It Goes Without Saying

Walking between rooms this evening I was startled by the light coming through this quilt Elie made for me years ago. We hung it in River’s room to help him sleep longer. I love the idea that he might wake to something like this.

Yesterday, immediately after sending off my final thesis to Linda Bierds and Heather McHugh, I found out that some forty pages of Heather’s missing comments had just been in the wrong mailbox. For a long time. What missing comments? Well, about six weeks ago I received a fat envelope of my own poems—15 pages from the middle of my ms.—covered in scratches and scrawls, yeses and nos, signed HMcH.

The comments were thorough, harsh and encouraging. And even when they sometimes killed the music I had heard in the lines, I could tell that Heather was largely right. I worked over the poems and then went on waiting for the remaining comments up until yesterday, when I turned the thesis in revised as best as I could.

But, of course, Heather is no flake! So with comments in hand, freshly home from the Poetry Northwest launch and homecoming party, I sat down and read. How I wish I’d had those comments earlier. But still. I have them now.

They sparked and lit a path through my work—showed me what must be done and gave me a readiness to dive back into even old “finished” pieces. And then I tried to go to bed. But in bed I could not usher out my poetry brain and so, like a monster in cheap horror film, it took over, and I was left scrambling for pen and paper in the dark flipping my cell phone open and closed to get a few lines down while my wife looked up from her dreaming unable to understand what had possessed me.

That mad dashing almost never occurs to me and yet I welcome that urge, especially seeing as I haven’t written anything new in about a month. So I’m back to work on the book. Sharpening. The hush hush of pages turning.

And in the meantime, I hope you’ll take a minute to check out my poem, “An Old Curiosity” which is up on Linebreak this week.

I know I’ve said it before, but I’m going to say it again: being a dad is the best part of my life. It’s not the idea of fatherhood or even the banal routines that shape a day—it is simply the fact that I love my boy so damn much. I never could have known it would be like this.

Just sitting in River’s presence as he crawls back and forth over my legs, through the grass, under trees—it’s a deep and satisfying pleasure I never tire of. Actually, the more I allow myself to take the world in according to his time frame (or my perception of it), the more attached I am to spending days like he does. Immediately curious about the world at hand.

The pleasure has grown with the nice weather. All we need is a blanket on the lawn and we’re set for hours. It’s a good life—one that already passes by too quickly.

Dang. My life is pretty nice right now. I’ve been lucky enough to go paddling on four separate occasions in the past week alone, I’m completely set to graduate and join the millions of other MFA’s out there, I have a two week break from teaching, and I just won tickets to a great show this Saturday. The list goes on: in about an hour’s time I get to pick up my little bro from the airport (back from his first year of college) before heading off to see Rita Dove tonight.

The spring has been good, but nothing close to stress-free, so this respite is very welcome. Yes, I’m still shirking some responsibilities. The horizon looms. But for now, in this moment, I am happy. And that seemed worth mentioning.

I’ve been fairly enamored with Linebreak ever since they came on the scene in early 2008. They feature a single poem for an entire week with an audio recording of the piece done by a different working poet. I made a recording for them just about a year ago and this past week I had the pleasure of recording another poem. This round led me to the amazing work of Justin Runge. You can find the poem, and my recording, here.

I also got the good news last week that they’ll be featuring one of my poems in the near future. I had been very slow to warm to online journals and it was Linebreak that first convinced of their value. I greatly respect others, such as Blackbird and Cerise Press, but I particularly love how Linebreak takes advantage of the best of the web: a clean, uncluttered space made dynamic through the coming together of different voices. Print magazines can’t do this and not many online journals are really using the medium to its full and appropriate dimensions (my humble opinion, of course).

I am quite happy, after being rejected by them at least twice before, that they are my first online publication. It’s a good crowd to be a part of and I hope you enjoy the poem when it goes live. Until then be sure to check out Justin’s amazing piece and let me know what you think of my recording.

River is just shy of 11 months old and life is more fun than ever. Aside from all of our fabulous new games River’s language is developing quite a bit. “Uh-oh” has been the big one for the past few weeks. Drop something. “Uh-oh.” Pick it up. Drop it again. “Uh-oh.” His articulations are practiced and he watches our faces to see how he should feel.

Then there is his own private language, which sounds something like a burbling faucet, quiet and breathy, spoken only to his animals and other imagined friends. It’s lovely to be around.

The little guy is climbing over everything and can’t be far from walking. He’s still pretty darn cute (unbiased statement of truth). And he’s lucky to have an uncle in the apparel design program at Seattle Central. Andrew has been working his butt off this year learning the trade and occasionally we see the benefits first hand. Pictured here is River in the hoody Andrew designed and made for him last week. It’s still a little big, but at this age it’s always nice to have something to grow into.

Tomorrow is Elie’s first Mother’s Day and River’s first birthday is just around the corner. Savor is the word of the era.

I’ve been writing songs for about 14 years—ever since the first day I picked up a guitar. I used to play for around five hours every day. Writing songs, recording them on cheap little analog four tracks, tape after tape after tape. I still have a box of old cassettes that I can’t listen to because they are recording at a higher speed to increase audio quality. Also, they are mostly awful. I once had the dream of “making it,” but that desire has long since faded.

Even so, I still play pretty much everyday and in the past year I’ve found myself playing to River a lot. I usually keep a guitar in every room and then there’s my mandolin, the piano and drums. Basically, we make music all over the house. I don’t usually finish the songs I start or ever find time to record them, but this morning I snuck upstairs for a couple hours to lay down some tracks on a brand new little ditty. It’s pretty poppy, very simple and filled with basic lyrics written with River in mind.

I think I’ll take a chance and post it here, even though it is quite rough, just because I’ve had a lot of fun with it. River seems to like it too, bouncing up and down on his knees with a focused look that says dancing doesn’t come easy just yet, but he clearly feels the rhythm.

Oh, and if sounds like sometimes I don’t know the words I’m singing, it’s because I don’t. As for audio quality, computer speakers will do, but headphones or a nicer sound system sure make a big difference. Either way, I hope you “enjoy” the chance to hear me at work and play in a medium that is a distant cousin to my work with poetry.

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**** Also, I apologize for the unnecessary “dude” photo. I really don’t take myself that seriously. Your forgiveness is much appreciated.

“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 poem recited 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.

My lovely family and I woke up way too early Thursday morning in order to drive two hours around the rim of the Salish Sea (Puget Sound) so that we might drop Elie off at Sunfield Waldorf School for a morning observation. The school is housed on a working farm and among their normal curriculum, the students participate in daily farm chores and some occasional food preparation. I didn’t stick around to see how things actually run, but it sounds like a pretty fabulous idea.

While Elie was occupied there, River and I worked to see the lay of the land. We drove around Indian and Marrowstone Islands, Port Hadlock, Chimicum, Irondale and then up to Port Townsend. Why did we do all this exploring? Well, here’s the bit I’ve been keeping all to myself: I registered for boatbuilding school. Yes. Wooden Boatbuilding school.

For years I have been dreaming and talking about opening up my own little boat shop, building canoes, kayaks, row boats, skiffs, dories, and maybe even little sail boats. Over the years, I’ve built four cedar-strip canoes. I know some basics and can do a pretty decent job, but I want to be an expert. I’ve looked for folks to apprentice with, but I’ve had no luck landing that sort of gig. And with my MFA nearly over, this seems the last key piece of study to begin living the dream.

We picked Elie up around 11:00 and had lunch before heading over to the Northwest School of Wooden Boatbuilding for a visit. The campus is right on the water in a sweet little nook of Port Hadlock, dotted with cottages and the cute little Ajax Cafe. A big old dog name Granite lumbered outside the office. It was clearly a place meant for this type of work. Inside, we talked with one of the school’s staff members and walked through the workshops, the smell of wood sweet in the air. There were a number of boats under construction and all of them looked amazing. Beyond the obvious skill shown in their construction, I’m drawn to the school’s notion of its work: to teach craftsmanship through the medium of boatbuilding. This means that the skills are transferable to cabinet-making, furniture building and other fine wood-working trades.

We’ve been deliberating quietly, weighing the pros and cons of making a move out to the Peninsula. We love Seattle and our friends here, but Port Townsend is pretty swell too. Copper Canyon Press lives there. There’s a great little art and literary scene, good live music, great restaurants and wonderful places to live. They even had a brewery! And, of course, water, water everywhere and easy access to Olympic National Park.

We’re still on the cusp of an official decision, but for now it seems we’ll be moving that way late summer. We might only stay for the one year of the program or we might stay longer. Who knows. We’re just glad to consider it a move with long-term potential.

I’ve always wanted to have a bit more truth behind my self-given boatbuilding poet title. This is the chance to make that happen. I’ll start taking boat orders Fall 2011, so—friends, strangers, family, dopplegangers, name-sharers, writers, editors, dreamers, students, kindred spirits, et all—keep that in mind.

So, it turns out I do know how to teach 8th graders. I’ve been at the residency for a couple weeks now with some great successes—and even when I can’t get them writing great stuff, I can get them to shut up. It’s nice to walk into a new space of chatty, distracted and often disrespectful 14-year-olds and not fumble. I know about 95% of their names, which is invaluable for calling them out when they are talking while I’m talking—which is almost all the time.

So far, I’ve been blown away by a lot of the work and I see the potential in the folks who are choosing to resist a bit. I’m glad we still have about ten sessions to go before the year is out.

I’m still thinking a lot about what I want to do with my life—aside from writing, fathering and husbanding—and I’m not sure it is teaching. With that said, I am very glad that I can teach confidently and have a pretty good time doing it. Many thanks to the ever wonderful folks at Seattle Arts & Lectures for giving me this opportunity.

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Tomorrow Elle and River and I head to the Olympic Peninsula for a mystery adventure. I’ll probably divulge the substance of our soirée after our return.

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My critical thesis is due Thursday! And it’s not done! And I haven’t worked on it since February! And it is the only thing standing between me and the the millions of other official MFA’s out there. It will be nice to have that masters though.

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In honor of National Poetry Month and a generous grant I received from 4Culture last spring, Todd Boss and I will be reading at Fremont Place Books on Saturday, April 24th at 7pm. It’s free! And you don’t want to miss Todd reading his work. Beyond being being backed by W.W. Norton and such venues as The New Yorker, Todd is an exceptional reader of his own work. Check out some of the recordings on his website to see what I mean (or check The Missouri Review, VQR or Poets & Writers, all of which feature audio recordings of his poems).

I hope, if you are in the Seattle area, you can make it out. Beyond the books we hope to sell, there’ll probably be a drink or three involved afterward. Cheers.