The poem “Transparency” is a reflection on how little input most of us receive from others to help us form ideas about ourselves, and boost our self-regard. So much is overlooked by family, friends and colleagues, that we are often left with the sensation of being locked up in a cage, an animal reminiscing about the freedom of the wild. We populate that cage with our imagination; an imagination that struggles to find a balance between fiction and reality. For some this sets into motion the creative impulse, but for others this struggle can lead to true isolation, apathy, and danger. Our imagination is both artist and predator. I believe the question that can help us keep a vigilant eye on this is: How transparent do we really believe our motives to be?
Sergio Ortiz is an educator, poet, and photographer. He has a B.A. in English literature from Inter-American University, and a M.A. in philosophy from World University. His photographs will appear in The Neglected Ration and The Monongahela Review. He has been recently published, or is forthcoming in The Battered Suitcase, Zygote in my Coffee, Right Hand Pointing, Temenos, and others. Flutter Press published his chapbook, At the Tail End of Dusk (2009). He is from Puerto Rico.
Showing posts with label commentaries and bios: issue 3. Show all posts
Showing posts with label commentaries and bios: issue 3. Show all posts
Friday, May 28, 2010
commentary
When I drive, I travel and when I say travel I mean my mind takes off. Almost always with music going on. Often I am right in the middle of a good song right before I arrive at work.
I drive past work and make a series of right hand turns (I am personally against left-hand turns. As this poem indicates, I was once a safety director for a heavy-haul carrier so I know Left Hand Turns Are More Risky. Plus I have an inner scaredycat issue going on) until the music stops.
Sometimes, the music never stops.
If the good song is still going on when I drive home, I park my ride (aka Derby but now we call him Jack on account of his punched-out left headlight area, as in one-eyed-jack). I sit inside and listen to the music until the traveling stops.
Inside my house, my dogs and my kids visit about what song they think Sherry/Mom is still listening to and when it might be that she will finally come into the house. I understand my cattle dog is sure I listen to “Inagodofdavida” nonstop, but the shepherd votes for “Avamariaohmeingott”. My kids know me best though; they know the radio was never even turned on.
Sherry O’Keefe, a descendant of Montana pioneers, a mother of two, sister to four, cousin to dozens, credits/blames her Irish upbringing for her story-telling ways. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Switched-on Gutenberg, Terrain.Org, Barnwood Poetry Review, Avatar Review, Fifth Wednesday Journal, Babel Fruit, Main Street Rag, and others. Her chapbook, Making Good Use of August was released in October 2009 from Finishing Line Press. While her manuscript, Loss of Ignition, is making the rounds, she blogs here.
I drive past work and make a series of right hand turns (I am personally against left-hand turns. As this poem indicates, I was once a safety director for a heavy-haul carrier so I know Left Hand Turns Are More Risky. Plus I have an inner scaredycat issue going on) until the music stops.
Sometimes, the music never stops.
If the good song is still going on when I drive home, I park my ride (aka Derby but now we call him Jack on account of his punched-out left headlight area, as in one-eyed-jack). I sit inside and listen to the music until the traveling stops.
Inside my house, my dogs and my kids visit about what song they think Sherry/Mom is still listening to and when it might be that she will finally come into the house. I understand my cattle dog is sure I listen to “Inagodofdavida” nonstop, but the shepherd votes for “Avamariaohmeingott”. My kids know me best though; they know the radio was never even turned on.
Sherry O’Keefe, a descendant of Montana pioneers, a mother of two, sister to four, cousin to dozens, credits/blames her Irish upbringing for her story-telling ways. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Switched-on Gutenberg, Terrain.Org, Barnwood Poetry Review, Avatar Review, Fifth Wednesday Journal, Babel Fruit, Main Street Rag, and others. Her chapbook, Making Good Use of August was released in October 2009 from Finishing Line Press. While her manuscript, Loss of Ignition, is making the rounds, she blogs here.
commentary
First there was the swan photo. When I took it, I was just a few steps away from the two swans. I am sure they noticed me, but they had this distanced, unimpressed air around them. There was something peculiar about that moment; one of the swans floating in the water, the other standing at the edge of the lake, and me, standing at the lakeside.
I knew I wanted to write about this mood, this edging in. I didn’t know where to start, though.
Fast forward a week, another waterside. Me there, with Virginia Woolf’s novel Mrs Dalloway. The green Penguin edition, with two penguins on the cover. I read the first thirty pages, then later browsed them again, noting down words, half-lines, in word play: even now, at this hour; beauty was behind, making it up, all this one, the motor car with its blinds drawn, passing invisibly....
The next day, I read on. And came across this line: “There was an emptiness about the heart of life; an attic room. Women must put off their rich apparel.”
It was this attic room that took shape. And a woman. In a society of swans. That’s how the poem unfolded.
Dorothee Lang is a writer, web freelancer, traveller and gardener. She lives in Germany, edits the BluePrintReview and Daily s-Press, and keeps a sky diary. Sometimes she dreams of having wings. Recent publications include HA&L, elimae, Spiral Orb, a handful of stones, The, and eclectica. For more about her, visit her website.
Addendum by the Ed: more about Dorothee's poem, here.
I knew I wanted to write about this mood, this edging in. I didn’t know where to start, though.
Fast forward a week, another waterside. Me there, with Virginia Woolf’s novel Mrs Dalloway. The green Penguin edition, with two penguins on the cover. I read the first thirty pages, then later browsed them again, noting down words, half-lines, in word play: even now, at this hour; beauty was behind, making it up, all this one, the motor car with its blinds drawn, passing invisibly....
The next day, I read on. And came across this line: “There was an emptiness about the heart of life; an attic room. Women must put off their rich apparel.”
It was this attic room that took shape. And a woman. In a society of swans. That’s how the poem unfolded.
Dorothee Lang is a writer, web freelancer, traveller and gardener. She lives in Germany, edits the BluePrintReview and Daily s-Press, and keeps a sky diary. Sometimes she dreams of having wings. Recent publications include HA&L, elimae, Spiral Orb, a handful of stones, The, and eclectica. For more about her, visit her website.
Addendum by the Ed: more about Dorothee's poem, here.
commentary
This poem is one of a series of television poems. It began life as automatic writing, a real time recording of what the television shows and what this viewer thinks and feels in response to what he sees. Then some time later, when all that watching and recording is over, rewriting begins. This is not so much a case of undoing what is already there, but of taking up, extending and developing themes that are already present, whether in the images themselves or the mind of the viewer, and also making what I hope is good poetry. I am not concerned about how much is imposed by me as viewer and how much is interpretation of the material viewed. It is probable that something of both will be revealed.
I find it is best to watch with the volume down. Switching channels when bored is inevitable, even if the practice may have deleterious effects on one’s concentration span if indulged in too habitually. In English we call this practice ‘channel surfing’; the French call it ‘zapping’. The philosopher Cornelius Castoriadis has coined the term zapanthropus to designate the sort of human beings who give themselves up to and are characterised by this habit.
I wonder whether all viewers are driven to make some sort of unifying sense, even if subconsciously, of the montage of story and image that they consume and in part construct. I wonder whether viewers should attempt to do so, or whether the more liberating approach is to allow the disparate and disjointed to remain disparate and disjointed. What sort of liberation would that be, and liberation for whom? And if we do endeavour to construct a meaning for the whole, can we be sure that this meaning is ours and not imposed upon us by others who only seem disparate but in fact have the same agenda, the same world-view, the same all-pervasive sensibility?
Jeff Klooger’s poetry has been published in his native Australia and internationally. Recently his work has appeared in The Liberal (UK), The Stinging Fly (Ireland), Sketch, dotdotdash, Cordite Poetry Review and Otoliths. His other interests are music and philosophy. His book on the ideas of the Greek-French philosopher Cornelius Castoriadis was published in 2009.
I find it is best to watch with the volume down. Switching channels when bored is inevitable, even if the practice may have deleterious effects on one’s concentration span if indulged in too habitually. In English we call this practice ‘channel surfing’; the French call it ‘zapping’. The philosopher Cornelius Castoriadis has coined the term zapanthropus to designate the sort of human beings who give themselves up to and are characterised by this habit.
I wonder whether all viewers are driven to make some sort of unifying sense, even if subconsciously, of the montage of story and image that they consume and in part construct. I wonder whether viewers should attempt to do so, or whether the more liberating approach is to allow the disparate and disjointed to remain disparate and disjointed. What sort of liberation would that be, and liberation for whom? And if we do endeavour to construct a meaning for the whole, can we be sure that this meaning is ours and not imposed upon us by others who only seem disparate but in fact have the same agenda, the same world-view, the same all-pervasive sensibility?
Jeff Klooger’s poetry has been published in his native Australia and internationally. Recently his work has appeared in The Liberal (UK), The Stinging Fly (Ireland), Sketch, dotdotdash, Cordite Poetry Review and Otoliths. His other interests are music and philosophy. His book on the ideas of the Greek-French philosopher Cornelius Castoriadis was published in 2009.
commentary
"Las Hormigas" developed in stages exactly as indicated by the hiatuses in the poem. First a fascination with the ants themselves, then the unhappy meeting with the dizzy matron-of-the arts in which I foolishly mentioned my latest endeavor, and then finally the surprise message from the beyond. It is interesting that had not this all occurred, I probably would not have in the end been able to follow through on the original impulse to write a poem just about the ants.
Frederick Jackson was born in San Francisco and grew up in and around New York City. In his early 20s while studying for a degree in physics and working summers as a merchant seaman, he discovered a passion for poetry. A volume, The Stem of One Colossal Flower, self-published in 1966, sold in several bookstores in Greenwich Village. One poem appeared in the poetry quarterly Athanor (New York, Spring, 1967). The author went on to receive a PhD in physical oceanography and had a several decades long career in science. After an early retirement in 1995 he returned to writing poetry. His collected work can be found here. He currently lives in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico.
Frederick Jackson was born in San Francisco and grew up in and around New York City. In his early 20s while studying for a degree in physics and working summers as a merchant seaman, he discovered a passion for poetry. A volume, The Stem of One Colossal Flower, self-published in 1966, sold in several bookstores in Greenwich Village. One poem appeared in the poetry quarterly Athanor (New York, Spring, 1967). The author went on to receive a PhD in physical oceanography and had a several decades long career in science. After an early retirement in 1995 he returned to writing poetry. His collected work can be found here. He currently lives in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico.
commentary
The piece came about while thinking of two books I reread recently - The French Lieutenant's Woman by John Fowles, and A Moveable Feast by Hemingway. I tried to work with this tension, the feeling of nothing coming out right, of being trapped in a vapid boring existence but still searching for that elusive blue fifth note of jazz, of life itself. And of course, I thought of Paris because everyone thinks of Paris when they think of love and rain. Or maybe not. At the poem's end, logic and routine take over, everything will become crystal clear and distant and that last word for me was a kind of echoing doubt that everything will fall into place.
Kyle Hemmings lives and works and dies in increments in New Jersey.
Kyle Hemmings lives and works and dies in increments in New Jersey.
commentary (interview)
"For $1.00, I Will Write You a Poem and Post it Here"
Let's not call this desperate. Let's not call this self-serving. Let's definitely not call this sad. Instead, let's call this "enterprising, exciting, intriguing."
Click here for the facts....
And here's Molly, answering some of my questions, via email:
me: I've included a link to the page on your blog describing the project (above), but I was wondering if you could tell me how you first came up with the idea. There must be easier ways to make a buck?
Molly. Let's see; I'm not quite sure where the idea came from. I'm sure it was all very sudden and "inspired," in a goofy sense of the word. I know I was disappointed and poor, and I knew that I might sit around and wallow, so rather than do that I thought, Hey, why not ask people for prompts? The most important thing at the time was to kickstart a creative time during which I could refocus on the writing; asking for a buck was a whim, but shortly thereafter I decided to add a PayPal button at the prompting of Amy King.
me: I was interested in your project initially because it seemed like a terrifying thing to attempt. Poetry to me has always seemed like something I do out of an internal, rather than an external, necessity. (Perhaps this is because of my lack of experience with writing classes or workshops.) I've since revised that viewpoint a little, and I think watching you go about this project may have had something to do with it. But still, I was wondering whether you had moments when you thought, well. I've got nothing to say about this. Nada. Zip.... If so - what did you do, if anything, to get past it?
Molly: Oh yeah, totally. There were a few that really stumped me. But I found those images from the FFFFound blog and just started writing, mostly by beginning with the image I saw. I never revised a poem; I wrote them all in the Blogger window; and as soon as it was done I hit "publish." Sometimes I found some of the poems the prompter had written and used those for inspiration. As to the other part of your question, about terror, I should add that I feel pretty free with poetry because my education is in fiction. Plus, these aren't poems meant for publication or revision--at least not when I set out to write them.
me: I picked the two poems I did for YB of course for subjective, private, personal reasons of my own. (And maybe a leg fixation that day?) Anyway, I notice that sometimes the stuff of mine that other people pick out is not necessarily my favourite stuff. Do you have any favourites among the poems?
Molly: My favorite is "Is to love an imperative infinitive?" I also like "A Bug, A Car, A Man: A Triptych."
me: When you started the project, did you have any idea you would get the response that you did?
(There are 65 poems to date - 28 May.)
Molly: I absolutely had no idea that so many people would respond. I noticed, too, that the more I posted in a big group or bunch, the more orders came in. It never failed: post ten poems, get five orders. Post one poem, no orders.
me: I think these poems, with the explanation of how they came about, would make a great book. Any offers?
Molly: There are tentative negotiations with Flatmancrooked, but I'm not sure the poems are strong enough for a collection, and I'm not sure they should be revised. I have to keep thinking about it.
me: Since I'm big on place, can you describe your view at the moment?
Molly: I'm looking at a brick wall, which is about fifteen feet beyond the kitchen window, which is about three feet before me. I'm sitting at the table with a coffee and a half-eaten bowl of cereal. Good morning!
Molly Gaudry is the author of the verse novel We Take Me Apart and the editor of Tell: An Anthology of Expository Narrative. She is Googleable.
Let's not call this desperate. Let's not call this self-serving. Let's definitely not call this sad. Instead, let's call this "enterprising, exciting, intriguing."
Click here for the facts....
And here's Molly, answering some of my questions, via email:
me: I've included a link to the page on your blog describing the project (above), but I was wondering if you could tell me how you first came up with the idea. There must be easier ways to make a buck?
Molly. Let's see; I'm not quite sure where the idea came from. I'm sure it was all very sudden and "inspired," in a goofy sense of the word. I know I was disappointed and poor, and I knew that I might sit around and wallow, so rather than do that I thought, Hey, why not ask people for prompts? The most important thing at the time was to kickstart a creative time during which I could refocus on the writing; asking for a buck was a whim, but shortly thereafter I decided to add a PayPal button at the prompting of Amy King.
me: I was interested in your project initially because it seemed like a terrifying thing to attempt. Poetry to me has always seemed like something I do out of an internal, rather than an external, necessity. (Perhaps this is because of my lack of experience with writing classes or workshops.) I've since revised that viewpoint a little, and I think watching you go about this project may have had something to do with it. But still, I was wondering whether you had moments when you thought, well. I've got nothing to say about this. Nada. Zip.... If so - what did you do, if anything, to get past it?
Molly: Oh yeah, totally. There were a few that really stumped me. But I found those images from the FFFFound blog and just started writing, mostly by beginning with the image I saw. I never revised a poem; I wrote them all in the Blogger window; and as soon as it was done I hit "publish." Sometimes I found some of the poems the prompter had written and used those for inspiration. As to the other part of your question, about terror, I should add that I feel pretty free with poetry because my education is in fiction. Plus, these aren't poems meant for publication or revision--at least not when I set out to write them.
me: I picked the two poems I did for YB of course for subjective, private, personal reasons of my own. (And maybe a leg fixation that day?) Anyway, I notice that sometimes the stuff of mine that other people pick out is not necessarily my favourite stuff. Do you have any favourites among the poems?
Molly: My favorite is "Is to love an imperative infinitive?" I also like "A Bug, A Car, A Man: A Triptych."
me: When you started the project, did you have any idea you would get the response that you did?
(There are 65 poems to date - 28 May.)
Molly: I absolutely had no idea that so many people would respond. I noticed, too, that the more I posted in a big group or bunch, the more orders came in. It never failed: post ten poems, get five orders. Post one poem, no orders.
me: I think these poems, with the explanation of how they came about, would make a great book. Any offers?
Molly: There are tentative negotiations with Flatmancrooked, but I'm not sure the poems are strong enough for a collection, and I'm not sure they should be revised. I have to keep thinking about it.
me: Since I'm big on place, can you describe your view at the moment?
Molly: I'm looking at a brick wall, which is about fifteen feet beyond the kitchen window, which is about three feet before me. I'm sitting at the table with a coffee and a half-eaten bowl of cereal. Good morning!
Molly Gaudry is the author of the verse novel We Take Me Apart and the editor of Tell: An Anthology of Expository Narrative. She is Googleable.
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