Yesterday I drafted this blog from inside a very cold bongo drum. High winds rippled and banged our metal roof riotously: “Thumbing / the tin roof like a smoker who / cannot get the house to stay alight,” I wrote in Mycocosmic, in a poem about perimenopausal sleeplessness.
Even though hot flashes are rare now, I’m still not sleeping well. The radiators blast dry heat, a vaporizer blasts vapor in an attempt to counter the dry heat, and the dial on my brain’s worry machine is set to high. The U.S. is in very bad shape. Some beings I love are suffering. (The cats don’t mind if I violate their privacy, so I’ll say thyroid medication isn’t reversing the weight loss of our older cat, Poe; the young one, Vincent, has this condition where he’s allergic to his teeth. If you could use a reason for gratitude, there you go: you’re probably not allergic to your teeth. He’s the white cat pictured here in the bliss of painkillers.)
During Virginia’s uncharacteristic Big Freeze–just beginning to ease–I was unable to walk much, and losing that outlet affected my mood. In this tiny town unused to harsh weather, the snowplows do a lousy job, and many neighbors don’t shovel sidewalks, usually the rich ones in red brick mansions. Wealthy students slide their enormous SUVs into rare street spots, totally oblivious to the possibility that a local resident shoveled it with difficulty and wants it back when they return home with groceries. Small gripes. I think what’s getting to me is seeing so much cluelessness, people unaware of or indifferent to the needs of others–now, of all moments. Paying attention is an ethical obligation, a pretty minimal one. I know I’m not alone in that conviction–sending awed love to Minneapolis!–but so, so many people in my red county seem to have iced-in hearts.
So, as others have been blogging, I’m finding a sense of community where I can. I did two poetry events this week that made me feel genuine connection to others: the Bardic Trails virtual reading (an exceptionally warm, lovely group!) and a panel discussion of poetry and the environment in the nearest big town, hosted by the Botanical Garden of the Piedmont, which is just getting off the ground as a welcoming public space, an oasis amid development. I also tuned in by Zoom to a panel discussion hosted by the Association for the Study of Literature and the Environment, just as a listener, and the panelists were SO smart. Poet Maya Jewell Zeller, talking about her forthcoming memoir Raised by Ferns, was one of them.
Here are some other events coming up for me:
- Feb. 11, 5:30-7:00 pm: Reading and Workshop at Rockbridge Regional Library in Lexington, VA: “Writing from the Underworld”
- Feb. 22, 3 pm: Morningside Poetry Series with Lynn Fitzgerald, Suite Bar, Amsterdam Ave at 109th Street on NYC’s Upper West Side
- Mar. 6-8, AWP in Baltimore!
- Kestrel tabling and signing with Sally Rosen Kindred, Thursday 2-3 pm
- Signing of Mycocosmic at Tupelo Table, Friday 2:00-2:30 pm
- Tupelo Press Reading at Fadensonnen Wine Bar, Friday 6:00-9:00 pm
- Panel: How Form Informs the Form: Received & Original Forms in Manuscript Organization with Donna Vorreyer, Chris Santiago, Rebecca Lehmann, and Taylor Byas in Room 327, Baltimore Convention Center, Level 300, Saturday 9-10:15 am
- Mar. 13, 1-2 pm EST: ASLE Spotlight: Multispecies Connections (virtual) with Lay Sion Ng, Boria Sax, John Yunker, and Midge Raymond
Kind of a shocker that AWP is less than a month away! And my spouse and I will drive up to the NYC reading so we can visit our kids and my sister en route, which I’m greatly looking forward to.
A shout-out to the aforementioned spouse, Chris Gavaler, whose latest book of comics scholarship, The Color of Paper: Representing Race in the Comics Medium, launched Friday. He’s a local activist, too, who posts on FB daily about small legal victories against the Trump administration, and those posts are suddenly blowing up–thousands of views and hundreds of shares. (It all started when Chris, usually supernaturally patient with right-wingers who respond to his posts in ridiculous ways, finally replied, “Fuck you, Roger.” That definitely needs to be a tee shirt slogan.)
Mysterious algorithmic forces? I’m really not sure what’s happening under glossy surfaces these days–just hoping against hope for the Big Melt.
Aside from barding around, I’ve been dashing off an occasional poem draft or application but mostly revising my novel. Final revisions on Grievous just went to my agent. He’s prepping to query publishers. As so many poets do when submitting poems and mss, he’ll be starting with fancy places, which means the whole process could take a while.
Working on edits, though, I missed the Prairie Schooner submission window; I’d intended to send them some new poems that fit their “Awakening” theme, but they closed fast. That’s karma for you: Shenandoah did the same, opening Feb. 1 and hitting the cap the same day. Apparently we’ll be publishing only highly organized poets! I wish it didn’t work this way, but 500 batches maxes me out, plus I get an amazing array of work even in a single day. There are many distinguished poets in my queue, and always there are treasures from poets whose names I’ve never heard. Plus a few people who take up five spots because they don’t know how to put all their poems into the same document. Oh, poetry! As always, it’s an honor with patches of hard slog. Right now, it’s hurting my heart to have to reject so much, and of course overwhelm is in the mix. Joy arrives, though, when I comprehend the full pool well enough to say “yes” to a few. I am looking forward to those days when blue shifts to green.
LESLEY WHEELER 