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Another Poet Gone

Franz Wright (1953-2015) had poetry in his genes. Son of Pulitzer Prize winning poet James Wright, Franz Wright began writing poetry as a child and went on to win his own Pulitzer Prize in 2004 for Walking To Martha’s Vineyard. I wasn’t familiar with him or his work until my friend Ingrid sent me his obituary from the Los Angeles Times, a newspaper that excels in its coverage of poetry.

Wright struggled with mental illness and addiction but turned his darkness into raw but lyrical poetry. One of his poems that I particularly like is “To Myself,” which includes these lines:

You are riding the bus again
burrowing into the blackness of Interstate 80,
the sole passenger

with an overhead light on.
And I am with you.
I’m the interminable fields you can’t see,

the little lights off in the distance
(in one of those rooms we are
living) and I am the rain

and the others all
around you, and the loneliness you love,
and the universe that loves you specifically, maybe …

Read more about Franz Wright at the Poetry Foundation.

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Delicious

Diane Lockward, whose wonderfully sensual poem “Linguine” appears in Joys of the Table, included two poems and a recipe from the book in her blog, “Blogalicious: Notes on Poetry, Poets and Books.”  (Hey, other contributors, who not link to Joys of the Table in your blogs or social media sites?) Diane ended her post with a suggestion: “This book would make a great gift for friends who love poetry and food. Don’t forget to be a friend to yourself. Bon appétit!”

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A Little More Shameless Promotion

Not long ago, I listed a few of my recently published poems, with links to the publications. Here are a couple more:

• “Nothing New,” Mothers Always Write, May 2015.
• “Returning to a Hotel in Uskudar,” Blue Minaret Literary Journal, which will post two more of my poems in coming months.  

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Bon Appétit
Joys of the TableHot off the press: Joys of the Table: An Anthology of Culinary Verse. Some months ago, I realized I had written a number of poems about remembered meals, nurturing cooks, and food as a symbol of communion and contentment. And I found that other poets I know had, too. After all, food in its many aspects—personal, sentimental, sensual, universal—is a natural subject for poetry. So, with the backing of Richer Resources Publications, I started gathering submissions for an anthology.


The result is a 158-page book that includes almost 100 insightful, lyrical, and evocative poems from 75 poets, a number of whom have also contributed recipes. The poems are grouped thematically in six sections: Amuse Bouche, What We Eat, Food and Love, Food and Geography, Kitchen Memories, and Food and Mortality—soup to nuts with a few extra snacks thrown in.

Warm thanks to the contributors and to the many other poets who answered our call for submissions. I hope you’ll find some delicious verses in the pages of Joys of the Table.

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Good Advice

William Carlos Williams, I’m told, gave some good advice to a young poet years ago—advice we should all bear in mind:

All you have to do is touch the meaning. You don’t have to hammer it down with a maul….cut everything down to the last significant word, shave it, prune it, leave certain parts floating—if you have sufficiently implied them earlier….You’re writing for the IMAGINATION, to stir it, to confirm it, to convince—to PLEASE it. You don’t have to say more than just precisely that which will give the meaning.

A friend shared this quote with me, and unfortunately, I can’t find the source. If anyone tracks it down, please let me know. 

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Out of the Past

I was looking through my first book of poetry, Arithmetic and other verses, and decided to recycle a few already published poems. Here’s one of them:

Attic

After her mother's heart gave out
she would still lie awake at night
and strain to hear the old woman's voice
the accumulation of their lives
pressing down on her the stuff of generations
weighing heavily.

It seemed as though the attic floor
would break and drop
the threadbare Chinese rugs
the tarnished silver
the rotting boxes twined with string
the fading photographs of strangers
all on her head.

The attic steps a ladder to past lives
even if you nailed them up
she thought
the past would still leak down
no dividing the quick from the dead
she thought
and she knew life could evaporate
as gently as a breath.

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Ekphrasis

Noun, ek•phra•sis \ˈek-frə-səs\. Rattle, the poetry journal we’d all like to be in, has launched an online ekphrasis challenge: Submit a poem that describes or comments on a particular photograph. Here’s the one that caught my eye, taken by photographer James Bernal.

And here’s the poem I submitted:

Body

It’s not just the misshapen body
           he turns from
not just mortality and loss he rejects
but the barren room
the fact of being on display to anyone
outside the window
as though life is a kind of show
and this its grand finale

and yet to close the heavy sliding door
to close the curtain on that life
is an act beyond him and he hesitates
between one doorway
          and another

It didn’t win, c’est la vie. And it turns out the photograph had nothing to do with mortality. “It's someone setting up an art installation in Miami during Art Basel a few years ago,” explained Rattle editor Timothy Green on Facebook. “He was ‘wandering around (maybe hunting for free wine)’ and stumbled onto the body. The photo was taken outside from a courtyard looking in. So it's not even a real dead body; you can put your nightmares to rest. 

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Rejection

Why didn’t they accept that poem? Frank Fucile, an editor at The William and Mary Review, has blogged some interesting answers to that question (see the January and February archives). When his “attitude toward a poem is going downhill,” he says, here are some questions he often finds himself asking: 

• Why is this line break here?
• What makes this clump of words a stanza?
• Is this metaphor (or any other poetic device) really necessary?
• Why should I care about this image, this moment, these people?
• Why don’t these words sound like anything?
• What is this poem about?
• Is your epigraph necessary?
• Did this piece need to be a poem (as opposed to a story, essay, or letter)?  

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You Are Here

Welcome to But Does it Rhyme?
We're a small, but hopefully growing, band of poets who like to talk about our craft and share what we've written. We'll highlight favorite poets, review new books, and explore the process of writing poetry from inspiration to conclusion. (We might venture into essays and short fiction, too.) We hope you'll like our blog — and contribute your own thought and poems.

Sally Zakariya, Poetry Editor
Richer Resources Publications

Charan Sue Wollard (LivermoreLit)
Kevin Taylor (Poet-ch'i)
Sherry Weaver Smith
(SherrysKnowledgeQuest)

books
Richer Resources Publications

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'The impossible language’

“Translation can’t be done; it’s the impossible language,” said poet W.S. Merwin in an interview in the February 2015 issue of The Writer’s Chronicle. Merwin, who has translated many volumes of poetry himself, went on quote Auden on translating from a language you don’t know. “This is the best way of doing it, because if you know the original, it just confuses you,” he said. “It’s much better to have it at several removes.”

I thought about that when a Brazilian friend who’s a sculptor asked for my help translating a poem she wrote in Portuguese. “As pedras falam,” it begins, and then recounts what stones say, presumably to the sculptor. She provided a literal translation, which didn’t say who the stones were speaking to. My translation (or maybe I should say my adaptation) put my friend in the poem and added some details to the stones’ speech:

The Stones
by Elizabeth Freire, adapted by Sally Zakariya

The stones speak to the sculptor, each
in its own language.
Listening, she understands.

The stones choose their own shape and size,
their own destiny.
The granite chooses to be a monolith,
standing strong.
The soapstone chooses to be carved,
transformed.
The marble chooses to flaunt its
rosy color.

To decipher the stones’ desires is to bring
out what has been in them since
the world was new.

The sculptor’s work is hard, but she is patient.
She takes time to know the stones.
She gives them time to reveal themselves.

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A Little Horn Tooting

A few of my poems have been published recently:

• “What It’s Like When You Escape,” Lunch Ticket, Winter/Spring 2015. Try to ignore the photo of the author …
• “The End of the Day,” ELJ Black Orchid Designs (broadside), 2014. This one was written in response to a photograph supplied by the publisher.
• “U.S.S. Jeannette,” “Home Improvement,” and “Maine Ghosts, 1952,” Broadkill Review, Nov/Dec 2014.
• “Why We Live with Cats,” Purrfect Poetry, Lost Tower Publications, 2014. An anthology about, well, cats.
• “May Meteor Shower,” Emerge Literary Journal, Issue 9: 2014

And watch for one more: “Mackerel Sky,” The Northern Virginia Review, vol. 29, spring 2015, forthcoming.

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Protest Poetry II

A little while ago I quoted NPR critic Juan Vidal’s call for protest poetry. “We need our poets now more than ever,” he said. Canadian poet Kevin Taylor, author of Between Music and Dance, stepped up to the plate and sent us this reminiscence:

This poem was written 15 or 20 years ago. At that time Vancouver was passing bylaws to restrict street artists, an oppressive move. Today there are few buskers left, many were forced to beg instead. I took this poem down to the art gallery, to the old courthouse steps, where a protest rally had formed, and I read it with a bullhorn in hand.—Kevin Taylor

Members of the Jury—

It was a drive-by versing
A poem invasion
An act of irresponsible aesthetics
Unmitigated form and passion
Premeditated meter
Alliteration
Aggravated by both rhythm
And rhyme

It was a drive-by vision
A prose inversion
A wilding of fact and fantasy

By all accounts
A Declaration of Words

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In and Out

My friend Jacqueline Jules and I meet each month at a friendly bagel shop to read and critique each other’s poems. I’ve noticed that frequently, all our poems really need is judicious pruning—deleting those extra words (and even lines) that elaborate rather than illuminate. Sometimes, too, the critique boils down to a simpler, more direct way to say something.

This month, after our meeting, I got to thinking that the word “while” in one of Jacqueline’s poems seemed if not unnecessary at least a bit soft, so I emailed her to that effect. She emailed back, “I took the ‘while’ out and put it back in several times this morning. I am happy to have the incentive to take it out again.”

All of which leads me to one of my very favorite poetry quotes. It’s from the inimitable Oscar Wilde: “I was working on the proof of one of my poems all the morning, and took out a comma. In the afternoon I put it back again.”

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Are You a Walt or an Emily?

A class I’m taking is reading Emily Dickinson and Walt Whitman, two very different 19th-century American poets who, each in his own way, transformed American poetry—Dickinson with her reclusive, particularist rhymed verse, and Whitman with his loose, expansive, universalist lines. Many contemporary American poets fall into one camp or the other, the lyric or the bardic. Am I an Emily or a Walt? More likely neither, but here, for the sake of argument, is a little poem of mine inspired by Emily’s line “In the name of the bee.”

Why I Do Not Trim My Mint

In the herb garden the mint slants
north, each stalk its own compass needle

Finding their way, three bees hover over
the blossoms, drawn by the promise of pollen

Their busy buzz lulls me as I laze
here on the porch, dreaming of blooms

and of the world bees make possible
for us, a world of fields and fruitfulness

Cut the mint before it flowers, they say
but where would these three forage then?

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Galway Kinnell, 1927-2014

With the death of Galway Kinnell in late October, America lost one of its premier poets. Winner of the Pulitzer Prize and the National Book Award, among other distinctions, Kinnell blended the political and the philosophical in his work, which was often compared to that of Walt Whitman. In a 1985 speech, he recalled having been a silent child who felt isolated from others. “Gradually I felt that if I was ever going to have a happy life,” he said, “it was going to have to do with poetry.” That kind of happiness can be a quietly private thing, as suggested by the closing lines from Kinnell’s 2006 poem “Why Regret?”

Doesn’t it outdo the pleasures of the brilliant concert
to wake in the night and find ourselves
holding hands in our sleep?

For more on Kinnell’s life and work, visit the Poetry Foundation and the Academy of American Poets.

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What Are You Writing?

Why should we get all the bylines? Submit your latest poem—just one for now—and we’ll publish the poems we like best in an upcoming blog post. Simultaneous submissions are fine, but please let us know if the poem is accepted or published elsewhere. Send your poem, plus a few lines about yourself, in the body of an e-mail message to:

            poetryeditor@RicherResourcesPublications.com