Friday, March 25, 2011
Connections
The culmination of two years of work, our collection of poetry, launched in Ireland this week. In this land of mist and rain, clouds broke and an unblemished blue sky has dominated the landscape all week. Each time I visit Ireland, I feel closer to the landscape and the people. To drive for hours down roads with few cars, patchy gold and green mountains, a stone walls rimming fields, a clear ocean and tiny inlets are the scenes I never tire of seeing.
We stopped at Kylemore Abbey for lunch, drove through Letterfrack where there is a cemetery for the boys of a now defunct school for the wayward, unwanted, or orphaned. In the 1960s the school was finally closed but many forgotten boys died young of abuse or disease. To walk by tiny heartshaped gravestones, identifying them only by name and age, is to feel the weight of all tragedies that overshadow our respective histories.
When we arrived in Westport, a vibrant coastal town, the sun was lower in the sky and the sharp, cool air of early evening was beginning to descend. We read in a small cafe called The Creel to a modest but engaged group. The intimacy of the setting and the discussion that ensued made this one of my favorite readings of the trip.
Earlier in the week, I met a woman who edits a collection of poetry from children all over the world--called Eurochild. I also met a filmmaker/poetry series host, two literary press publishers, numerous poetry readers, two young students of poetry, and friends old and new.
There is a reverence for poetry and language here that I often find lacking in the United States. I try to bring the dazzle and awe to my classes, competing with text messages, Facebook, sporting events, and everything else that pulls us away from the wisdom and resonance of words. I am renewed from encounters here, resolve to try anew to ignite interest and enthusiasm in my classes. When I return, I will be off on a reading tour that will continue to bring the language of poetry to people. How lucky to be able to translate landscape, culture, and emotion into poetry and to have the chance to communicate it to an audience. As exhausting as the week has been, I find myself grateful again and again for the graciousness of my writing collaborator and this rarest of opportunities.
We stopped at Kylemore Abbey for lunch, drove through Letterfrack where there is a cemetery for the boys of a now defunct school for the wayward, unwanted, or orphaned. In the 1960s the school was finally closed but many forgotten boys died young of abuse or disease. To walk by tiny heartshaped gravestones, identifying them only by name and age, is to feel the weight of all tragedies that overshadow our respective histories.
When we arrived in Westport, a vibrant coastal town, the sun was lower in the sky and the sharp, cool air of early evening was beginning to descend. We read in a small cafe called The Creel to a modest but engaged group. The intimacy of the setting and the discussion that ensued made this one of my favorite readings of the trip.
Earlier in the week, I met a woman who edits a collection of poetry from children all over the world--called Eurochild. I also met a filmmaker/poetry series host, two literary press publishers, numerous poetry readers, two young students of poetry, and friends old and new.
There is a reverence for poetry and language here that I often find lacking in the United States. I try to bring the dazzle and awe to my classes, competing with text messages, Facebook, sporting events, and everything else that pulls us away from the wisdom and resonance of words. I am renewed from encounters here, resolve to try anew to ignite interest and enthusiasm in my classes. When I return, I will be off on a reading tour that will continue to bring the language of poetry to people. How lucky to be able to translate landscape, culture, and emotion into poetry and to have the chance to communicate it to an audience. As exhausting as the week has been, I find myself grateful again and again for the graciousness of my writing collaborator and this rarest of opportunities.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
New and Renew
I expect leaky faucets, blustery nights, loss, and disappointment. I also await robins, a rose-breasted titmouse, a family of goldfinches. A woman with teenage daughters died in my community this week--someone I didn't know well. An earthquake in Christchurch, New Zealand tumbled buildings, collapsing on students, workers, passersby. My daughter was in the town when it happened but she was unharmed. A close brush with a catastrophic event can be life-altering. I trust that light will return, gaudy and generous. Even now there are signs--tufts of trampled grass and patches of mineral-rich soil. In teaching, I find the writing that moves me. In writing, I renew my voice. A residency I applied for prefers emerging writers and my writer and collaborator Geraldine said, aren't all writers emerging? If we have crossed over from emerging to established, do we become complacent? Looking at the world--ugliness and badly behaviored politicians and drivers, then sudden loveliness--a child chasing a leaf, the smell of new earth after a rain--language seems unruly--something I must learn anew. I hope to emerge again and again, awash in language and sense.
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