Author: ellen

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Where the poem comes from: Sandra Kohler

Here’s another one of my posts that answers my ongoing question,”How did that poem come to be written?” This poem, “Maybe Sibelius,” is by my friend Sandra Kohler.

Sandy, a former member of the English department at Bryn Mawr College, is the author of two books, “The Country of Women,” published by Calyx Press; and “The Ceremonies of Longing,” which was published by the University of Pittsburgh Press and won the 2002 Associated Writing Programs Award Series in Poetry. She has been a recent “featured” poet in Diner, Natural Bridge, and The Missouri Review, and has a poem in the new issue of The New Republic.

“Maybe Sibelius” was published in PMS: poem/ memoir/story #4, 2004.

   Maybe Sibelius

This morning there’s a bit of Sibelius lodged
in my brain, a motif, repetitive, longing.
When I put words to it, they’re the Beatles’
–”I’ve got to get you into my life.” Last night,
wild thunderstorms, lightning for hours after
the storm passed over. I dream you and I
are making love in a room next door to grief,
that bleak presence aphrodisiac. This after a day
on which you irritate me, I bore you. At cross-
purposes, we gesture concessions, fail to signal
anything more than a vague wave at some mirage
of compromise. I think you’re obsessed with
our son, you that I’m obsessed with the garden.
I know what I’m not talking about, I only guess
what you’re not. In the dream we are dancing
while making love, to improbable music, maybe
Sibelius. What is it I must get into my life?
Long lapses, rests in the music. My heart turns
over when I catch myself thinking if you died
I’d become a hermit. I already know what that
dream signals: on the other side of the wall from
bliss there is anguish. I can’t sleep nights though
I’m not obsessing about anything. The story is a
ronde: A loves B who yearns for C who’s mad
about A. A is the question, B the answer, C is
the demurrer. Yes, I’m obsessed with the garden.
I want to spend all day on my hands and knees,
smelling the soil. I want another life to listen to
opera, one to read Dante, one for Proust. One
in which to become a hermit. I’m jealous when
our son answers your emails, not mine. The rain
is a sudden burst, deluge. You are what I have
to get into my life. You are what I have. What
if, hurtling through these storms, we forget to
touch, to make the gesture that will heal us?

Sandy says, “This is one of the poems I’ve been writing recently (over the past 10 years or so) that I think of as “old married love poems.” One of the things I try to get at in them is the complexity and volatility of our emotional lives, the way we feel contradictory impulses and desires, experience rapid changes in the weather of a relationship. Love poems traditionally focus more narrowly on desire and on the ideal nature of the beloved; I want to tell a different kind of truth about love. And I also love being able to allude to my passion for Sibelius in a poem.”

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In praise of slow

I am reading “The Story of Edgar Sawtelle.” It’s a big, fat, wonderful book, but it’s not a page turner. That is, I don’t feel I want to hurry through it. It feels more like a leisurely read that unfolds in an unhurried way. And it’s making me realize how satisfying slow can be.

We get so used to thinking that fast is good and faster is better, to multitasking, to doing it all. But I’d like to make a case for doing one thing at a time. Just one. Just one simple thing without distraction. Without the hum at the edge, without the static telling you to move on, hurry, don’t miss anything–not the news that never stops coming, not the music that is constant background, not the everything that is pulling at us. Without the shallow breathing and the tongue tight on the roof of your mouth.

Here’s a radical thought–uni-tasking. Doing just one thing, like taking a big, fat, wonderful book and just reading.

So now…in this moment…take a breath…and know that of all the booksandpapersandblogsandmagazines…only a few will be read…know that you will miss much…and that all the time you have…is simply that…and you…can stop…the rush.

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New on the bookshelf: “The Other Half of Life “

Here’s a new book by Kim Ablon Whitney, “The Other Half of Life” a novel based on the tragic story of the ship the St. Louis, which left Germany in 1939 carrying Jewish refugees escaping to Cuba. It’s historical fiction, but, as always, the reality of history remains with us. When I first asked Kim to write for my blog about how this book came to be written, the Holocaust Museum had not yet been catapulted into the news and Stephen Tyrone Johns, the 39-year-old security guard who worked the museum’s front door, was still alive.

This book, like Kim’s others, is a young adult novel, but if you don’t have any young adults in your house, you can buy it for yourself. I asked Kim to talk a little about the book and this is what she said:

“Writing “The Other Half of Life” was a bit of a journey. I was conducting research for another novel set in Europe before World War II when I came upon the story of the motor ship, the St. Louis. The St. Louis left Hamburg, Germany in 1939 carrying 937 Jewish refugees escaping Hitler and bound for Cuba. Most of the passengers had immigration numbers to the U.S. and planned to wait in Cuba until they were allowed in to the U.S. Tragically, at the last moment Cuba rescinded the passengers’ landing permits and the ship was forced to return to Europe. 254 of the passengers ended up perishing in the Holocaust.

“I was immediately captivated by this heartbreaking story and also amazed I had never heard of it. I began asking family and friends whether they knew of the St. Louis and I was surprised that many hadn’t either. Only a few remembered something about a 1970’s film, “The Voyage of the Damned.” I knew that I wanted to try to bring to life this lesser known, yet important chapter of the Holocaust for younger generations.

“One of the many fascinating things about the ship was that it was a luxury liner with comfortable cabins, a cinema, and even a swimming pool. All of a sudden passengers who had been through horrible suffering were living like kings.

“My main character is a boy—the first male protagonist in my books (which probably has something to do with having two young boys). But Thomas’s voice came to me and I knew the story would be through his point-of-view. Thomas is 15 years-old and his father has been sent away to Dachau. His mother could only afford one ticket aboard the St. Louis, so Thomas is traveling alone. He is planning to meet his older half-brother in Cuba and there they will wait, hoping Thomas’s mother, and maybe his father too, will be able to join them. Thomas is heartbroken to leave his mother behind, and to leave without knowing his father’s fate.

“Aboard the ship, Thomas soon meets 14 year-old Priska, a seemingly carefree and bubbly beauty. She’s traveling with her parents and younger sister and is excited about the luxurious voyage, and starting a new life free from persecution.

“Over the course of the voyage, Thomas and Priska forge a close friendship, encounter a spy mystery, and together face the devastating news that Cuba, and ultimately the U.S. too, will not admit the passengers.

“I hope I’ve made the book accessible to both young adult and adult readers. With the number of Holocaust survivors and World War II veterans dwindling—the people who lived through these times firsthand—it’s more important than ever for the older generations to share their stories with younger generations. My biggest wish for this book is that grandparents read it along with their grandchildren and discuss it with them, and that parents read it with their children. Perhaps it will spark a conversation where the older generations can find a way to share things with the younger generations that they otherwise wouldn’t have thought to share.

“In addition to helping the generations talk about the Holocaust, I also hope my book might encourage a dialogue about immigration. The St. Louis left an indelible legacy in helping to shape our country’s humanitarian treatment of refugees, and influenced legislation such as the 1948 Displaced Persons Act and the 1980 Refugee Act. Because of the United States’ history as a safe haven for people seeking freedom from persecution, we (especially the teenagers who are the future leaders of our country) need to continue to explore the complex and controversial issue of immigration.”

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The occasional recipe…the famous Caryl Kahn peach pie

That’s how it’s known in my family, even though Caryl Kahn is a name from our deep past, a neighbor in our suburban New York town way back when. Does she still make this? Who knows. But she was the source of the recipe and I can’t pass it along without attribution.

But about the pie. Well, it’s hardly a traditional pie. I’ve never seen another recipe like it. You can’t cut it into neat slices and it only has a top crust and even that’s not a “real” pie crust. It’s pretty much just fruit with some batter spooned over it. But it’s delish and dare I say easy as pie.

1. Preheat oven to 350.

2. Scald, skin, and slice peaches.
Stop–full disclosure–I NEVER EVER do those first two. I just slice them and ignore the skin. Feel free to peel, though, if you’re offended by skin. How many peaches? I just use enough to fill the pie plate evenly and then pile more on top. If the peaches are getting too ripe and I need to use them fast, I may pile on quite a few more. This is a recipe I take liberties with.

3. Sprinkle peaches with mix of 1/3 cup sugar and a little cinnamon.

4. Make batter:
Cream together
1 tbsp. butter
2/3 c. sugar
add
1 egg, beaten
1/2 c. flour
1/2 tsp. baking powder
pinch salt
and combine until smooth.

5. Spoon batter over peaches.

6. Bake 25-30 min. until lightly browned on top and baked through.

This is terrific on its own, at breakfast, lunch, dinner, or any time in between. Great with vanilla ice cream, too, or a dab of creme fraiche.

Although this is, after all, a famous peach pie, it is possible–even good–to try other fruit. In Maine I use blueberries and it works perfectly. Although I have never made this with apricots or apples or plums or nectarines, those sounds like perfectly good possibilities, too. I hope one of you will try and let me know.

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The words we choose to use

I’ve written frequently about the power of words. It’s something I feel strongly about. I’ve talked about how we teach little children to “use your words” to make themselves understood instead of fighting or biting or throwing tantrums. I’ve written about being vigilant not to let our words lose their meaning. The most mundane and silly example of that is when we ask for a “tall” coffee at Starbucks when what we really want is their smallest size. And, of course, more insidious recent examples include legislative naming rights like “Defense of Marriage Act” and “Patriot Act.”

I thought about words and their power again the other day when I read Ellen Goodman’s outstanding op-ed piece, The Myth of the Lone Shooter, about the murder of Dr. George Tiller. She makes the point that, again and again, the person supposedly acting alone to commit a appalling act like Scott Roeder’s has been aided and abetted by a universe of people shooting hateful words from the hip.

The pen, as we’ve all been taught, is mightier than the sword and the two together are an unbeatable combination, for good or ill. In the case of Roeder, the word, written and spoken, sharpened the sword, morphed its use into a righteous act, and whispered self-deception into his ear. The words came from Bill O’Reilly et al. ranting onscreen, from the Operation Rescue people shouting at women entering abortion clinics, from opportunistic public figures glomming onto an issue, and from private citizens who are kind to their dogs and buy Girl Scout cookies and generally think of themselves as good people. And from any one of us who plays fast and loose with the power of what we say.

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Blogs 101, part 2

In my last post I made a case for venturing into the world of blogs. Here, for your reading pleasure, are some of my favorites. No official list of anything, just a personal group.

First of all, two basics Slate and Huffington Post. Slate is a daily magazine and HuffPo–and, yes, that is Arianna Huffington in one more incarnation–is a collection of blogs that changes day to day depending on who’s saying what of interest.

A new favorite of mine for news is Talking Points Memo. I’m embarrassed to admit I didn’t know about it until Maureen Dowd’s recent did-she-or-didn’t-she plagiarize moment. Dowd’s May 17 New York Times column included a 42-word paragraph that, except for two words, was exactly the same as a paragraph posted on May 14 on TPM. Hmmm. Anyhow, TPM has way too many updates during the day for me to keep track of, but I take a quick look and always find something to make me glad I did.

Here in Boston I like Media Nation by Dan Kennedy, who is good at covering what goes on here in the media, especially the ongoing cliff-hanger that is The Boston Globe. And Running a Hospital is a fascinating blog in which Paul Levy, the CEO of Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center talks about everything from choreography to the prevention of central line infections and includes much more of non-medical interest than you would expect.

And there are blogs about books. The Picnic Basket, written by my friend Deborah Sloan, focuses on children’s literature. The Boston Bibliophile is a lively conversation about books, favorite and non and Seven Impossible Things Before Breakfast usually discusses children’s lit, but often looks at other books as well, including poetry (including Container Gardening!). And I Was Born Doing Reference Work in Sin is a wide-ranging blog in which Dustin Brookshire, a poet who lives in Atlanta, focuses on poetry and politics. This is the blog for which I wrote that “Why do I write” essay.

All good reading. And you might even be tempted to leave a comment from time to time–who knows?

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“I don’t like blogs….”

I heard someone say that recently. And since it was someone who is unfailingly current on the news, it seemed odd. It was as if he had said, “I don’t like newspapers” when what he might have meant was “I don’t like the Herald.” And, since he added that he would never want to leave a comment on a blog post, it was like saying he’d never write a letter to the editor. Okay.

I never expected to be a poster child for blogs. I am not naturally part of the blog demographic, if there is such a thing, and I can’t imagine my morning coffee without a newspaper spread out on the table in front of me. But when my Boston Globe section closed and I wasn’t ready to stop the conversations I had been having in my column, I became a blogger. And somehow in the process I also became a blog advocate.

Not that I don’t see shortcomings in blogospace: there is no end to the online equivalents of the shoddiest of print journalism. And not that I think blogs should replace newspapers: I hope with all my heart that that won’t happen. I believe that each has important strengths along with significant weaknesses and that the ideal information system for a democracy would be an energetic combination of the two.

But for us newspaper readers, getting at least some the news from blogs will take some getting used to for three reasons.

1. It doesn’t come neatly packaged. When you bring The New York Times or The Boston Globe in from the doorstep (or the flower bed) you can feel you’ve got the news in hand. It’s there–international to local, arts to science, insightful commentary to celeb gossip. Add the snatches of NPR you get in the car and you’re at least marginally current.

Blogs are a sprawling mass, sometimes herded by a few sites like The Huffington Post or Slate or The Daily Beast, but for the most part staking out their own territory. To read them, you first have to find them. And their numbers are so huge that,even as you read, you’re out of breath from the feeling that there’s no possible catching up.

2. It doesn’t come vetted. The Washington Post or the Los Angeles Times doesn’t stand behind most blogs. Not even a copy editor does. Which doesn’t mean there aren’t well-researched and well-written blogs. It just means that you, as a reader, have to be an active participant, an assesser of information as well as a consumer.

3. Blogs invite comment, just as newspapers invite letters to the editor. They can carry the sender’s name or, unlike in most papers, be published anonymously. But the comments on blogs, for better or worse, are generally unedited. Commenters can cover themselves with glory or set themselves up for ridicule with the touch of a “send” icon. Of course you can just be a reader, not a responder. But it’s precisely the possibility of communal conversation that is the medium’s unique feature.

So I understand the feeling of my friend who doesn’t like blogs and all those like him. Taking the first small step into this rowdy world can feel like throwing yourself into an ocean wave. But face it, you’re going to do this sooner or later. You know that no matter how much you protest. After all, you probably already have a tv, right? An e-mail account?

The fact is it’s not a question of one or the other. Newspapers and blogs each are better at some things. If we’re lucky, we’ll get to have both.

Watch for my next post in which I’ll offer an intro to some of the blogs I’ve come to count on for the news that, in addition to newspapers, keeps me connected to the world.

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New on the bookshelf: “Lady of the Snakes” now in paperback

Is there more time to read in the summer? A lot of things lure us outside to garden, to play tennis, to go walking, canoeing, whatever. But there are those lazy beach days, back yard days, rainy days that seem made for curling up with a good book. As if there is ever a day that wouldn’t be improved by doing that. Well, here is a book to put on your list. I loved reading it last year when it was first out. Now “Lady of the Snakes,” by Rachel Pastan, has just been reissued in paperback. It’s a terrific read, with engaging characters and the interweavings of fascinating story lines.

I asked Rachel to talk a little about the book. And, yes, the name Pastan has appeared here before. A few posts back I wrote about Rachel’s mother, Linda, who is a lovely poet and friend. You might be interested in seeing what Rachel has written about being a writer who is the daughter of a writer.

Here is what Rachel said about “Lady of the Snakes.”

“When I was expecting my first child I knew life was going to change, but after she was born I was astonished by how hard it could be to get through a day, even though I adored her. How could I make dinner, or take a shower, let alone get any writing done? When would I use my mind again, or do the work I loved?

“So I did what I always do when life surprises me: I looked around for novels that would reflect my experience back to me, to help me comprehend my life and feel less alone. To my dismay, I couldn’t find any. I decided that, when I could find some time, I would write the novel I had so much wanted to read.

“’Lady of the Snakes’ is the story of a young Russian literature professor, Jane Levitsky, with a young child. Jane is trying to find out the truth about the life and death of the wife of a famous 19th-century Russian novelist, while at the same time negotiating child care, outwitting a sly competitor, caring for a sick kid, and dealing with a Python-wearing graduate student. There’s a mystery here, and academic sleuthing, but at heart the book is about how you live when you’re torn between your passion for your work and your love for your family. Jane’s story isn’t my story, but her sense of being racked is mine.

“Many things have changed in the years since I began to write this book, and more novels featuring mothers of young children have appeared, but I’m amazed by how fraught the conversation about work and family can still be. I hope that, by telling one woman’s story, ‘Lady of the Snakes’ will offer both entertainment and solace.”

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A few well-chosen words

How would you tell your life story in six words?

I recently saw a book called “Not Quite What I Was Planning: Six Word Memoirs by Writers Famous and Obscure.” Ironically, for a book dedicated to brevity, it weighs in at 225 packed pages. But it’s hard to put down.

Those bite-sized stories are like potato chips–you just keep wanting just one more. “Tried not loving you. Didn’t work.”…“Wheelchair, crutches, walker, cane, second grade.”…“Lucky in everything else but love.”…“Birthmother found me through mom’s obituary.”… “Awkward girl takes chances. Fun ensues.”… “42. Just received BA. Now what?”…“Striving for perfection. Will fall short.” How can you stop reading?

And how can you stop wondering, especially if you’re a writer, which six you would use as your defining letter to the world? Writing long is easy. But writing really short and really significant…what would you say?

But here the strange thing. The stories look fascinating in the book, but if you go to the book’s web site, you see that people often send in more than one entry. And as soon as you have three or four “six-word memoirs” from someone, it’s, well, a little boring. The first six words that tell your story are compelling but after that it’s simply the next six words. It sounds like, “oh, one more thing.” Reading them feels like a good lesson in self-editing. “Good wind. City Island. Sunday sailing.”…”Sunny. Good wind. Sailing is freedom.”…. Okay….

Anyhow, it’s that “boiling down to essence” quality that makes a good short story successful. I just finished Jhumpa Lahiri’s latest short story collection, “Unaccustomed Earth,” which, like all her work, I enjoyed tremendously. Aside from the deftly drawn and complex characters, I love the peek into the lives of Bengalis who have emigrated to the United States, and all the local details are fun. But the ending of the final story left me stunned and now, several days later, I’m just beginning to be able to pick up another book. Have you read it?

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Where the poem comes from: Susan Donnelly

A couple of weeks ago I started a series on how a poem comes to be written, just because it’s something I always enjoy knowing about. I started with a poem by Afaa M. Weaver. Here’s one by Susan Donnelly.

Susan is a respected and widely-published poet and teacher who I am fortunate to have as a friend and neighbor. Her poem here, “Time,” is from her most recent collection, “Transit.” Here is how she describes writing “Time.”

“This poem was one of the fortuitous ones which jumped out whole, surprising its author and taking its own expression as it went along.  I had been musing on how often, after large and horrific events or crimes, one heard of the need for closure, the necessity to move on.  This call seemed to come particularly from leaders or governments responsible for the crimes.  I decided they’d been doing this for a long time, perhaps as far back as Cain’s murder of Abel.  As soon as he spoke, Cain “kicked aside a turnip” (produce was the issue, after all) and I saw that things were taking an Irish turn, as evidenced in his parents’ diction.  Later, I continued this unexpected cast in choosing as one of my villains Cromwell, so murderous to the indigenous Irish people.

“I was happy to see by its end that the quirky poem had expressed just what I had wanted to say about tyrants’ hypocritical verbiage: “healing”, reconcile”, as well as our tendency to look away, move past or gloss over crimes that must be remembered, confronted and judged.”
 
 
                              TIME

“It’s time to move forward,” said Cain,
kicking aside a turnip.
“time to put the past
behind us.”  He frowned at his parents.
Where else would it be then? they wondered,  
who’d had only scraps of it
and a desolate future,
“Yes, time,” said Cain again

and walked away.  Attila, too, cried “now
let there be healing!” on a hill
above a smoking village.
He and his soldiers could still
smell roasted flesh,
pick out here and there
a lump twitching.  “Time,”
— he swung one blood-smeared arm wide

over the quick and dead —
“to come together as one people. . .”
“In short, reconcile!” snapped Cromwell,
who measured ambition
by the tree-dwelling, feckless Celts.
Himmler fanned his face:
“Ja, it is here too scorching.  Let us move on.”