Parting with a Book

A few months ago, I began writing a found poem after each poetry collection I read. It started with Anne Sexton's Transformations and moved on to Naomi Shihab Nye's Transfer along with Jane Hirshfield's Come, Thief. I try to capture my favorite moments within each book and weave them into something for myself and further reflection. It's become my way of letting go of the book, a sweet parting of ways for now.

Currently, I'm on the last chapter of Bless Me, Ultima by Rudolfo Anaya. I'm thinking about extending my found poem tradition to fiction books too.

What are you reading right now and what do you do once you've finished with a book?

Recycle or Trash Bin?

I found three poems at the bottom of my duffel bag today. Two of them are unfinished are are destined to remain as such, I think. I may steal a few lines from them at some point. I may just throw them away altogether.

Do you ever experience this? Do you ever look at a poem you've written and think, "Wow, I really need to experience the world a little more and get some new or better writing material"? I think I'm in need of some travel...

Good thing I have poetry to transport me. I'm taking my time with Jane Hirshfield's Come Thief. There are also a few lit mags on my nightstand waiting patiently.

There are four more days to enter to win Jack Myer's brilliant collection entitled The Memory of Water. One can never have too many books to read. ;)

I hope your Thanksgiving not only left your belly full, but your heart as well.

Y Después (And Then)

Lately, I find myself thinking in poetry. Or rather, the things I want to say are in poems I've read. Yes, I want them to speak for me.

Yesterday, I wanted to say something but couldn't find the right words. I know all the words that have come before have been wrong. So, I figured these particular lines I had read would make it a little more clear. But I can't find them. I've scoured all my books and journals, but these few lines seem to want to remain hidden, out of my grasp.

These come close at least:

Y Después, A Cento

To You, 

Today in El Paso all the planes are asleep
on the runway.  The world

is in a delay. The labyrinths 

that time creates disappear. Always
you were given one too many, one
too few. What almost happens, doesn't.

What might be lost, you'll lose. 

We find out the heart only by dismantling what

the heart knows. We must unlearn
the constellations to see the stars. 

The sky is the only store
worth shopping in for anything
as long as a life. If the moon
smiled, she would resemble you.

You leave the same impression

of something beautiful, but annihilating.

Your absence has gone through me

like thread through a needle. Everything
I do is stitched with its color.

I wish I had the power of not looking
back. Not the power of having a wish
granted, but the power to look at my wish
and see behind it.

Love, Me



Sources:
"April Snow" by Matthew Zapruder
"Y Después" (And Then) by Federico García Lorca translated by Ralph Angel
"Three-Legged Blues" by Jane Hirshfield
"Tear it Down" by Jack Myers
"Rebellion against the North Side" by Naomi Shihab Nye
"The Rival" by Sylvia Plath
"Separation" by W.S. Merwin
"One Last Wish" by Jack Myers

Cliché of the Heart, Take Two

A couple of weeks ago, I blogged about my problems with "the heart" in poems, or rather, using it in my poetry. Yesterday, I came across a lovely poem in a set of three by Jane Hirshfield and find it to be the perfect poem in using the heart as a metaphor and effectively tying in emotion without sounding too sentimental.  It slays "the heart" as a cliché in poetry.

SOMETIMES THE HEART IS A SHALLOW AUTUMN RIVER by Jane Hirshfield (It is last poem on the page.)

I can't wait to read Hirshfield's new collection Come, Thief.

What are you reading?