Denise R. Weuve

Ink Damage and Other Permanent Stains

Archive for the month “July, 2012”

The Closest This Poet Will Get To The Beach

At Gatsby Books there was a Bank Heavy monthly poetry reading. The features were really good. G Murray Thomas read. Not only a great guy but a really strong writer. I actually used one of his poems when I did the love poetry unit with my creative writing class (because it was not what one would expect and that was what made it so great). Furthermore he is the reason I started getting back into poetry reading and seriously considering an MFA program. I spent so much time forgetting the things I loved, that it was nearly shocking to recall that there was still a world that loved what I did.

The open mic was weird for me oddly enough. I’m use to reading in front of people, not that I am calloused, I always get light butterflies, just a weird moment that fades when I stand in front of a crowd, but it did not fade for this reading. I actually realized, at one point, I was shaking, and so it became worse. I never got back to my seat so quickly after I read. It wasn’t that the poems sucked, though I truly think Suits After 5 needs work, it was something else. Somewhere it lies in the Mermaids poem. What happened that it became about Jim? Haven’t thought about him, his black cross tattoo, or Sunday drunks in ages. But these lines:
I cannot explain
her turn to the waves,
nor can I promise
no other woman
will wake mid dream
dehydrated, feel her legs
unfold like fins, and not
run for any shore
that isn’t yours.

and he was in the room waiting for me to finish so he could say, “do I really deserve that?”
Maybe it is way simpler than that. Perhaps I miss my poetry buddy Timmy. No one to read with, evaluate with, and leave with. So it was harder to rad without support.
Or it was Jim. . .

First Rejection

From Word Riot. Not terribly surprised. I have read everything on their site and find little I have in common with, but attempted a submission anyhow. After all one never knows until an effort is made. Now, though it becomes a mission to have them finally take something. Let the mission begin.

I am always stunned by rejections, because I simply believe that they must have made a horrible mistake. Yep, as I type this, I think I should just resend them the same work, give them another shot.

Luminous Times

I went to David Hind’s wedding and either the matron of honor or maid of honor wished the bride and groom luminous times. I earnestly thought it was a beautiful concept but yet I had to twist it. The mind plays as it wills.

Luminous Times
Stars refuse to hide
shining against the darkness
lack respect this night

The Worse Poet in the World

so it appears this is the only way to describe myself. I feel so out-of-place in the poetry world, but I love writing.
Poetry readings are often tortured for me. Yes there are the poets that drone on about being robots and the universe swallowing them, and it becomes incomprehensible. Ones that laugh at their own work, or explain every technique they ventured to try, and I listen politely and wonder do they know that if they have to explain it, it probably wasn’t done well? After all, the assumption is everyone in the room has a working knowledge of poetry therefore can pick up allusion, alliteration, and even assonance-should one dare.
Is it that, as the worse poet in the world, I do not recognize how hard these people toll? Have I become elitist? Can you be elitist when no one knows who you are?
But yet I know I like some work. I will hear a poem and say, damn that snake charmer poem was completely on target, or understand a person like a new language, way to work that metaphor sister! So is it my taste is off, and out of touch with poetry in general? I mean I do like people who take chances. I love poets that infuse their ordinary moments into poetry and make me see them in a way that may have missed me in the past. When I hear writers talking about butterflies and gardens and there is no powerhouse pulsing beneath it, I get yawny (yeah I made up that word. . .let’s try it other writers. new words for every one. Cancerish, floorable, corkal. it’s fun)

Maybe the horrible truth is I am the worse poet in the world, because I am awkward. I simply feel uncomfortable in a room full or strangers, even when I know them.

Please Forgive This Interruption From Your Regularly Scheduled Poetry Talk

Men please stop shaving your stubble off.

Call it your 5 o’clock shadow. Laziness embodied. Scruff. Identity hider.  Intrigue builder.  I just don’t care.  It is sexy.  PERIOD.

Studies show that men with 1-2 day hair growth are considered more attractive to majority of women .  Link Here.  The best advise is right here

“This study means nothing. Nothing reached significance, and the only thing it probably did is make a bunch of female undergrads fulfill their psych 101 requirement.

But I think there is another lesson to be gleaned here, and that, oh men, is the lesson of the ruggedness of the 5 o clock shadow. If that soul patch isn’t getting you ladies and your stalker ‘stache has let you down, maybe it’s time to try for a little less is more. Less shaving, a little more stubble.”

Look I’ve seen the articles about how men with stubble/beards are psychologically hiding something, but I don’t care. Maybe the truth is women who like it are hiding something themselves.

Studies or not, there is something to be said about that 1-3 day hair growth. In my opinion, besides being sexy as hell, it shows strength, manliness that is perhaps lost in a world of metro sexual behaviors that bewilders. For me it is masculinity. A man who will be more concerned with spending what he does with his time, and who he spends it with, then how pretty he is in the process.

Why Did I Say Yes?

That was pretty much the theme for the day.

First I needed a bit more money for summer (actually any would have been nice) so I agreed to teach 12 days of summer school.  6 hours of English. . .straight.  Now how was this a good idea?  Students who could not pass an hour of english per day are sequestered in a white walled classroom for 6 hours a day.  Who was the genius that thought that ended well?  The teacher next to me (who only has 19 students and i have 35) literally hands out worksheets and does not one ounce of teaching.  She closes the second half with movies.  I on the other hand dog and pony with this stupid integrity that says I need to teach.  So powerpoints, activities, collaboration.  I’m hitting all the dog and pony shows.

Then A friend called.  I so should have said no.

Then an ex-called.  I so should have said no.

Then another friend cancelled going to a poetry reading with me.  And I said no problem, when i should have said, no it’s not okay.

And now I’m doing this, when I am sure I should be saying no to this computer and doing something better for me.  Exercise?  Nah. . .that seems like work.

Perhaps I am seeing this all wrong.  Maybe I should be grateful that I have so many people that can damage from over a phone line, and some that can show up and personally inflict a little pain.  There are people that have no one at all.

Sunday is as good as any other day

So I stayed up until 3am submitting to four lit journals, Bank-Heavy PressCarnival Literary MagazineVerdad, and Yes, Poetry.  Of course now I go through the horrible waiting period.  To combat that I plan on submitting to even more places tonight.  My poet friends on facebook write things like “woke up to first rejection of the day”, “33 rejection this week”, and “I want to thank the publishers of . . . .for taking two of my poems for their next issue”.  So now I wait with my fingers cross and my heart set on the “I want to thank. . .”

It just dawned on me that this is the poets version of an oscar speech.  ”I’d like to thank the publishers of yes, poetry for liking me.  My friends for believing me when I didn’t, and that bastard Jessie for fucking me over, so i could write these wrenching words.”

Ehh. . . .Let’s end with this gem that will not stop haunting me- – –

What matters in the ugly dawn

her face in flashback

her cries in iambic

her  sorrow in rhyme

the alliteration of finished from forever

Submitting on a Saturday Night

So I am finally doing it. I make sure my students are published, and forget myself.  It is backwards.

But I am sure that part of the problem is the simple fact that I hate the politics of poetry.  Well of life, in general, but yes poetry. Poetry reading that are, more often then not, numbing.  I continue to go because it is a necessity and at times someone will read that makes me very glad that I showed up.  I don’t like submitting.  Figuring out what poem is more suited to this magazine or that magazine, and hoping.  And like all humans, the rejection factor SUCKS!

Perhaps I simply do not like poetry that does not dance.  Like 98% of it, which makes this a strange world  for me to keep playing off key music in. . .

I’m doing this right, this time

Can’t count how many blogs I start and then forget.  So here we go again.  I plan to be far better at it this time. We will see.

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