Someone's auto-correct is a wee bit embarrassing

"Homosexual eases into 100 final at Olympic trials."

Tyson Homosexual, that is.

Clever for its own sake

One of the things I tend to dislike so intensely about "light" verse is its sense that the writer is being clever for the sake of being clever.

Which means that it's just about the worst thing someone can say to me about my own poetry.

And then someone did.

Ouch.

I'll be in the corner, licking my wounds.

Gotta new widget

A stranger invited me to join Adoptic. It's a site for blog promotion and what can I say? I'm a joiner.

Look over to the left for a snippet from someone else's blog. Maybe someday they will create a poetry section for poet bloggers.

I don't care if it makes me a dork

Wall-E is the cutest thing ever. EVER.

The storm

An extremely loud storm hit last night, keeping me awake for hours. As it was winding down, Steve discovered that his blood sugar was dangerously low, so we sat up and listened to the storm while Steve ate saltwater taffy and checked his blood glucose at intervals.

We live fun and exciting lives and don't you forget it!

I think I scared the coworkers

My laughter rang through the halls when I saw this.

Check out the picture in the middle.

One of my coworkers usually ends up in Wal-Mart only after going to church. She's obviously raising the tone there like CRAZY.

How do I love Chase? Let me count the ways

Chase took two car payments from my bank account instead of one, and when I complained, they disabled my ability to do anything with my bank account online.

Thanks, Chase. This is a plan that is sure to make me love you and want desperately to give you money.

Nearing the end of stage 2

The Carter fambly is now within $400 of being out of the Medicare Part D doughnut hole. If you don't know what the doughnut hole is, do yourself a favor and read about it.

Steve and I have been able to afford this gap in his coverage, but how many seniors and disabled people can say the same?

The "True Out of Pocket" limit for this year is $4050.

Hold this government accountable.

The car, the car, the car

Someone broke into my car last night. I don't know that anything is missing, but the door was open this morning. Everything was spilled from the glovebox and the console door wouldn't close.

Never let anyone tell you nice things about small towns. Never.

Political humor in unexpected places

Steve and I were playing Lord of the Rings Online last night and we got a quest to kill some monsters. I said, "You wanna help me kill some ugly wights?"

Suddenly, I could picture a video of Michelle Obama playing an MMORPG saying the same thing and it being plastered all over Fox News.

The difficulty in writing poetry reviews

I'm tempted by a site that offers poetry books for review. It would be a good way, I think, to force me to produce a review, if it were a condition of receiving the book.

But what to do, what to do, if the book is a stinker? What if, for example, the book had been Mark Strand's Man and Camel that I was struggling to comment on for NaPoReMo (not a stinker, but not to my taste, either)? Mark Strand doesn't care what I think, but a younger, less-established poet certainly might.

Even doing WEE reviews, I'd occasionally hurt feelings. Not liking, and saying I didn't like, a single poem was enough to cause a ripple of reaction a couple of times in the blogosphere. Part of me says tough. Poets who can't take a bad review are too precious to publish anything. Another part of me understands that with all of the poetry out there in the world it should be possible only to review the good stuff. And a third part wants to sleep in and let other people worry about it.

The cry of the intellectually lazy: It's not my problem!

In any case, if you like reviewing books of poetry, check out this link to the Experimental Fiction & Poetry Reviews blog. Score a free book. Write a good review. Make the poetry world one increment better.

Firefox 3 is made of wonder

Like "I wonder how I survived without Firefox 3."

Neat site if you're into election numbers

Five Thirty Eight is an interesting site if you enjoy looking at presidential polling data and reasonable extrapolations.

This could be a very interesting election. I should be spending election day as a poll worker for my county. Whee.

What a lovely way to start my day

With a letter from the bank saying that I am overdrawn.

It turns out that my last car payment came through twice, which put me into the red and which Chase says simply isn't their problem.

I hate Chase.

Just for the record.

Grr.

Sick as dog

Correct that: Sick as SICK dog.

Bleargh.

The death of Tim Russert

I just heard about the death of Tim Russert.

He was one of the best, and the coming elections will be even harder to navigate without his firm, clear voice.

Suck.

For those who own your own domains

Do you like who you have hosting it?

Do you know anything about Hands-on Web Hosting?

The cogitation why the mohair

The cogitation why the mohair

At the last sink the lady
overran the sink by pints. The lady
in kneehighs, towel, a blank bandana.

As the last sink spurted, she called,
"You stop it! Low dames are mohair.
Why? So low mohair."

It almost made sense to me at the first
sink. It almost made sense at the time.

And for the record

My pants may be big, but they are not elastic.

I do have some standards.

No, that's a lie. I really don't have standards. It's through no actual design of my own that the pants aren't 100% elastic 100% of the time.

The strange things that pop into your head

When I was a kid, my dad called all of his children "punkins," generally, but when he was in a particularly goofy mood, we morphed, each in turn, into "Chief Wampum Big Elastic Pants."

I just said it out loud, without even remembering that I remembered it. Or without knowing what in the heck it means.

Mom said she kept having the weird feeling that Dad's ghost was hanging around in her car. Maybe I'll ask her to ask him.

Help!

Is it hard to put up a website nowadays? Something that doesn't look, say, like this?

Because I want one, but am askeert of my own inability to, well, make one.

Some stats on Poetry Crossroads

It's not a barnburner, but traffic seems to be fairly steady at between 75-100 hits per day.

As a reminder, new posters can sign up now. If you've tried before and ran into problems, please try again. I'll give you a nickel.

Does my sister know what she's getting herself into?

She's doing a garage sale and asked me if I have any books I'd like to get rid of.

Um.

Yes.

How big is your garage, sis?

In 2008, I've already given over two hundred books to Goodwill. So far, I've collected about twice that for the garage sale. I've been working for about ten minutes.

I think I need a bigger car.

Upon the Strand

The title poem, "Man and Camel" goes back to that interesting, talk-talk, quiet poeticism, the end.

On the plus side, this has my favorite ending to date.

On the minus side, it doesn't do much up to that point.

The wonder of their singing,
its elusive blend of man and camel, seemed
an ideal image for all uncommon couples.

Yes, but I don't hear it. I don't feel it. He says it, but I don't believe it. I don't trust the poem, and I'm a pretty damned trusting soul.

On top of everything, I'll admit that I expected a political aspect. The title pointed that direction for me. I don't demand poems be political, but I was rather hoping for something I could sink my teeth into. I'd settle for camel chow.

A day in the life of Bertram

Steve dropped a couple of packing peanuts. Joy! Delight! Bertram was filled with glee.

He grabbed a peanut and started to chew on it with vigorous squeakings.

But it wasn't the peanut that was squeaking a moment later, but Bertram. His teeth pierced the peanut and the peanut WOULDN'T LET GO!

Despair! Horror! Agony!

He's better now, but I think I wrenched something laughing at the poor beastie.

More Strand

There are certain poets you don't think of in the same breath (think?) as other poets. Mark Strand and Emily Dickinson are two I wouldn't normally juxtapose, yet when Strand starts a poem

I am not thinking of Death, but Death is thinking of me

I think it's inevitable. It's not a flattering comparison for Strand. Of course, few can withstand being compared to that particular poem.

Death in "2002" is a smug dude, but no more smug than the speaker who envisions crowds with "delirious cries" welcoming him into death.

I think it possible that one person would welcome my death with delirious cries. The rest might fall asleep and drool on my obituary.

As I continue through the book, my frustration grows. I can't get beneath the surface of these poems, making me think there might not be anything but surface. And the surface seems to have WD-40 on it, refusing to let anything catch or squeak or grind.

More on "Man and Camel"

Man and Camel by Mark Strand


"Two Horses" breaks the pattern (but the pattern will reassert itself later) of interest, talk-talk, quiet, the end.

Sadly, it replaces it with talk-talk, talk-talk, talk-talk, the end.

This poem simply never gets going.

On a warm night in June
I went to the lake, got on all fours
and drank like an animal.

I dunno. There really isn't much there to tug a person into the world of the poem.

A few lines later, Strand writes:

Then I thought they might have
known me
in another life--the one in which I was a poet.

Does Strand have a sense that his skills are dwindling? Perhaps this flat affect is the most such a prosaic poet can bring to bear on the topic.

Terrorist Fist Jab

Really, FOX? REALLY?

Sometimes, I'm embarrassed to be the same species as some of these people.

I consider that a challenge

Christine Klocek-Lim has started a new blog about editing the pub Autumn Sky. She comments:

The imagery has to be original. None of this: "her eyes were as lovely as sapphires" or this: "his trousers were as brown as mud."

I know a challenge when I read one.

Account creation working at Poetry Crossroads

You can now create a new account at Poetry Crossroads. I had to do a stupid workaround, but it does seem to be working.

However, if you tried to register in the last two weeks, you'll have to sign up again. My apologies for the stupid software.

Putting things in perspective

When Steve and I got married, our total income was $18,000 per year, which mine trusty mental calculatorial skill tells me is $1500 per month.

We paid that much in May for his prescription medications.

I know we're better off than many. I won't forget that, ever. That realization doesn't make it more fun.

And having 50% of Americans assume that I'm going so deeply into debt because of a flaw in my character doesn't make it any more fun, either.

Salsafied Turkey Burgers

I haven't done any experimental cooking in a while, but I was in the mood tonight, so I came up with:

Salsafied Turkey Burgers

Ingredients:

a clump of ground turkey
a gob of salsa
a pile of oats
a glug of some sort of oil
a dash of other optional stuff
your choice of things to go with this thing


Take a clump of ground turkey. I used the 93/7 kind because it was on sale and I love the non-greasy texture. Add a few tablespoons of a flavorful salsa. I picked a pineapple salsa thinking it wouldn't overpower the turkey, and it was pretty spiffy.

Mix with your hands, but take your rings off first. I never remember. My poor ring.

Add enough oats so that the mixture can be formed into a patty or patties that don't crumble or ooze in your fingers. Also add some pepper and maybe a dab of salt (I prefer to add salt after cooking), and if you're one of the lucky ones who both like and have fresh cilantro, throw that in. Unless you think cilantro tastes like soap. That'd be bad.

Fry in a frying pan with olive oil or Smart Balance (my preference). Use a thermometer. Make it crunchy brown because that's awesome.

Place on bread of your choice with a dollop of light sour cream and a splash of hot sauce, or slices of avocado and tomato, or a teaspoon of blue cheese dressing, or a slice of cheese, or a spritz of a vinaigrette, or (if you're like me) place on bread with a sprinkle of salt and a burst of freshly ground pepper because you don't have those other ingredients and you're hungry and wouldn't want to fix them anyway.

Or crumble over a bed of romaine with tomato, chopped egg, and avocado (which I also don't have).

Eat.

Measures are approximate since salsas vary in amount of liquid and since I never measure when I'm doing experimental cooking. If I knew how much it would take, it wouldn't be experimental, would it? That's half the fun! Twice the chaos! The whole point!

If you have a favorite meatloaf or meatball recipe, consult that.

I had to stop following the primaries

It was meaning too much to me.

Obama is the nominee. I can't believe it. Just wow.

NaPoReMo #2

As a child, I was an insomniac. I would lie awake for hours after my purported bed time, and stare at the ceiling. Nothing helped me sleep except "Blizzard"--a game I played that pitted my brain against my skin.

I was lost. Lost in a blizzard. It was cold. I was cold. How long could I go without a blanket?

I Had Been a Polar Explorer

I had been a polar explorer in my youth
and spent countless days and nights freezing
in one blank place and then another.

Of course I had to read this poem, no matter if the speaker's explorations were real while mine were the product of sleep deprivation and sheer weirdness. There was a kinship.

"I Had Been a Polar Explorer" is the second poem in Man and Camel, and it continues the same quiet, casual tone as the first poem. Unfortunately, I continue not being very excited. It's too soon to say there's a pattern but, well, by god there's a pattern.

Say something a little interesting, but not truly vivid. Talk a little about it. Finish with something a little poetic but quiet. The end.

There is, so far, a coldness, a distance with Strand's poems, as if the polar ice is a thin crust. You can see flesh underneath, but you can't quite feel it.

But when I raised my hand to say hello,
he took a step back, turned away, and started to fade
as longing fades until nothing is left of it.

The fading out of longing, of passion, is the fading away of opportunity as well. It's the slow loss of imagination, of lying awake playing games that look like dreams.

Things I need to say

I'm not a fan of Hillary Clinton. But I identify with her.

Identity is a powerful thing, and it's not always rational or explainable. We're both women, and both white. Both of us keep our hair pretty short. We're both married to men who can be a bit embarrassing (sorry, Steve). We both like politics, though to such different degrees that it becomes something we don't have in common at all.

I thought she would win the nomination. So did she. I'm not disappointed to be wrong, but I can feel, fundamentally, her disappointment.

So today's happy outcome is tempered with a huge amount of sympathy from me.

Hillary Clinton, you're one hell of a trouper.

NaPoReMo #1

Late start, but better late than never, eh?

My book is Man and Camel, by Mark Strand. This isn't a book I likely would have chosen if I had all the time and resources in the world. I would have preferred a longer book, by a younger author, and likely would have picked someone unknown.

I would also like a pony.

The first poem in the book is "The King." It's a brief, rather prosey opener, with a predominance of dialog.

I tend away from dialog in poems. I tend away from many things that strike me as more suited to prose (though a lack of linebreaks really isn't among them). Dialog that defies reality, what a person, any person, would ever say, feels irredeemably pretentious. Yet dialog that aligns with reality feels irredeemably dull.

When I think about most of the tools of prose and most of the tools of poetry, though I acknowledge that the distinction I'm making is not in service of the writing at all.

I divide things into categories not because they require it but because it makes things easier for me to understand.

It doesn't help that I picture the King of the poem rather like a Monchichi-sized Burger King "tiny in his jeweled crown and his cape/with ermine trim."

The poem is casual, conversational. Neither sleek nor biting (Strand uses a weasel, so can I). But it's not offputting, either, and it doesn't take four pages to come to the same conclusion.

D'oh! It's June!

Soooo, guess who forgot it was time for NaPoReMo? If you guessed "Julie Carter, slacker and malcontent" you'd be right!

I'm going to slink off to start my Mark Strand book, now.

New Anti-

It's an abundance of riches today. Anti- #2 is online!

Featured and fairly funny?

That's me!

I am the featured poet at Avatar Review 10 which is now up. Lots of quality poets in the issue, and they took "Fork," which is a poem I feel very passionate about.

And I have two pieces, well, one and a half, in the 2008 Bumbershoot, which is also now up, alongside Umbrella. I haven't had a chance to look at Umbrella, but I bet it's lovely because it always is.