Holy moly, what is it with couples splitting up? I've just experienced a string of friend breakups, and now Ryan and Reese (not friends but you get the point). Glad I'm on the other side.

I miss a radio signal full of Phil Collins / Paul Carrack bitter relationship and breakup songs! I'll have to get out my solo albums and crank them up.

"My friends keep falling and they can't get up/It's the same old story/Well one says white and the other one black/It's the same old story"

"Cab fare to nowhere is what you are/A white line to an exit sign is what you are "

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On a better note, I am working with an editor on Tiger's Eye to print four of my poems and an interview. I normally don't place four poems in a publication, but this works like a snapshot of different poets, so it seems rather cool. The questions are tough! I'll have to think on the answers a bit.

Look for "The Unseen," "Joan of Arc in the Garden," "Sharing Space," and "The Poem Will Be You" in an upcoming issue of Tiger's Eye.

This site seems rather appropriate! Let's see how many changes I can handle in one month!!

September 30 was the Geraldine R. Dodge Poetry Festival back at Waterloo Village. The misty rain and cold air didn't sour my mood -- I was so glad to be back at the village! Ran into friends and enjoyed readings and discussions. We attended the "Saying the Unsayable" Conversation with Jorie Graham, Toi Derricotte, Tony Hoagland, and Linda Pastan. Jorie's conversation was very scholarly and Tony's rather funny; Toi and Linda offered down-to-earth poems and talk. It was a well-balanced discussion. The best reminder I received was that if there is no risk in the poem, in the writing and in the result, then you probably are not creating the best poem, or what it could or should be. I know I take little risk, and I really need to change that. For such an emotional person, I rarely let out what I should when it comes to my own poetry. I am always too much the editor and the reservist.

What I love most about the festival is discovering new poets, and I had not read much if any of Tony Hoagland. I hate reprinting poetry without permission, and I'll certainly take this poem off the blog if asked, but I have found that this is one of many really good poems by him, and now I'll go get his books and really read what he's done.


Jet

Sometimes I wish I were still out
on the back porch, drinking jet fuel
with the boys, getting louder and louder
as the empty cans drop out of our paws
like booster rockets falling back to Earth

and we soar up into the summer stars.
Summer. The big sky river rushes overhead,
bearing asteroids and mist, blind fish
and old space suits with skeletons inside.
On Earth, men celebrate their hairiness,

and it is good, a way of letting life
out of the box, uncapping the bottle
to let the effervescence gush
through the narrow, usually constricted neck.

And now the crickets plug in their appliances
in unison, and then the fireflies flash
dots and dashes in the grass, like punctuation
for the labyrinthine, untrue tales of sex
someone is telling in the dark, though

no one really hears. We gaze into the night
as if remembering the bright unbroken planet
we once came from,

to which we will never
be permitted to return.
We are amazed how hurt we are.
We would give anything for what we have.