Clearing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Orphaned and standing in the rain

But it’s not as bad as it sounds,

I can hear Bonnie Raitt's voice from a car
in the parking lot.
A kid just smiled at me

from his seat in a shopping cart.

No reason.

Just smiled.

The forecast is for better days.

I smiled back.

 

 

 

 

Rejection, the sting of same.

Just had a (gracious) rejection of my new poetry MS entitled “The Music of Leaving,” from the Brooklyn Arts Press, and (as I sob) I am still on the fence re the following:

 

Is an outright generic rejection easier to swallow than one that laments the decision and prompts you to continue writing? Not sure… I am leaning toward the former but the nettles of this one are still deeply imbedded.

 

So wanted a home there.

 

Onwards, of course. 

 

But not quite yet... 

Things Not to Do at a Poetry Reading.

I’ve been to way too many of these over the years, the unexpected curse of the “writing workshop.”

Granted, some have been lovely… others, gotta tell ya, deadly.

At the hands of the latter, I have learned, tortuously, the things that should never happen at poetry readings. 

Thus, after years of mind-numbing abuse suffered during the monotonous readings of over-zealous authors, I bring to you, then, my top six
Things Not to Do at a Poetry Reading.
 
1. Do not mention journalism schools, alma maters, your writing mentors or who taught you English in Grade Two. No one cares. In fact, do not even let the word mentor pass your lips in any context for the duration of the event.

2. Do not approach the podium clutching a six-inch thick duo-tang folder housing a single spaced document that it seems you are quite intent on reading. Unless you have a coterie of muscular men blocking the exits.

3. Never announce up front exactly how many chapters of your four unpublished novels you are about to enchant your audience with. 

4. Do not quote the ancients. They aren't there and cannot defend themselves.


And the final two things never to do at a poetry reading:

5. Do not charge admission.

6. Do not serve Mexican.

Are any of our dreams the same?

 

 

 

 

My maternal grandmother was dead long before I was born.

Rose Ann Bradley was her name, born in County Cavan, Ireland, one of 11 children.

My mother spoke of her infrequently, and never unkindly. But the impression of her remains as that of an indomitable woman, withholding and glacial.

The story that reverberated the most for me was this one: she and my mother were sitting in front of the fire grate in their tenement flat in Glasgow. My grandmother had suffered a stroke and was in a wheelchair. My mom was nursing my eldest sister Kathryn.

She steeled herself to ask her mother a question: I say steeled because they shared no closeness, no confidences.

“Mother, can I get pregnant while I am nursing?” This was in the days when reproductive knowledge and education was almost non-existent.

A long pause, and then came her gruff reply: “Lassie, you know what you’ve been doin.’”

Rose Ann married her husband Thomas Smith, a Glaswegian, without loving him. He was educated and she knew he would teach her what he knew. She could neither read nor write. She signed her marriage certificate with an X. She had 12 children and lost twins at birth, a 19 year old daughter to TB and a 22 year old son to the war.

If I had a chance to meet her, I would ask my grandmother if she had dreams for her children. I’d ask her what was it like to marry a man she didn’t love. About the harsh life she must have endured in Ireland as one of 11 children. And what she was like as a little girl before life intervened.

I will never know her but she made my being here possible. And I wonder what parts of me are her. My love of the saxophone? The way I curl myself in sleep?

Are any of our dreams the same?

My mother often said she wanted to be the mother she never had.

 And for that, I owe to Rose Ann Bradley Smith my unblemished gratitude.