Poet, Writer, Instructor
When I hear poets read out loud, I am often disappointed. Either it sounds flat, as if they were reading an article from the business section of the newspaper, or condescending, or interrupted with asides, as if the audience needed spoon-feeding, or, worst of all, rendered in a breathy sing-song somewhere between a sermon and a singer practicing scales. This is called “the Poetry Voice,” and all poets know immediately what it means.
Our attention is the most precious commodity in the world—if it weren’t we wouldn’t be bombarded with endless demands for it. But the idea that attention is an article of trade doesn’t occur to most of us, even as we are being manipulated into handing it over to the next shiny object.
My bookshelves hold many more poets who have left us: Marvin Bell, Denise Levertov, Wanda Coleman, Seamus Heaney, Donald Hall, Wislawa Szymborska, Tomas Tranströmer, Sylvia Plath, Rainer Maria Rilke. I’ve found solace, insight, and inspiration in these pages. Their poems are so vital, so alive with imagery and emotion, that I must remind myself that while their work continues, the poets themselves are gone. No more will come from them.
The word “cento” means “patchwork” in Latin. It’s a fitting name for a form made of lines from other people’s poems, rearranged to create something new. According to The Handbook of Poetic Forms, “Centos go back at least as far as the second century.” Centos were popular until the 17th century; interest in them revived in the 20th. Poets such as John Ashbery, Bob Holman, and David Lehman have written centos. Los Angeles Poet Laureate Lynne Thompson’s latest book, Blue on a Blue Palette, which I reviewed for The Pedestal, contains several centos.
As a woman I am expected to automatically display more empathy than my male counterparts, to be more understanding, to give in when I didn’t necessarily want to, to say “yes” when I wanted to say “no.”
In January 2025, Sticks & Stones will begin its seventh year of publishing reviews of poetry collections. The poets whose books I reviewed in 2024 addressed grief and loss, the experience of exile, infertility, and the natural world, of living in the spaces between illness and health, and the power of resilience. They wrote of… Continue reading Sticks & Stones: 2024 Book Covers and 2025 Reviews
La llamada (The Call), Remedios Varo, 1961 I was reading Exit Opera, Kim Addonizio’s latest book of poems, when I came across the following lines from “20.5 Light Years from Earth:” “Sometimes writing feels so stupid I think I should get out into the world & do something like repairing fountain pens, milking snakes, something useful—… Continue reading Why I love being a poet
"Take Your Pick" by John Frederick Peto, 1885 Does this sound familiar? You’re doing something boring and repetitive, maybe folding laundry, and an idea pops into your head. When this happens to me, I drop the shirt I was just hanging up, grab a pen, and write the idea down. I know this seems obvious;… Continue reading What happened when I stopped judging my ideas
Some mornings I wake to a golden, slanted light filtered through dense fog. It softens outlines, blurs the houses on my street, and mutes the noises of my neighborhood. This is when I feel my mother’s presence. I release my tears to the foggy air. I’ve learned some new things about grieving. For example, sudden… Continue reading Bubbles, bacon and rainbows: the hard work of grief
It’s been less than a week since my mother left this earth at the age of 87. It’s new, this kind of grief, at times sharp and fresh, then dull and distant. It’s too early to think of seeking any sort of solace. Solace from what, I ask myself. How will I ever recover? Is… Continue reading Since my mother died