I used to write about deliberate practice, which continues to fascinate me. But right now, I’m having a hard time just practicing–at all. Writing–at all. Recently, Bethany Reid posted about writing, starting writing, writing for 15 minutes, or even 5, setting your goals low instead of lofty so you could start.

This aligned nicely with a Copyblogger post about micro-goals. Feel overwhelmed? Set your goals lower–small enough that you can actually do them.

Last week, my goal was to do three 15-minutes free writes a day. On my best day, I did two. On my worst day, zero. It is hard to go lower than zero. I was late, I was tired, it was dark, the rain was too loud on the roof of my car. Excuses. Or my goals weren’t low enough.

I believe in muscle memory and the power of habit. I believe in showing up to write. And I remind myself that a lot of that initial writing, most of it, nearly all of it might be dreck, and that’s okay. That dreck is getting me headed in the right direction, even if I can’t see it yet.

Now it’s time to set new goals for a new week.

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I had not met Kim-An Lieberman in real life, in person, had not even met her poems, although I remember the community’s grief at her person. This week, I had the bittersweet honor and ravage of making that acquaintance in her book In Orbit, from Blue Begonia Press.

How deftly she has woven story and image, braided past and present, family history and the history a war leaves behind, its scars seen and unseen, as in the lyrical and desperate “Unearthing Song.”

And then the final section–her clear, tender, ruthless telling of her journey through cancer. It is unimaginable, as when she describes coming home to her children:

…Their hair vining everywhere. They talk in Technicolor
and their eyes are feverish bright. I marvel over their suddenness
like I marveled at their birth, a full and breathing human weight
gifted into my arms, where I held nothing a mere moment before.

And yet, she writes this. She takes us to a place we hope we never have to go. We are left heartbroken and grateful for her strength, her bravery, and her wonderful gift with language.

I found some of my favorite images in “The Immigrant Gardens”:

The Immigrant Gardens

On the slopes of First Hill, on the banks of the freeway,
at the corner of Maynard and Main,
the immigrant gardens are blooming.
Daikon and bitter melon, shiso and snow pea,
bamboo shoots rising through layers of clay.
In the static buzz of the cicada streetlamps,
under the tarp of the storm-furrowed sky,
bok choy bursts yellow, peppers clatter down the vine.
Ghostlines of Japantown snake along wet cement
past the boarded-up bathhouse, the tattered hotel.
Faded letters on brick brag Fireproof Rooms 50 Cents,
and a dragon twines red up a telephone pole.
Trace the city’s glass ridges from your split-board bench,
watch the cars in I-5 burn a river of light.
All around you, brambles and grasses and roots
in a thousand different languages, flowering.

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One pleasure of hearing a poet read in person is later reading his or her poems and hearing them in that voice. And, the pleasure of reading Rebecca Hoogs’s Self-Storage, having heard her insightful, wit-full, and well-crafted introductions for the SAL poetry series, is the anticipation that she will bring that same acrobatic music and intellect to her poems–which she does brilliantly. These poems move with a cunning clarity, packed with word-play, and play to get at the deeper sense of things, in a voice that is at the same time don’t-fuck-with-me and vulnerable. Lines between myth and reality, past and present, blur and refocus, but always the speaker pursues the truth that lies beyond what we think we know.

For two examples, see “Self-Portrait as Porcupine” and “Heart, My Box of Snow.”

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Yesterday was breakfast with Dad, an unexpected shift at the tasting room, and then performing poetry as part of a memorial dance concert, so I’m a day behind.

Skillman book coverThis week’s poetry pick is Judith Skillman’s Angles of Separation, from Glass Lyre Press. Judith and I send poems back and forth in the mail, so many of these poems were old friends that had changed, grown since I last met them.

They pair deep undercurrents, as though the poet is pulling up buckets from the well of her subconscious, with particular details of the concrete, natural world. The birch, the coyote, the water lily become cohorts, antagonists, stand-ins, or all three as Judith explores the present of aging, motherhood, long marriage and the distant tensions of childhood, what ghosts linger.

From “A Sliver of Heat” we have:

From the white birch trees’ inset eyes
comes the burn-wound
of remembered infant-song.

and later

From the burn-wound of childhood,
its cicadas, second-hand cars, and oil siphoned
into engines where a storm came

And this, from “Like Little Mouths Drinking From”

An urgency inside the bulbs, the roots–
even the Big Leaf Maple whose network

goes deep, limbs branching off
into all the choices made for the girl
by her mother, who gave birth. And the mole

goes on heaping dirt up from the labyrinth,
hands too big for his tiny body.
Sadness in grief too huge for a widow,

This book offers many treasures, including the poems that refer to Prospero and Miranda, and the poem that refers to T. S. Eliot’s “Gerontion.”

For a start, read “Watercress” at Cascadia Review.

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book coverThis week, I’ve had the dual pleasures of reading Sailing by Ravens, by Holly Hughes, and The Pen and the Bell, by Hughes and Brenda Miller–the first, a woman’s journey on the ocean and in life; the second, a map for living and writing, steps be taken slowly, deliberately, with attention.

Sailing by Ravens explores navigation–across oceans and life, through the heart’s calms and storms. The precision of charting pairs with Holly’s precise language. And it’s a physical book–the language moves. Consider this, from “The Navigational Fix”:

I spread the divider’s metal legs,

measure degrees in seconds, minutes, hours,
gauge speed made good, prick one small foot,

drag its lead twin in an arc, an easy pivot.

Holly takes us with her, places us there on the deck. I felt the boat, I felt the fish, I felt the quite some evenings–I even felt fish-smelly and cold. In all the concrete details, these poems voyage through metaphor–the maps, the knots, the rough seas moving from time together to growing older, growing apart. A witnessing, a sadness–and yet a celebration, a joy to read again.

Here is one of the prose poems from the book:


As in the line that runs between a tug and its tow, its thrumming pull. The lines of the schooner that made you swoon. Spiderweb, its taut, rain-beaded strands. Empty hammock, nail paring, cantaloupe rind. As in narrative arc. I want to be flexible, at least in theory. You never imagined yourself a rigid person. As in spiderweb, unstringing. As in bright arc of rind as it sails out the galley window. As in wake made by the schooner, leaving.

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