.

As I told the students today, my current path is just one version of many possible stories. I’d love to learn from yours too.

Up until the last couple days, I wasn’t very familiar with her work, but the memories and reflections of her life and writing compelled me to seek out her poems. Here is one I haven’t been able to put down:

Cuba, 1962

When the rooster jumps up on the windowsill
and spreads his red-gold wings,
I wake, thinking it is the sun
and call Juanita, hearing her answer,
but only in my mind.
I know she is already outside,
breaking the cane off at ground level,
using only her big hands.
I get the machete and walk among the cane,
until I see her, lying face-down in the dirt.

Juanita, dead in the morning like this.
I raise the machete—
what I take from the earth, I give back—
and cut off her feet.
I lift the body and carry it to the wagon,
where I load the cane to sell in the village.
Whoever tastes my woman in his candy, his cake,
tastes something sweeter than this sugar cane;
it is grief.
If you eat too much of it, you want more,
you can never get enough.

(from Vice)

….

Each story reflecting on this loss has both affirmed and furthered each previous claim: this woman was exceptional. Each voice has added depth to the memory of her life with striking authenticity. It gives me hope for how our individual stories can merge in the still-new landscape of online interaction—that even amid the overwhelming mesh of information and cynicism, people can come together with genuine presence. I didn’t know Ai in her life, but I will not forget her.

Toadlily Press
5th Anniversary Celebration
Poetry Reading and Reception
Sunday, May 23, 4:00 pm
Sarah Lawrence College
Sponsored by
Friends of the Esther Raushenbush Library
Library Pillow Room
For directions: http://www.slc.edu/about/visit/index.html

More details to come–hope to see you there!