Tangents

Last weekend's hard frost killed all the magnificent zinnias in front of my house, as expected, but to my surprise, one of the runts in the alley seems to be enjoying the cold:



Some of the French hollyhocks and French marigolds are still in bloom, too. And the rogue rosebush -- as unpredictable as ever -- is showing off a fresh yellow bud amid the dead and wilted:



I finally peeked at the seed exchange at the Inglewood branch of Nashville's public library. It was out of parsley, but I picked up packets for bok choy, chives, and three kinds of marigolds.

Recent publications:
"dicing up..." (tweet-sized poem) at 7x20
"the resident ghost..." (tweet-sized poem) at 7x20
"Ballad Breath" (audio and text versions) in Stone Telling 11

This entry was originally posted at http://zirconium.dreamwidth.org/92238.html.

So, that tomato I mentioned yesterday? By the middle of the afternoon, it had vanished. I'm side-eyeing the dog something major right now.

On a more productive note, I'm the featured poet at the Houseboat this week: one interview, ten poems, and assorted photos. This has been in the works for over a year, and it's gratifying to share at last what Rose has selected from the words and images I sent to her. My thanks to her for all of her work, and -- as ever and always -- to you for reading.

This entry was originally posted at http://zirconium.dreamwidth.org/90255.html.

I wrapped up a big deliverable last night (yes, it was a US holiday, but you know what they say about freelancing -- you can work any 60 hours of the week you want...), and I have been correspondingly useless today -- which is okay, because there are worse fates than harvesting basil leaves for pesto while watching Wimbledon and ultimate frisbee on ESPN3.

Also, my crush on Jody Adams continues:

http://boss.blogs.nytimes.com/2014/06/12/women-who-belong-in-the-kitchen-jody-adams/

Something that leapt out from a recent NYT interview:

Early on, some guy kept hitting on me and when I said I wouldn't go out with him, he said, "You must be a lesbian." A young stupid kid hit me on the butt, and I said, "Don't ever do that again." And he said, "You tempted me." I have no tolerance and I fight. We have to teach women to do that. The first time someone crosses the line, we have to stand up and say, don't do that.

I don't know if I can get myself to Boston next June (the Early Music Festival is producing three Monteverdi operas, and a friend just announced the birth of his third child, and I haven't seen marginaliana since 2008, and ... the reasons are plenty, but we'll have to see how all the other moving parts shake out), but Rialto/Trade are definitely on the list. In the meantime, the blog produced by Jody and her husband is a splendid thing, and I hope to make the kale salad with plums, roquefort and walnuts soon.

In writing news, I just received my contributor's copy of the 2015 Texas Poetry Calendar, which includes my poem "Texas Instruments" (which, being a poem about my daddy, appropriately appears opposite the page for the week of Father's Day). Whee!

This entry was originally posted at http://bronze-ribbons.dreamwidth.org/381182.html. I see comments at DW, IJ, and LJ (when notifications are working, anyway), but not on feeds.

I was trying to string together something to do with garnets and gannets, thanks to this thread over at M'ris's LJ. But there was also this...

Nobody ever talks about the Amazons returning to Capistrano. Hmph.

— Marissa Lingen (@MarissaLingen) 4 Mars 2014

... so I'll have to give the gannets their due some other night. No, I don't understand my brain either. But stuff like this does have a history of happening after I eavesdrop on M'ris and Elise. (I will also add that some years ago Elise sent me some garnets as part of a gift from Dichroic, the other part being this poem. The world, it teems with treasure...)


The month has started under water --
a sense of too much to shove at or swallow:
sprawling projects, tax returns ...
To wield a spear like an Amazon,
to hammer antique fears into a gleaming bow ---
these aren't skills I can list on my present

résumé, but what's needed at present
is something like. To get out of the water --
to haul my soggy rear back into the bow,
spluttering out what I couldn't help but swallow --
it isn't pretty, training to be an Amazon.
I'm told such pangs will yield happy returns

but some days I think of all the sad returns
I boxed up back in the warehouse -- this unwanted present,
that unhelped self. My wishlist at Amazon
changes by the week, like flavors of water
from a sportsdrink sales rep's cooler. Swallow
this magic pill. Now take your bow

on the Wonderland stage. in the Wonderland court. Tied up with a bow,
neatly wrapped -- low risk, low returns.
I know that, but the truth's still tough to swallow
when the press of my weariness outweighs the present.
I have to remember how petrels pierce the water,
scaring off sharks with the skill of an Amazon.

I've never longed to sail down the Amazon
but then I never expected each night to bow
my head with such thanks for running water,
schooled by floods and droughts. The returns
of every field, I now regard as a present.
I've watched dying people, how they can't even swallow

the thinnest dribble of water. Oh, when the swallow
nests again by the bell, will we see the Amazon
gliding into harbor as well? Will it present
a dazzlement of gems -- the gold-bright bow,
a garnet-studded scabbard? What returns
isn't always what was cast upon the water --

in some of my dreams, men in swallow-tails bow
to Amazons as their equals. But waking returns
me back to the present. I plunge back into the water.

- pld


ETA 8:40 pm: It never fails -- an edit making itself obvious after I press "post"...

This entry was originally posted at http://zirconium.dreamwidth.org/77364.html.