Yesterday I received my long awaited copy of the inaugural issue of the Packingtown Review. A poem of mine was accepted there almost two years ago for the original release date of November 2008. Meanwhile, Wayne decided to act on my suggestion he try submitting his art to some of the literary journals that feature the work of visual artists. He submitted to Packingtown Review without telling me he'd done so. They not only chose his work for the first issue, and the cover at that, they decided to feature ONLY his work is this issue. His piece "Circle Cycle XI" graces the cover and inside features
"Cardboard Quail Eggs," "Lala," and a detail "Winged Instrument," a piece he collaborated with Chris Teeter on for the Missouri Theater. When the editors later learned we were married, they placed my poem "Memory of Water" opposite "Cardboard Quail Eggs." Another nice touch: Wayne made that piece for me.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Monday, April 13, 2009
When I was at AWP in February, I met the folks from Arc Poetry Magazine out of Canada. Their book table had a lone issue of several of their handsome journals--customs had confiscated the bulk of their books at the border, allowing them to carry in a single copy of each issue. Since I could not buy a journal, Pauline, the managing editor, promised to mail me one. And then she did. Each journal features impressive artwork as well as poetry, essays on poetics and reviews. While perusing their site, I found the feature, "How Poems Work" which you, too, may enjoy. Thank you, Pauline!
Friday, April 10, 2009
If you read the comments made to the previous post about my grandfather (I'm referring to the the last two) you'll know why a conversation I had yesterday gave me goosebumps. I ran into a friend who knew about my grandfather's passing. When I told her about my discovery of my granddad's last two words she asked me if I'd read Annie Dillard's Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. I had, but many years ago. She reminded me of something Dillard had written and later emailed me this passage:
"I think that the dying pray at the last not “please,” but “thank you,” as a guest thanks his host at the door. Falling from airplanes the people are crying thank you, thank you, all down the air, and the cold carriages draw up for them on the rocks. Divinity is not playful. The universe was not made in jest but in solemn incomprehensible earnest."