{but the hope is to die of living}

Instructions For Opening A Door

To open a door, you must want to leave.
A here, a there. You must want.
Stuff pink hyacinths in the dictionary
between “lie” and “lightning,”
the wet stem of spring curling the pages
until it is not a flower
but just the word for it. We all die,
but the hope is to die of living.
Slam it hard enough
to make the sidewalk hum
the way your blood hummed
the first time you walked into the sea.
A door is just a question you have to ask
even when you are scared of the answer.
In San Sebastián they pour the txakoli
from high up so it foams in the glass.
Sea, grapes, the word for longing.
Use both hands and don’t look back.

from Instructions For Building A Wind Chime by Adriana Cloud

Needed a kick in the butt this afternoon? You’re welcome.

{poetry friday: level up}

Hat tip to Janni Lee Simmer for the reminder that some days need an anthem.

Level Up

by Vienna Teng


so come out.
you have been waiting long enough.
you’re done with all the talk talk talk with nothing on the table.
it’s time to come on out.
there will be no sign from above.
you’ll only hear the knock knock knock of your own heart as signal.

if you are afraid, come out.
if you are awake, come out.
come out and level up.

begin again.
dynamite the dam on the flow.
your body feels the tock tock tock of time as it hammers.
lord we are all cinders
from a fire burning long ago,
but here it is the knock knock knock of your own heart that matters.

if you are afraid, come forth.
if you are alone, come forth now.
everybody here has loved and lost,
so level up and love again.

call it any name you need.
call it your 2.0, your rebirth, whatever –
so long as you can feel it all,
so long as all your doors are flung wide.
call it your day #1 in the rest of forever.

if you are afraid, give more.
if you are alive, give more now.
everybody here has seams and scars.
so what. level up.

let your faith die.
bring your wonder.
yes, you are only one.
no, it is not enough
but if you lift your eyes, I am your brother.
and this is all we need.
and this is where we start.
this is the day we greet.
this is the day, no other.

Your spirit cannot be a hedge against disaster – but it can get you up and moving again, after.

{p7: ekphrastic on wonder exhibit}



IMG_0057

Today’s images are taken from Jennifer Angus’ show, “In The Midnight Garden” from the Wonder exhibit at the Renwick Gallery in Washington DC, courtesy of photographing poetry sister Sara Lewis Holmes.


I both love and kind of dread our ekphrastic months with the Poetry Sisters. We all have such eclectic tastes, artwork is so subjective, and I’m never sure quite what I think of a sculpture or image until I’m writing about it – which has been kind of an adventure. Lately, though, as I’ve been working to finish a book manuscript and kind of feeling the chill of the winds of change in the country lately, it’s been a struggle to stay on the …er, sunny side, as it were. I’m not actively depressed, but I have pretty much got the gallows humor going on, and …yeah. So, when Sara brought us pictures of a room full of bugs I… Hm. I looked at it. In a way, with its cochineal-washed walls, the exhibit space is gorgeous. The insects themselves are so beautiful, but then I got entangled in the details… details like, the bugs are DEAD. Sure, they were wonderful (perhaps wonder-full?) when alive, but they’re now simply rank on rank of dead bugs, or dead chitinous outer skeletons of bugs, ordered, empty, husks which should have been alive.

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And can you believe it, of all the ideas I had? That one stuck.

Somehow, seeing that and the tiny drawers – which reminded me so much of the old card catalogues – made me think of emotions, or how we deal, or don’t deal with them… How, when they’re not alive within us, they become useless, dead things that we just …shuffle around in drawers? I don’t know. I would apologize AGAIN for being the weirdo in the room, but by now we all know this is apparently just who I am.

Asi es la vida.

classified

Because there is no remedy for woe
And lacking physic, panacea, cure,
We package it, with labels, just to show
How fine we are. We can – we will! – endure.
Because life has no cure, save for the grave
(And deathless, sunless, half-life not our aim – )
What can’t be changed, we archive. We, the brave
Recorded, classed, but empty all the same.
Systemized sleight-of-hand is what we use
To keep what matters indexed deep inside.
Chameleons playing shell-games, we excuse
Our hollow places. (Grief? Undignified.)

Why, when this world would gut us, should we leave
Our undefended hearts upon our sleeves?

This, the month when summer school classes are ending, school is resuming, and the last frantic scramble of this and that is taking place, we didn’t all make today’s poetry date, but we’ll see them next month. Meanwhile, don’t miss Liz, Sara, Andi & Tricia’s contributions – which include a video and artist interview – for today.

Additional Poetry Friday contributions are hosted today at A Teaching Life.

{the problematic language of “clean”}

Stirling 307

This morning I read Kelly Jensen’s most excellent BookRiot piece which included an interesting link to a publisher site describing “clean YA,” where “clean” is not meant to stand in opposition to unclean, but describes a kind of doughty, go-get-’em kind of hero or heroine who never says die.

Kelly’s piece goes on to debunk that idea and talk about the virtues of quitting, but I, predictably, got stuck on the word “clean.” As “Words have meaning,” as my dear friend and fellow English teacher Susan Goins used to constantly tell her junior high students, the company saying that clean “certainly isn’t meant to be the opposite of ‘dirty,’” seems inherently problematic. Use of the word clean implies that books, or reading, can be categorized into good/bad by some vagaries of categorization, that virtue can be tied to some reading choices, and shame applied to others… This is a familiar song, but a troubling one.

See, I grew up believing this – or at least with this idea of virtuous cleanliness floating through the ether, based on the scripture about “set your minds on these things” – which specified things true, pure, right, lovely, etc. Fiction didn’t come into that list. Fiction wasn’t openly allowable as reading at my house, and reading wasn’t truly encouraged unless it was a.) approved post-church-you-have-nothing-else-you-should-be-doing reading, or reading, b.) in association with homework or c.) reading awarded as a sneaky indulgence after many chores had been done, and there wasn’t anything someone could think up to discourage me, and I was hiding behind a couch or on the roof of the shed in the backyard. Yes, I smuggled reading time like some kids smuggle… whatever contraband. I was restricted from the things which I could check out from the library, because my parents were the deciders on what was appropriate. It was like being seated at the immense smorgasbord of the world, and being told I could have my choice of half of all the dishes without salt. Unfortunately, that went on well into high school, where I should have been trusted to fall back on what I had learned, on what my parents had taught. But, when you start making choices for someone, it’s hard sometimes to find a good reason to, you know, stop.

As an adult, I strove to write “positive” (UGH. That word! Ditto “wholesome” or “sweet.” No one sets out to write those opposites!) books because I felt vaguely that I had been raised to standards of …virtue(?) and should want to inspire this in others… A not-so-bad idea in itself, but those boundaries and that “virtue” are simply too variant for too many people. Life is, of itself, messy. Emotions are messy, dissent is messy, pushing back against institutional systems and ideologies is messy, messy, messy. Labeling something as “clean” seems to imply so much more than mere restraint in terms of profanity and vulgarity, more than a closed door on a sex scene. And yet, I still struggle with this, because I want to write books for the girl who wasn’t allowed to read all she wanted, I think it’s important to be seen as “safe” to more conservative parents. However, at the same time writing real stories with fully present, believable, and dimensional characters while applying those narrative brakes is tricky – and I don’t think I always succeed. Additionally, I believe that applying those brakes is not always a worthwhile exercise.

According to this list, “clean” is about language, about physical boundaries in sexuality, drinking or smoking or drugs, and finally, about “too much” violence. This leaves a lot of loopholes, and a lot of questions. If you were part of the GLBTQ community, can you still be considered virtuous and “clean,” or is your crossing of heterosexual or cis boundaries too far? Can your writing be “authentic” as the site suggests, following someone else’s notions of virtuous and “clean?” What if your character’s behavior doesn’t meet publication standards, never mind meeting the standards of, to use Jane Yolen’s words, “telling the true?”

(Note that I’m not suggesting I have an answer to this, by the way. This is something I think about quite a lot, and will continue to ponder…)

A few months ago I was “listening” in on a conversation on Twitter, where author Shannon Hale was talking about the “in-between” books for teens who skew younger in terms of interests and aren’t quite MG anymore. Most of my books fall into that territory, but I like that Shannon looked at them as something other than “clean.” She instead discussed them as “books for younger YA.” And, I liked that definition, because by that she meant kids who were a.) not ready for more than a vague crush (which was me well past the time other kids were already into the drama of hookups and breakups), b.) not really pushing back against adult intervention as much yet (which, tragically, was also me, well past I should have realized they weren’t infallible), and c.) raised in more sheltered, monitored environment, and possibly not yet as physically mature, either. You know, younger. The thing that naturally occurs before you are older.

I am an advocate of saying what you mean. Describing the natural phenomenon of “emotionally younger and somewhat less intuitive about the adult world” as “clean” carries with it a highly toxic, moralistic tone. Better words to use? Maybe “non-explicit.” Maybe “conservative.” But, certainly not “clean.”

Say it with me: Words. Have. Meaning.