January/February 2008 Guest Poet: Jill Alexander Essbaum

[Larwar]

One of the greatest things about language is its ability to criss-cross the boundaries and leave the world with millions of people using the same words in very different ways. This month's Guest Poet, Jill Alexander Essbaum, makes that abundantly clear. With this selection, we see rhyme, religion, and eroticism intertwined in poetry that becomes both unpredictable and anticipatory. Many thanks to Jill Alexander Essbaum for joining us, and many thanks to J. Brian Long for asking her to do so.

Bio

Jill Alexander Essbaum is the author of the 1999 Bakeless Prize winner, Heaven (UPNE 2000), and the newly released volume of poetry, Harlot (No Tell Books, 2007). Born and raised in Texas, she currently splits her time between Switzerland and the US. Her poems have appeared in journals religious and secular, print and online, well-known and famously obscure, including Poetry, The Christian Century, No Tell Motel, Rhino, Image, MiPoesias, Black Warrior Review, Christianity and Literature, and many others.



Argh, Poetica!

I write this not as a statement of intent, rather as an apologia of sorts. By this, I mean that the following comments regarding my work do not precisely reflect my goals as a writer. Instead, these few paragraphs serve as post-poetic post-its that attempt to impose an order upon that which is already finished. The black box, if you will, of my poetic airplane, without, one hopes, the crash. Even so, the following tendencies veritably collude—if not collide—to scheme my poems into the poems that they are.

I write with an eye to form. No. Make that an ear to form. Not quite a formalist, not quite not, I have alternately called myself a formal-ish poet or a rhymist. For too long, the rhymes we applauded in poems were of the subtle and unheard sort. My of late work pretty much ignores that standard of poetic decorum. Rhyme quiet? Nope. Rhyme loud. Rhyme multiple sets of words. Rhyme clauses. Rhyme a word to itself. Rhyme a word to an anagram of itself (my current obsession). Rhyme consonants. Rhyme a word to a word it simply doesn’t rhyme with (this, I have no excuse or rationale for, except to say, sometimes the idea of a word “rhymes” with another word, and sometimes—on the rarest of occasions—it works). Too, I have tended of late to the natural rhythm of the rhymed, unmetered couplet. Visually, it opens a poem up (think: the bellows of an accordion pulled apart). Sonically, it moves the poem forward at a steady and surprisingly fast trot.

I believe in God. And in the beginning was The Word and The Word was with God and The Word was God. I mention this because my work is unashamedly Christian. And while I don’t feel uncomfortable being called a religious writer (seeing as I am both, religious and a writer), it occurs to me to say to anyone considering my work that mine isn’t a particularly organized agenda. In fact, my first book was published while I was discerning a call to the ordained ministry. Indeed, the answer was a resounding “Are you kidding me?” For, once you put that little collar on, you have a responsibility to speak on behalf of The Church. It would be irresponsible of me as a poet to compromise art for denominational politics. And it would be crude of me as a minister to continue to say n’importe quoi to n’importe qui, fold and flock alike. My opinions and my experiences of the Almighty (and especially their stanzified counterparts) are mine and mine alone.

I believe in the body. The body of work, the body of the poem, the body of Christ, and the best of all bodies, the human body. I mention this because in addition to being unashamedly religious, my poems are also, well, unashamed. Critics and former colleagues alike have hinted at the Donne-esque impulses in my work. Whether or not that’s a comparison I deserve is another story. But the truth is that the Christian tradition is ripe with flesh-conscious apologists. Even the words we use to describe religious experience—the passion, the ecstasy, the rapture—sound less like a Sunday service and more like a roll in the hay. When I write my more erotic poems, the bespoken-of Lover is sometimes a person, sometimes God. In my better poems, the Lover is both. In my professional experience (and forgive the categorizing), the Christian reader has an easier time dealing with the sexual nature of my work than a purely secular reader has embracing the Christo-centric poems.

I believe that a poem is capable of pleasure. (See also, above.) A reason I am so married to the use of rhyme in my work is that it produces sounds that please the tongue to say, and please the ear to hear. But pleasure comes in other ways. An inventive image, a combination of words never before seen in that precise order (what is a poem, anyway, but that?). In recent years I’ve grown exceedingly bored with irony and with (for lack of a better description) the “buttoned-up-suitcoat-and-over-coiffed-hair”-ness of poems that are afraid to be human. As a counter-measure, I take great delight in pun, in ribaldry, in cleverness for the sake of cleverness—the triad of which amounts to little more than the poetic equivalent of a pratfall. To quote from Marvin Bell’s 32 Statements about Writing Poetry (number 2: On the one hand, it’s poetry! On the other, it’s just poetry.

I genuinely love what it is that I do. And I believe in how I do it. I write daily, prayerfully, thankfully, and occasionally, painfully with the knowledge that beyond all other things, writing poems is exactly that which I was born to do. God save me.


Advice to Beginners.

1. Read voraciously, and not just poetry.
2. But, read poetry. And not just people in the canon.
3. Don’t seek to publish everything you write. And don’t rush to publish. Not everything you write is going to be publish-worthy. And not everything you write you are going to want to lay claim to in the future (think: internet archives and scathing break-up poems…)
4. Memorize poems. Your own and other poets’.
5. Show up to the page. Daily, reverently, and with a respect for the art you are undertaking. I have a quote from Nick Cave taped to my wall. The context is an interviewer asking him about God and his creative process. "…I believe that these things we're talking about come from God. My responsibility as an artist is to turn up at the page or the piano or the microphone. The rest is up to God." I am certain—certain!—that what he is saying is absolutely true. Our responsibility is to show up. Everything else—the work, the publishing, the artistic vision, the success (and the failure alike)—is up to God. Or, if you like, the Muse.


Five poems by Jill Alexander Essbaum poems. From Harlot (No Tell Books, 2007)

Poem

After the minute hand husked past seven,
Before it lumbered to thirty-nine.
After the headache, before the aspirin.
After Jesus, but long before Christ.

After the preface, before the epilogue.
After I winnowed the chaff from your grain.
After we kissed, before your hard-on.
After I waxed. Before you waned.

After the Scotch, but before the highball shattered.
After you came, before I arrived.
After we fucked, before it mattered.
After good riddance. Before goodbye.

The Villagers Warned Me About You

The Wheelwright spoke, He’ll run you in circles!
The Lawyer affirmed there was little appeal.
The Watchmaker seconded: All complication.
The Meter maid cited: No validation.

The Stargazer charted each path of our defeat.
While the Pastor swore, It’s blasphemy!
The Fishwife angled there were others in the sea.
The Schoolmarm instructed me to mind my seat.

The Cobbler eschewed you, said you were a heel.
The Wet-nurse expressed that you’d milk me dry.
He’ll bleed you in vain, gushed the local Stigmatic.
The Private Investigator called you a dick.

The Fire Marshall cautioned you would burn down my house.
The Smithy bellowed, and the Drunk demanded proof.
The Postman was frank, said you wouldn’t deliver.
The Barber poled his shop regarding keen-edged razors.

The Gambler wagered that you were a longshot.
The Janitor leaked, There’s a hole in his bucket.
The Barkeep poured over bitters and thirsts.
The Butcher revealed that you were the worst.

The Artist sketched out how you would frame me.
In the Realtor’s appraisal, you’d likely quitclaim me.
The Orthodox avowed you would truly incense me.
The Sharpshot gauged that you might not miss me.

The Stripper tittered: He’ll bust your bubble!
The Seamstress snapped: Oh, knot again?!
The Vintner whined there’d be sour grapes.
The Mortician laid it out: The consequence is grave—

And the Town Fool married you anyway.

Storms

Once we sifted clouds for miracles and I,
I danced with my skirt pulled up to my thighs.
You fingered the drizzle and mist at my seam,
And nothing untoward blew through the airstream.

And yet, the hurricane came.
So we masked the weakness of our window’s pain
With tape. Those intersecting Xs and their gummy residues.
It only rained a day and then I lost you.

De Profundis
………………He sent darkness and made it dark.
………………Psalm 105:28

I draw closed like a curtain in your absence.
I torch the sugar, I swill the absinthe,
I renew the old suicide, gladly. A noose of laments

have I trussed to the chapel’s top rafter.
Your luminous mysteries loom dim and disastrous.
Come and save me, Master.

Mercy, pity, peace, love.
Jesus. What became of us?
When I loosed my hair as the harlot does,

my agonies dragged me hither. I shiver now alone,
a damn, damp woman in a dressing gown,
ill-fit for the dressing-down

your Going and your Gone betrothed
me. Let the sad self spill her sad, sad story: It was cold
that year, and no one liked the books I wrote.

And about my throat, I wore
the reprimanding hands of men who swore
that they adored me. But the butcher’s

bride is just another slab of flesh he cleaves.
Simpering and thirty-three,
I did not know what you would have of me

but an apology. At thirty-four,
you are the longish thing I long for,
Lord.

And so I whore these corridors of darkness.
I troll the streets like a shamefaced
trollop, your fancy woman anointed in nard, in piss.

I am bliss without your blessing,
a stammering
silence accidentally

spoken. Born again,
but with a birth defect, and broken—
for what the devil claims he rarely abandons.

Out of the depths, have I cried
unto thee, have desired but thee,
have blighted thee with my sleight-of-hand wiles

or at least I have tried to.
Beneath the fright of a lightless moon,
I see it was no use. It is no matter that I ache for you—

and God, I do—there’s hardly a corpse that’s crawled from her crypt.
Let them carve into my gravestone O Thou Hypocrite.
Should this praying kill me, I’ll have earned it.

Failed: A Feeble Fable

But there’s no moral to this,
No parable despite the kiss,
No tale. Oh, oh it is a sad thing,
As we still our chins to stone and suffering,

And winter fastens to our spines
Like drunkenness to wine.
Love, your hands are plain as air,
And in their starkness, stiff, impaired.

But ours is an answer in want of a question,
A lubricant lacking its friction.
A sin sans Christian who’ll confess it.
A skirt without a girl to undress from it.

Indeed and very indeed. We might have made
Some proper pair of candlesticks displayed
Atop a mantle in a house with lust and laughter.
We won’t, of course. There is no ever after.

Websites

Author’s Personal Website
Publisher of Harlot
Publisher of Necropolis, (forthcoming)

[jbrianlong]

Nick Cave:"…I believe that these things we're talking about come from God. My responsibility as an artist is to turn up at the page or the piano or the microphone. The rest is up to God."

Jill Essbaum: "I am certain—certain!—that what he is saying is absolutely
true. Our responsibility is to show up. Everything else—the work, the
publishing, the artistic vision, the success (and the failure alike)—is up to
God. Or, if you like, the Muse."

Yes. Absolutely. I agree. I too am certain; I just don't know why.

Why are you certain? What makes you certain (certain!)?


--J Brian Long

[JAEssbaum]

Dunno.

But I-- like you-- do know that it's true.

Poetry is not generally quantifiable--> it's not like adding sums where there's a single correct answer. It's not like putting together a model airplane kit where if you glue the right parts to the right other parts in the right order then at the end of it all you have something that passes for a small yet stylized representation of something large and otherwise too unwieldy for personal consideration (actually, the second part of that sounds pretty good in a way... but there's still no set of point by point instructions).

Our rule-book is comprised of the entire canon of poetry that came before this very poem we right just this now-- and yet, we come to the page with the gall (yes, gall) to think that we have something worthwhile to add to it. Now, by my reckoning, in order to do that, you've got to have some sort of faith in something larger than you. In the end, my hand merely transcribes the words. Of course there is personal volition, artistic vision, etc etc blah blah blah. But where does it come from, that?

So: I've got to believe in a Bigger Picture. Elsewise, I'm stuck. Stymied. Staid. And a key part of that Bigger Picture is relinquishing control in the art I'm involved in. For, in the end, I have to believe that I'm not entirely in charge of it. If that was the case, honestly?, I'd pick something less subjective to devote my life too.

As for 'showing up'--- that means fully. Turn your email off. Turn the television off. You can leave the browser up (there are certain sites I use when I go 'word hunting') but trust me, you can check for TMZ updates later and your buddy's blog can wait. A little music is ok, I think, but keep it soft and instrumental. Oh I'm the queen of futzing around and not holding myself to task. But part of this vocation is patience (not a popular part). One's gotta be ready for the Muse when she calls. She's fickle and impatient herself. This is why you must carry a pen and notepad or a tape recorder (what I use) with you wherever you go. A line might come to you waiting for a bus. And you can't trust yourself to remember it. Many a poem's been lost to that folly. She wants to be paid attention to, the Muse. If she thinks you aren't, she'll punish you by her absence.

Mind you, this is all thru the lenses of my experience. And now that I read over it, it sounds a bit flaky and hocus pocus. Still, I stand by the general principles here.

Do that make sense?

[jbrianlong]

"Do that make sense?"

Yes it do.

To me it do.

This:

"Poetry is not generally quantifiable--> it's not like adding sums where there's a single correct answer. It's not like putting together a model airplane kit where if you glue the right parts to the right other parts in the right order then at the end of it all you have something that passes for a small yet stylized representation of something large and otherwise too unwieldy for personal consideration..."

confirms what I have long felt, but had recently been (wrongly)
doubting. You have reaffirmed my faith. Thank you. It never
fails that every time we speak, I benefit.

--J Brian Long

[sfellner]

Dear Jill,


I am a big fan of your poems and you as a person. There's not very many poets who I look forward to buying their books, as I have done both of yours. So: please take the following questions as a way of opening the conversation about your ideas rather than as a reactionary statement.

It seems to me that you're surprised that secular readers would havea more difficult time with your poems than Christian readers who may be resistant to the sexual nature of the work. Is that really that surprising, and have you asked yourself why? It is important to remember that the framework of the poems (many individual ones and both books as a whole) do foreground themselves as Christian explicitly and unabashedly (I mean this descriptively and not at all critically): there's safety for the Chrisitan reader in that implicit naming and structuring, even if some of the material within may prove to be troublesome.

For the secular reader, especially those who may be under attack by the religious right (and I am not at all insinuating you are a part of that; I see you as a person with extremely progressive politics) may feel unsafe or even threatened by your text which could be co-opted by people with much less kind intentions.

Do you think Christian poets who are not part of the religious right have any ethical and/or religious repsonibilities to make sure their poetry is not used to further marginalize other oppressed groups?

By the way, I do plan on using your book in my class next time I teach a poetry workshop.

Steve Fellner

[JAEssbaum]

I'm soooo happy to hear from you.

I can/will definitely address your comments. I need to think on them a little more. I suspect you're pretty much right on the money.

Will I see you in, say, two and half weeks in nyc?

more very very soon
jill

[JAEssbaum]

Steve---

I’ve thought a bit more about your comments.

The answer is, no I suppose it’s not that surprising. Even so, it kind-of does surprise me.

How’s that for waffling?

One of the things that’s probably not over-the-top evident in my poems (tho, more so evident in my written comments, and definitely evident in face to face conversation with me) is that I am ((un?) ashamedly) a product of my for-what-it’s-worth American Puritanical heritage. To be clearer and to the point, I have a haunting slew of moral demons that pretty much chase me down on a regular basis. ‘Moral’ is probably not the right word, but you’ll understand when I name them—propriety, circumspection, right-appearance, purity (or, the impression thereof), cleanliness (or, the impression thereof). These are all, of course, false gods. Jesus never once asked for propriety among his followers and when he spoke of purity, he pointed out that none of us, despite our fiendest efforts, are. And yet, the American Christ (a pale (in more ways than one) imitation of the True Christ) would have us not shine lights upon the darker corners of our cobwebby rooms in the house of us, but bolt the door beyond and move a heavy chair in front of it. This is extremely reductionary, I know. And again, I am speaking from my particular set of circumstances—namely, my upbringing. I don’t fault my upbringers, not at all. They, too, are products of a past that doesn’t entirely belong to them.

So the surprise, then, comes partly that my poems DON’T apologize for drinking too much gin and showing more than enough leg. It’s simply something that still seems foreign to me—as a person, not necessarily a poet—that I have the gall to write what I write, knowing full well the commotion that it would cause in the world I was raised to believe was God’s vision of creation.

Again, I’m reducing 36 years of life to a couple trite paragraphs, but still I think the point’s valid. I hope that I’ve never intimated my poems speak for the Church Universal, much less God his-self. They speak for me alone. And sometimes, in light of the voice I was raised to speak, I’m surprised as fuck.

I think, in terms of secular readership, we have to look at it also in gross categorizations. Because if there is an American archetype for what “Christian” is to mean (and there is, and again while it’s superficial and tends towards the trite, there is a reason why the archetype or stereotype sticks—and it’s because there’s a nugget of truth therein), then there is also a corresponding category of “The Secular.” And this too, while easy and hardly encompassing, is also verifiable. Think: the reactive flinch one has whenever the word “Christian” is put in front of something as a qualifier—Christian music…. The Christian voter… Christian education…. Christian poetry.

I—too—prickle at it. In the end, when I try and put my poetry into any sort of category, I fail. So my reactions are likely reactions against other reactions—chiefly internal, sometimes external.

That being said, I have gotten a little bit of flack from secular readers about the blunt sexuality in Harlot. So, maybe that blows apart my whole thesis.

Of late, though, and I don’t think it’s inappropriate for me to mention it here, I’ve been in the throes of a crisis of personal faith. It’s not showing up so much in my work except that I find I have to struggle to sit down and work. This, I am sure, is tied up in the fact that my work is undeniably knotted to my faith. Which in turn, isn’t knotted to anything at the moment, just tangled in a heap on the top of my head, not unlike my mess of curly hair.

Oh, the tragedy of metaphor!

What do you think, Steve? Brian? Anyone?

Un-christian-ly enough, it is my hope that when people (if people) do speak of my work, the thing they say is “damn, that woman wrote with great finesse,” instead of “lookie how she spoke of God.”

Okay, that’s not completely true. If someone were to say they understood God better because of my work, I’d say that was a pretty fine thing indeed. If only because it might—MIGHT!—mean that I, then, must have understood something true and right and good in the first off.

I should mention that Harlot is possibly the least Christian collection I’ve pulled together, though there are poems (three in particular—“Crux” which was published by No Tell Motel and can be found on their website and “De Profundis” which is posted somewhere at the top of this conversation and “Despair is the Only Unforgiveable Sin” which is on 42opus’ website) that are more religious than anything I’ve written before, will ever hope to write.

[Larwar]

Jill,

I've found myself thinking carefully about your comments and poems--in large part because I believe it is representative of a struggle (for lack of a better word) that our generation (and perhaps other generations) has been quietly contemplating for quite some time. In essence, that is a struggle between our perception of what it means to be truly Christian and how we maintain our faith in a world of chaos against what is more or less an "American" value of repression, particularly in terms of sexuality and womanhood, but also in terms of quite simply what it means to be truly human.

What I love about your selection of poems and your comments about poetics is that in some way, you have not only managed to write about this struggle, but also seem to have reconciled it within yourself. As I read your newest response, however, I see that is not necessarily the case. Crises of faith still happen and when they do, they are inextricably tied to the creative outlets by which you've managed the struggle all along (note that is simply my perception of your words and is most certainly affected by own background and beliefs).

I have found it nearly impossible to write in poetry about faith or sexuality, so I have an extreme admiration for your ability to combine the two in what seems, dare I say, a completely natural manner. I wonder, though, if your experience or knowledge of non-Christian faiths has played a role in your work at all. For example, when I do write "Christian" poetry, it almost always has some element of what would seem "the pagan" culture because traditional Christianity has never reconciled itself with nature, so there isn't a "Christian" metaphor to use. Of course, if I was writing about how nature was dark and frightening and isolating, I could find all sorts of imagery, but you get my meaning (I hope). The same could be said of traditional Christianity and sexuality, yet many non-Christian religions do not view this essential human characteristic in the same light. So I wonder if some outside influence is present as I read your poems.
_________________
Never wait for the muse. She's probably waiting for you.

[JAEssbaum]

Larina--

It's true that all religion holds some fascination with me. But I'm opening myself up for potential criticism by telling you that, personal sins, peccadilloes, and flagrant misappropriations of all things holy aside, I hold to a tremendous suspicion of pagan practices and ultimately consider myself pretty orthodox (little o).

Of course, I'm quite aware from whence comes the bulk of what we call typical and traditional Christian practices (a winter celebration of Jesus' birth and Easter to point to two). There's little way around that, actually. Nevertheless, it makes me nervous in ways I'm not really completely conscious of, and thus I can't rightly explain. However, I _don't_ think it's a global acceptance of the truth found in other faiths that gives me liberty to talk about the things I talk about in my work. It's a good guess, to be sure, and I'll think on it some more, but in the end I'm not convinced that's what's going on in me.

As far as the writing about and reconciling the struggle—I have to keep reminding myself that the struggle IS the solution. The question IS the quest. The answer—well, the answer is almost orthogonal to the whole process. I gotta tell you tho, I HATE that that’s the case (or- seems to be). And you’re right to say that they—the woebegoness, the despair-- are inextricably tied to the outlets. My output of late has slowed to a trickle. Ugh. Ok, that could also be tied to the post-partum that invariably accompanies a book or any large project. Still, it is showing itself in tandem with my current valley-of-the-bones-esque dry spell.

You use the word “natural” talking about how I write about sex and faith. I really appreciate that. I can only say ‘it’s natural to me.’ This hearkens back (albeit obliquely) to my original response to Steve. This may even come across as a backtrack but nevertheless here goes—I write the way I write and say the stuff I say because to say anything else would be like telling a fib—I could probably get away with it, but it would feel awkward to me, I’d know I was faking it and eventually my dis-ingenuity would be exposed. However, it’s a case of damned if you do or don’ts—while I can hardly imagine any other way of writing than the way I write, I’m always looking over my shoulder to make sure I’m not in ‘trouble’ somehow. Wow. A poet that DOESN’T want to get into trouble. Qualifying everything I say does seem to safeguard against some of it. I guess I ought to get past the not wanting to cause trouble hang-up.

So, in your own work, Larina, how do you reconcile opposing forces? It doesn’t have to be religiously-opposed forces—political, artistic, philosophic? I suppose that’s whats at the gut of what any of us try and do.

[jbrianlong]

"Of late, though, and I don’t think it’s inappropriate for me to mention it here, I’ve been in the throes of a crisis of personal faith. It’s not showing up so much in my work except that I find I have to struggle to sit down and work. This, I am sure, is tied up in the fact that my work is undeniably knotted to my faith. Which in turn, isn’t knotted to anything at the moment, just tangled in a heap on the top of my head, not unlike my mess of curly hair.

Oh, the tragedy of metaphor!

What do you think, Steve? Brian? Anyone? "

Well, because I'm a guy, I want to try to fix it. I want to write about how
doubt in all its manifestations is natural (Ma Theresa did, and, of course,
Christ did-- "Eloi, Eloi...") and that it's so natural I bet God Itself doubts
us at times. I want to tell you not to worry, and all that kind of thing,
blahblahblah, ad nauseum. I know, though, that's not what you're
asking.

Because I was once on my way to being a poet, but am no longer, and
am slightly bitter about it, I want to write about how thankful you should
be you have that trickle of work; I don't write poetry anymore; I've
switched religions (but still celebrate some of its holidays); but writing
about that in this thread would be inappropriate and self-centered (and
boring as hell).

Because I consider you a friend, I want to sympathize with you (and I
can't help that, so I do).

So what do I think? Poetry-wise, this:

To take your tragedy of metaphor and make into a catastrophe:

Could it be time to change hairstyles? A temporary dye-job (just to see
how it looks)?

Maybe your work is getting ready to graduate from itself? Maybe
the slow-down is a signal (from Who, what source, I don't know) that
it's time to untie your work from your faith (as your perceive it)?

Just thoughts I have, and they're probably way off. They usually
are.

It's early and I'm late.

--J Brian Long
_________________
I'm going to manage to die one of these days,
even if it kills me.

[Larwar]

Jill,

I gave your comments some thought--needed to--before responding. Interestingly enough, I've never considered myself even remotely pagan. It is perhaps through my intense love of nature and my study of so many religious and philosophical principles that such metaphors inevitably find their way into my work. I believe strongly that in a world where information overload is the norm, it is impossibly to not be influenced, even if subconsciously, by the sheer diversity of thought around us.

On a side note, I had to giggle a little about what you call post-partum from a lengthy project. I find myself sinking into that dry spell just before I finish something, which is a really rather irritating character flaw. Equally afraid of success and failure, my brain just stops working. I hope I don't find myself in similar straights once a project is actually finished!

You asked me a very serious question that at first I wasn't quite sure how to answer. How do I reconcile opposing forces in my work? After a lot of thought, I have to say that I don't. I acknowledge opposing forces, may even credit my "side" of those forces, but I don't reconcile them. Probably the most drastic example in my own work is the constant push-pull between the natural world and the mechanical world such as these lines (from two different poems):

The way needles under skin have replaced leeches
injecting toxins to extract paralysis.

the way sunbeams mount over the windowsill
and oxygen hums through machines and vinyl

I find that these kinds of opposing images are fairly common in my work, though these two poems utilize them more consistently than others. I don't try to reconcile them, but rather simply insist that the contrast exists and that sometimes there are parallels we don't recognize at first breath. Many of my poems--and much of my prose--could be considered reflections on such comparisons and contrasts, perhaps meanderings of the mind subtly influenced by all of those forces that are beyond our control.

Other times, I directly confront one force with the voice of another, usually outside of my own voice and I do this quite deliberately (whether or not it works is another matter entirely). My goal when I write is to express the world as I see it and to explore contradicting ideas and perceptions for all they're worth. That may be why I so admire the poet who can be completely at home with their self. Mine is ever changing.

Thank you for making me think thoroughly about this aspect of my work. It is, I think, a question that every writer should ask themself at one point or another and a question that I've neglected until now.

All my best,
Larina

[JAEssbaum]

Yeep, I'm falling down on the job! Where did this week go? I'll tell you where it went-- it went the way of me getting ready to go to AWP next week-- who here has had the AWP experience? I find it terrifying and heady and unsteadying, to be honest. And to be even honest-er, I plan on spending much of the weekend with a fat bourbon in my hand.... is that bad?

Let me know if anyone who is reading this forum will be in NYC for AWP next weekend-- the conference is as you all prolly know sold out (i dont think thats ever happened) but as we all also know the REAL fun happens off-site. And I will be involved in a small-press even/reading off site and if anyone is interested i'll put up the details. (A teaser-- it's a Miss/Mister Micropress Pageant....)

Brian-- you're sweet to want to 'fix' me but it's the busted parts that are the most valuable. Change hairstyles? Fie on you! Me and my curly long locks be staying as is

Larina-- I'm intrigued by you getting anxious during the penultimate stages of a project. Can you talk about that some more? Is it continual futzing with lines? Words? Is it rabid revision?

I'm having a problem right now-- I can't remember if I already posted this (so many problems!)-- that's not similar but in a similar vein. I have a book coming out in the next few months and-- dont get me wrong-- I absolutely love and believe in this book. But: this is actually the second book I wrote (Harlot is the 4th). This book is at least 6 years old. So, naturally, I'm divorced from the process of having written it, as it was done so long ago. Too, it's not written in the style I now write in. What I'm currently having to overcome is the desire to rewrite every damn poem in the whole damn book to make it 'more like' the poems I'm writing now. So I guess there always something. Something be praised!

I think those lines of yours that you quote are very apt examples of the push-pull opposition you are speaking of. But--you admit to admiring the poet who is at home with his/herself--- I think if any of us were really at home, we'd not be writing poems-- I'm gonna encourage you, then, to keep doing what it is that it seems like you're doing which is chasing those push-pull forces-- it's tiring, to be sure, running one way, darting back another and all the frenzy in between. I dont know your work but from listening to you and reading those lines, I see it's charged with.... paradox. I like that in art. Moreso-- I value that in poetry.

I have more to say but its 3.13 in the morning. I must redeem myself for being a neglectful poet o' the month!

Question for discussion: How does everyone deal with anxiety surrounding the completion of a piece, a project (during, pre, post)? Is this an across the board neurosis with poets? How do you bust out from it?

jill

[sbunch]

Hi, Jill. A fat bourbon in hand seems reasonable, though I'd go with a Jameson. I was not familiar with your work until you appeared here. While this is an admittedly boring question, I'm interested in who your influences are. You've staked out (I used to be a surveyor) a rather unique niche, so how you got here fascinates me. For example, did you bounce between Michael McClure and Brother Antoninus? (That question is exactly half humorous.) Thanks for being here at poets.org. Steve
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"Entrapment is this society's sole activity...& only laughter can blow it to rags." (Edward Dorn, Gunslinger, Book III)

[Kaltica]

Jill:

Welcome to Poets.org and thanks for agreeing to be our honoured Guest Poet!

[JAEssbaum]