After a few weeks of ripping open envelopes to find book proofs that were just a bit off, and had to be tweaked, on Saturday morning the fourth sample copy was waiting at the post office, and this time the cover looked right. Through summer and fall, I’d been following the instructions offered on CreateSpace to publish VIEWS FROM A WINDOW SEAT: ( Read more... )

I generally write more free verse than formal, since I like working with the facts of history, which give me some structure, and the needs of narrative, with most of my poems following another as they build a world on the page. These poems are shaped by images, which echo through repetition. The echoing sounds of words we call rhyme would be too ( Read more... )

In the way poetry often begins - is this eureka-ish or just another day? -- last spring a few people from history bumped against another in my mind, which set off other mini collisions about the ways we might understand plants, rocks, and stars. History and science seem like good subjects for verse narratives, for paring down the bulk of history ( Read more... )

Many of us grew up looking at stars, but found our original wonder got washed away by familiarity or the sort of science that seems to diminish: Sorry, but your lucky star may be just a big hot rock, dust, or gasses. We get pretty songs and stories about the stars, then learn about distances and speed of light and that neither we nor the earth are ( Read more... )

Sometimes I wish metaphors weren’t often taught as their own unit in elementary school. It makes them seem sort of precious, like a necklace one would only wear on Very Important Occasions. Or it can make them seem crafty: Hey, anyone can do this! Just draw a line between two rows of words.

Of course anyone can do this and have fun while they’re ( Read more... )

I’ve been revising some poems, which means while I trim and polish, I’m also kicking up dust, going deeper, a tricky term that doesn’t mean patching in meaning with words boasting an extravagant number of syllables that might be spoken in churches, temples, or lecture halls. To me, going deeper means working with a polishing cloth to get a clearer ( Read more... )

The garden in front of the porch where I sit is woefully neglected. The pink petals of echinacea, where an orange butterfly lands, are the only bright spots amid a sprawl of foliage from spring blooms gone by. In mid July, I’m reminded of the need to think of this month during planting season. My blog has been neglected, too, which makes me think ( Read more... )

A white butterfly flits over the roses and wild geranium. The porch is neither too hot nor too cool. I had local strawberries on my oatmeal this morning, all of which makes me feel kind of ashamed for feeling restless while I write. Wishing Peter would suggest a diversion.
I know the signs. Recently, two friends have asked me to cast an eye over ( Read more... )

Peter and I just got back from spending a few days in Maine for our thirtieth anniversary. When we got to the waterfront inn, Peter wanted to close his eyes post-driving for a bit, while I left to smell the salt air and stretch. I walked on the beach in a soft rain, then headed up a path bordered by rugosa rosas. A woman with long windblown gray ( Read more... )

Yesterday was the perfect day to smell lilacs and pass under the white blooms of dogwoods on my way to the Smith College Greenhouse. The museum area is currently devoted to a show called From Petals to Paper: Poetic Inspiration from Flowers. Poems printed on placards and arranged according to flower types were selected by Liliana Farrel and Janna ( Read more... )