…Which Is Why I Hate Giving Readings

Turtle-neck aficionado Brigit Pegeen Kelly (center) poses for a picture
with Lucie Brock-Broido (left) and Tree Swenson (right).

She started with a joke or what I took to be a joke, thereby laying out her theme for the entire evening: “I’m from a very sad place,” Brigit Pegeen Kelly started, pausing for effect. “Central Illinois.”

I reached down for my knapsack, grabbing for my notebook. I had a sense that that was only the first of many gems that she’d deliver that night. I was right. To say she delivered jokes is a tad misleading; it was more natural and less self-conscious than that. It would be more accurate to say that she said things people laughed at.

This past Thursday, Brigit Pegeen Kelly, former Yale Series of Younger Poets winner and “one of the very best poets now writing in the United States” (at least according to Stephen Dobyns) gave a reading at the Helen C. White Hall at UW-Madison. Despite the dimmed lights, wooden podium, and desk lamp, it was clear that we were gathered in a large conference room made more depressing by the dampness that hung in the air. (Many of us had trekked through three straight days of nearly constant rain to get here). The ceiling was bubble-tiled and spotted with halogen lights, and the place was packed—I had to squeeze between two young men (undergrads?), both looking like they wanted out.

Pegeen Kelly kept with the theme she laid out in her opening “joke,” that of place, more specifically, that of her life living on a farm in rural Illinois. (She teaches at the University of Chicago, Urbana-Champaign). Before jumping into her first poem she explained more about Central Illinois. She set the scene: “There’s no place to dump things, no trees, no hills,” she explained. “I like the landfills… they give you something to look at.”

Pegeen Kelly’s outlook is a bit different than most. Over the course of the evening, she called a harsh windstorm that caused quite a bit of damage “kind of magnificent” and said this about a flood that covered the Central Illinois countryside two years ago: “It was so, so beautiful. It was like living in a land of lakes.”

She continued: “It was like the scene from Spirited Away—have any of you seen that?—the part where the train glides over the water…”

Here is the scene she to which she was referring:



For someone with such a strange outlook on things, the reading started traditionally enough. In a quiet, yet commanding voice she read an Emily Dickinson poem, which I now don’t recall, and followed that up with the poem “Killing Rabbits” by a writer who’s last name sounded like “Miroslaw.” Any ideas?

She moved into some of her work, reading “The Orchard” (“And I saw / That the horse was a dog. But the apples / Were still apples”)—she followed the poem with the clarification that “there aren’t any orchards in Central Illinois.” She moved on to “Rome.” (Find it here: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20907).

One year, there was an ice storm, she told us. There’s always ice storms on rural roads, but due to the budget crunch, the city manager had decided not to buy salt for the roads, she said. There were 49 accidents. She said it without accusation, without irony. Just stating a fact. “The police office issued this statement,” she said. “Do not call the police unless you are mortally injured. There are no police to come get you.”

She read a poem about a wolf wandering through a village called “Fable,” which I really wish I could find. I did get down the last few lines. It went something like this:

He walked wide-eyed all morning
until he was beaten to death.

I went into the reading on a hot tip from a poet-friend—“I hear she’s amazing”—and because of that was expecting something akin to Ilya Kaminsky, a reading that is less a reading and more an experience. Sure, many people read better than Kaminsky, but when you go see him read, you understand the power of performance. Pegeen Kelly was not powerful. She wasn’t “an experience.” However, she was simply amazing.

Her reading might have possibly been the most enjoyable reading I’ve ever attended. I’m sure I’m not the only one who often finds it difficult to focus on the poems yet who always feels awkward when the poet goes “off the cuff” to tell us some back story or to set up the poem or to banter. Pegeen Kelly, instead, made her reading into a performance without performing but tying her poems and the poems of other authors together with the theme of place. All her setup stories had the effect of communicating a sense of what it means to live it Central Illinois. Listening to her was like reading a good non-fiction narrative, except this narrative lacked any naval-gazing, self-indulgence. It could be that she’s a natural story-teller, though none of her anecdotes were really stories or perhaps she spends as much time planning what she will say as she does writing the poems she’ll read.

She ended the performance by describing the stunted Central Illinois trees as broccoli (“Someone should get them on film”) and reading a poem written by her son when he was a young child. The poem started thus (or something close):

We should not use words.
Words can make anything…

“That is why I don’t like to give readings,” she said. Everyone applauded.

Thoughts on the Turtleneck

Some people wear turtlenecks because they don’t own scarves. Some people wear turtlenecks because they are about to engage in a modern dance presentation or they’re mimes. For some people, it’s a comfort thing. For others, their mothers told them to. Some people wear turtlenecks because its laundry day and all they have left is Aunt Marie’s Christmas present from two years ago. Some people wear turtlenecks because tomorrow morning, they will lower themselves into a supped-up Chevrolet and race around a track a ridiculous amount of times, though not many people wear them for this reason. It’s never wise to make fun of someone’s turtleneck. It could be hiding a scar and ex-boyfriend gave her one night with a paring knife when he came home sweating whiskey. Some people have a strange connection to their turtlenecks. A few have been to counseling. The large majority of turtleneck wearers are females between the ages of 45 and 60, half of which can be found, at this moment, sipping espresso in a coffee shop or felling trees for a logging company. A small percentage of turtleneck-wearers are homeless. A small percentage thinks they are flattering because they shorten the neck. They make the head seem like a surprise. What else will pop out of that covering you call a shirt? Virtually none of the world’s turtlenecks are short-sleeved, unless of course, they’re homemade. Virtually all of them are either white or black. But never yellow. Eight out of ten people “in the know” would not be “caught dead” in a turtleneck. But the more I think about it, the more I want to pull on a turtleneck and feel the warmth muzzle my throat. Even if I’m bucking the system.

Coming this week...

Along with other random posts, you can look forward to this week a review of last Thursday's Brigit Pegeen Kelly's reading at UW-Madison's Helen C. White Hall. (Wow, that was a mouthful.) Also, a new feature: Very Teachable Poems. After missing last week, I will have another “The GRE is Ridiculously Hard You are Not an Idiot” review. This time, it's Metaphysical Poetry.

In the meantime...

Ya’ll should check out Sarah Sloat’s blog when you get a chance to (thanks to Lisa for the tip). I have her blog linked in my blogroll. Here’s a found poem with text taken from one of her posts. It might give you an idea of how funny she can be!

Ode to Rudolf Diesel

I can overlook traffic and superfluous strip malls
but I can’t forgive the muzak
pumped like gas into parking lots and shops.

If we could ban smoking. If we
could mandate seat belts and child safety locks…

I think prohibiting consumer muzak would be a giant step
toward improving health care.

If we could invent the air bag.
If we can bomb the moon…

Of course, if forced to process Huey Lewis
and the News, I burst into gaseous flame,
I might find some good in that.

Animals Wearing the Skin of Other Animals? Sure. Why Not?

Erinn Batykefer recently introduced me to the craziest, most interesting and poetically-inspiring blog (MM—you’ll love this). It’s called Regretsy (found online at www.regretsy.com), based off the site Etsy (www.etsy.com). For those unfamiliar with Etsy, here’s a short description: “Our mission is to enable people to make a living making things, and to reconnect makers with buyers.” They bill themselves as “your place to buy and sell all things handmade.”

Regretsy’s motto, on the other hand? “Homemade? It looks like you made it with your feet.”

Basically, Regretsy scours Etsy and finds the weirdest and downright creepiest items listed for sale. For instance, perhaps you’ve been searching for the perfect mantel piece to let every random woman you bring home that yes, you do enjoy animals, though you prefer them to be dead, stuffed, and wearing the skins of other animals. If so, try “Fish in Squirrel Suit.”

Only 350 dollars? What a steal.

Let’s say you want your cat to feel the savage joy of pawing around a stuffed fetus. And let’s be honest, who wouldn’t? Regretsy (and Etsy) has you covered. For only six dollars, you could be the proud owner of such… interesting items as “Cat Nip Fetus Toy in Pink.”

So how does this relate to poetry? Why should I spend my time scrolling through a blog that, amongst other disturbing things, features handpainted demon-inspired hardcore porn? (You actually wanted me to post a picture of it? You sicko). How will this help me become a better person, which is the end goal of my blog? Here’s how: I have a mission, should you choose to accept it. Write a poem based off one of the items listed on Regretsy. I’ve already written one for the “Mink Skull Wrist Cuff and Corset,” but the rest are up for grabs. MM, I expect to see a poem (or a few lines) from you at least! I’d be interested to see what you all come up with, if you would indulge me. If anything strikes you, post your poems/lines in the comments.

Here’s the opening of my poem “Mink Skull Wrist Cuff and Corset” (it only gets worse from here):

My unbleached mandible, eye sockets looped
like empty ears, and wave-swept muzzle
off-white and warped as an Idaho potato,
you fit your doorknocker around my waist.

Open up. Take off your shirt and stay awhile.
Come see this crazy taxidermy…

Homie, We Major

So you want to be a major poet? You’ve come to the right place as I’ve located the four conditions necessary in becoming a major poet. (If that sounds daunting, don’t fear. You must only satisfy three and a half of them.) Editor and sometime poet W.H. Auden wrote in the introduction to his anthology, Nineteenth-Century British Minor Poets, this summation.

To qualify as a major poet:

1. He must write a lot.
2. His poems must show a wide range of subject matter and treatment.
3. He must exhibit an unmistakable originality of vision and style.
4. In the case of poets, we distinguish between their juvenilia and their mature work but, in the case of the major poet, the process of maturing continues until he dies so that, if confronted by two poems of his of equal merit but written at different times, the reader can immediately say which was written first. In the case of the minor poet, on the other hand, however excellent the two poems must be, the reader cannot settle the chronology on the basis of the poems themselves.

Disregarding the patriarchal and sexist “he” (sorry, Lisa), Auden’s guidelines make a fair bit of sense to me. I’m sure this line of thinking is not productive to a young poet, and to someone like Yeats, (who in my estimation, passes at least three of the four,) they probably arose naturally in his work. He didn’t sit down as a young poet thinking, “I must exhibit an unmistakable originality and vary my subject matter if I’m to be remembered.” I suppose I shouldn’t give these categories too much thought. However, Auden’s keys to greatness got me thinking about career progression, about how writers develop (or fail to develop) over the courses of their careers, and one notable exception stood out.

What about Jack Gilbert? Though he’s not been recognized, to my knowledge, as a major poet and is glaringly absent in my edition of The Norton Anthology, I can’t say I’ve encountered a poet who has better mastered the plain-spoken, confessional “I.” Even the slight takes on significance in the world of Jack Gilbert. Consider “Happily Planting the Beans Too Early” from Refusing Heaven:

I waited until the sun was going down
to plant the bean seedlings. I was
beginning on the peas when the phone rang.
It was a long conversation about what
living this way in the woods might
be doing to me. It was dark by the time
I finished. Made tuna fish sandwiches
and read the second half of a novel.
Found myself out in the April moonlight
putting the rest of the pea shoots into
the soft earth. It was after midnight.
There was a bird calling intermittently
and I could hear the stream down below.
She was probably right about me getting
strange. After all, Basho and Tolstoy
at the end were at least going somewhere.

Despite the quiet beauty of this poem and many of his others—try reading The Great Fires without grabbing for your loved one and holding him or her for the rest of the evening—he’d probably fail Auden’s standards of a “major” poet.

For one, he’s not been the most prolific. Aside from a publishing flurry in the past four years, he has had only three major books over the span of his 80+ years on earth: Views of Jeopardy (1962), which won the Yale Younger Series of Poetry, The Great Fires: Poems 1982-1992 (1996), and Refusing Heaven (2005), which won the National Book Critics Circle Award. (I leave out Monolithos only because its first half is comprised of poems from Views of Jeopardy. We can squabble over this minor point, but as an analogy, I direct you to Rolling Stones’ list of the top 500 albums. If I remember correctly, not one greatest hits album made the list. Instead, new, complete albums were given preference). This is all not to say he hasn’t written a bunch. I have no idea know if he has. However, he surely hasn’t published a great deal of work. I don’t disparage this; in fact, I encourage it. But regardless of my publishing inclinations (far too many books = watered-down quality), Auden would tsk.

Secondly, he doesn’t deviate wildly in his later two books from his core subjects of aging, grief, and isolation, and the form he funnels these ideas through is likewise unchanging. I was shocked when I opened Monolithos, after only knowing Gilbert through Refusing Heaven, to see stanzas! Apart from subject matter and a certain spunk (apparent in his early books—I have not had the opportunity to read all the poems from Views of Jeopardy though I have read Monolithos), which has been replaced with a sense of worldly exhaustion, his style has remained consistent and his work early work is largely indistinguishable from his later poems.

I will give him vision and style and maintain that in my progression as a writer, he was a major discovery. (Who knew Poets & Writers—where I first encountered him in a profile piece—could actually pay dividends?) But does he ultimately fail Auden’s test? Should we even spend anytime thinking about what this Auden fellow says? I know there are some Gilbert fans out there who must have a few thoughts…

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Your weekend song: Bang! Bang! by The Knux. Allow their coolness to wash over you. They’ll make you hip and groovy too. They’ll put that pop on ya like Redenbacher.



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The “Is that Really the Definition” Word of the Week:

past mistress—n. 1: a woman who is highly skilled, experienced, or expert at a profession, art, etc. : ADEPT.

Of course it is! What else could “past mistress” mean?

Breaking news: Poetry is impressed with my work...

but would rather I send it elsewhere, at least for now. Full story below:

In his blog The Projector is Ripping Your History (see sidebar blogroll), which I often read as self-flagellation or, more precisely, as a reminder of how little submitting I do of my own poetry, Keith Montesano lists a new publication nearly every time he posts. It’s amazing, astounding, and well-deserved, so I can’t begrudge him the success. Following his example, I thought I would post similar information. No, it’s not a publication, but a near-publication, which as any fledging poet knows is almost just as good: Poetry says they are “impressed” with my last submission, though nothing fits with the journal at the moment, and hopes I feel encouraged to send again… “after awhile.” Should I be excited about this, or is this a common “personalized” rejection from Poetry? How long is “after awhile?”

To give you an idea of Poetry, for those unfamiliar with the publication, here’s a line from the July/August 2009 issue (yes, I’m behind, but I’m still working through this massive issue):

“Ironing hung dejectedly over a chair, / gesture that comes from who-knows-where.”
—Elisabeth Eybers, “Poet as Housewife,” pg. 294

Though to be fair, here’s another line from that same issue, different poem:

“What elevator is this anyway, that even the prospect / of going down has made you high?”
—Kevin McFadden, “A Date,” pg. 301

Does the chair/where rhyme tap into what Christian Wiman (editor of Poetry) called “the tension between language and life?” I’m not sure. One thing I can say is that when I first started reading Poetry as an undergraduate, I found it painful and hard-going, mostly because cracking open the spine of the journal felt like I had pulled something down from my grandfather’s bookshelf. Everything seemed archaic and dusty. With Wiman taking over, the journal not only got a welcomed facelift—who doesn’t love the feel and look of the pages now?—but the quality of the poetry, in my opinion, has improved. And then, there’s the prose…

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A few small concerns: yes, this blog is still so new, there are a few glitches, namely the header (I will design one where the text overlain on the image is readable) and the fact that somehow this computer misspelled Lorrie Moore’s name twice. How could that have happened??? The flipside: the blog still has that new-blog smell. Breathe it in.

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For those friends of mine facing the GRE subject test in the next year, (I’m looking at you Lisa,) I have instituted this weekly feature: GRE Subject Test Review, Or, You’re Not Dumb, Literature is Just Very Hard.

Today’s vocabulary word: Aestheticism

Aestheticism signifies a group of British decadent writers deeply influenced by Pater (who came up often when I was studying for the GRE subject test—he must be important or something) who said that life had to be lived intensely, following the ideal of beauty. They are associated with l’art pout l’art (“art for art’s sake”) and asserted that there was no connection between art and morality. Instead of moral or sentimental messages, they believed art should convey refined sensuous pleasure (wahoo!) and rejected Ruskin’s and Matthew Arnold’s utilitarian view that art is something moral of useful.

Other belief include: art should have no didactic purpose but instead should be beautiful; “cult of beauty” was a basic factor in art; life should copy art; nature is crude when compared to art, and nature lacks design.

Characteristics of aesthetic writing: 1) suggestion rather than statement 2) sensuality 3) massive use of symbols 4) synaesthetic (correspondence between words, colors, and music)

Fore-runners of aestheticism: Keats and Shelley

Writers associated with aestheticism: Wilde, Swinburne (influenced by French symbologists), Rossetti

Wisconsin Book Festival: The Tweets

For part of one week every year, a city that bills itself as the cultural center of the Midwest hosts a slew of writers for the Wisconsin Book Festival. I went, and now, after this post, you can feel like you went too. What follows are tweet updates that I would have written had I a) kept a twitter page b) had text message capabilities on my cellphone and c) really felt that anyone cared at all what I had to say about anything. Too self-effacing? Ok, I'll give you that. But I also give you Wisconsin Book Festival: The Tweets.

(Note: To clarify for the twitter apostles out there, as I am unfamiliar with the twitter format for tweets, I will opt instead to post my "tweets" in the facebook status update format, which, I've come to understand, is recognized by MLA.)

Casey Thayer is at Avol's Books for Erinn Batykefer's poetry reading. First event for me, first event for the Book Festival. The crowd stirs with anticipation or discomfort: The chairs have no cushions and all the elderly notice and whisper to one another.

Casey Thayer News flash: Erinn Batykefer has just called me smart because I used the word "ekphrasis." Is it that easy to be seen as intelligent? I must be passing.

Casey Thayer hopes you all go to (and get the chance to read at) Avol's. Put it this way: arched doorways, a skylight, gloomy endless hallways, and used books. I am lucky to have gotten out of there without a backpack full of new purchases, especially given that I have had to start stacking books alongside my full bookshelf to my fiance's frustration.

Casey Thayer realizes that his "tweets" are probably way too long, character-wise, to be called traditional tweets. He will try to use abbreviations like "l8er" for "later" and "1erous" for "onerous," though he doesn't use "onerous" often, even when blogging, and agrees that the abbreviation isn't quite right.

Casey Thayer Erinn Batykefer reading on a scale of one (that being open mike nights at the feminist bookstore) to ten (that being any Ilya Kaminsky reading): nine.

Casey Thayer is at the Michael Perry/Loorie Moore reading. Alone among so many people who know each other and look like writers. Casey forgot to wear his ascot, or his shawl. No one talks to Casey.

Casey Thayer The Orpheum Theatre is beautiful and large. Up in front men with blinking red buttons over their hearts pace back and forth. What the hell?

Casey Thayer Two women behind me are talking about Michael Perry. "He's a wonderful reader," one says. "I love Michael," the other responds. Neither know I am listening in.

Casey Thayer Michael reads an essay criticizing writers who complain about their book tours.

Casey Thayer Loorie Moore starts by complaining about her book tour.

Casey Thayer On Friday, Casey is tired. He goes to the Wisconsin Academy People & Ideas reading but stays only until the poets and two fiction writers have finished reading. He attends a chili party and is nearly convinced to karaoke. Key word: nearly.

Casey Thayer Is it fair that when women write about wanting sexual connection they are empowered but when men do they same, they are creepy? I'm not too angry about this. I just wish I could write a poem about sex and not have people respond with "eww."

Casey Thayer Saturday! Chuck Rybak reading, then Verse Wisconsin small press panel.

Casey Thayer feels bad for Joel Friederich. He has some great poems. The problem? He's reading with the hilarious Chuck Rybak. It's so early, at least for poetry, that funny is what the audience is responding to.

Casey Thayer Chuck Rybak just said, "I googled myself," which, as he points out, sounds dirty.

Casey Thayer At the Verse Wisconsin small press panel, I feel the first wave of depression wash over me. Who reads these small presses? Will I toil in obscurity? Will I have to pay for my chapbook's press run?

Casey Thayer Salvation! Centennial Press. Check them out!

Casey Thayer While I am supposed to be at a panel led by editors and agents, I have instead retreated with a poet-friend to The Local Tavern. The Badgers are on TV and every time they score, which they do twice within the first 25 minutes of our arrival, we are given jello shots. The Buckeyes score and Austin asks, "Do we get a shot when they score? That's when we really need it." The bartender says, "I think I can arrange that." One hour later, I waddle in the direction of my bike.

Whew, that was a long and rambling post. I promise to keep my posts shorter in the future. If you have any observations or tweets to share about the festival, post them in the comments. Of course, this assumes that I will have a readership...

Black is the New Black

Why black? Well, if my fiance can be trusted, black screens use less energy than white, which is why we've made it a point to use blackle as our primary search engine instead of google (and why I've chosen the morose and oppressive black as the background color to my new blog). Check it out at http://www.blackle.com/ and do your part to save the world one search at a time.