Six years ago today I stayed in an old-fashioned inn and was awoken in the middle of the night by the sound of a mouse trying to unwrap a Lindt chocolate truffle. I had never seen the truffle before. It was the mouse’s truffle.
@Danez_Smif
Once a first grader asked me how long a poem had to be and when I said it could be just one word he wrote a poem that was just his best friend’s phone number. 💖
Once a 6-yr-old asked me how long a poem had to be. "As long or short as it needs to be," I said. "Even just one word!"
"Can it be a number?" he asked.
"YES."
He went back to work at his desk and returned with a perfect poem in 7 digits: his best friend's phone number.
when psychological researchers from 1897 write a poem by mistake--"Death, Funeral and Burial of Dolls"--and you have to go lie down for the rest of the day
Normalize the compulsion to send multiple texts not bc of growing urgency but bc of the need for the line or stanza break in the rhythm of the conversation
I remember the loudness of the yellow on the Nancy Drew shelf
& the foam chairs we built into a blue velvet fort
& using my chin to hold my stack of books
& elders gathered in a square of armchairs turning the pages of their magazines as if they were in the world’s quietest band.
I am looking at Mastodon like a new kid holding a lunch tray in the cafeteria with no fucking clue of where to sit and a great longing to go back to my old school except that one got a new principal who is terrible.
7 year old came home from school saying "We got to make similes and metaphors about the moon! Would you like to hear mine?" and I had to stop myself from shaking her and screaming YES.
Hey it's the anniversary of the moon landing, so here is my elegy for Neil Armstrong, created by removing words from the NASA transcript of the moment, as printed in an old children's textbook.
[Please note the below engages with the subject of suicide.]
Virginia Woolf died on this day, 82 years ago. By "this day," I mean March 28 & I mean Tuesday, the first word of the note she left behind. I often wish I did not know this word, nor those that followed.
What if the need to read were automatically understood as a legitimate reason for not tending to other things. You just hold up a book and everyone nods and moves on without you.
You GUYS it is OCTOBER
I have been dressing in WOOL and TIGHTS and CORDUROY
I am going to the LIBRARY to pick up SEVERAL INTRIGUING VOLUMES
It is almost my BIRTHDAY
MY POWERS INCREASETH EXPONENTIALLY
We have been at home with our now-6-year-old nearly constantly since March. We have invented and played a lot of games. Yesterday she said “After lunch, do you want to go looking for lost memories?” So that’s how we’re doing.
Once trying to flirt with a guy in my MFA I found a used book about how to care for gerbils and (without bothering to read it) put it in his English Department mailbox. Years later I found out that all the mentions of gerbil mating habits had been underlined by a previous reader.
Oh and I just remembered from an earlier library/town, I was four and wanted to try out this sentence I heard the grownups using, so I grabbed a book at random and was like “Oh I’ve been LOOKING for a book about…*checks cover*…where babies come from!”
I wrote a whole draft of the whole book. I typed the last sentence of the last chapter in the closet and then I read it out loud in the kitchen, and in both places it was made entirely of words, and they were real, and I know, because I checked them with my teeth.
On our walk to school this morning, during which we were discussing the effects of articulating several possible vehicles for a simile, 7-year-old sighed, “I wonder what life would be like if you weren’t a poet.”
A thousand tiny griefs for the details of childhoods lost to the pandemic. Clapping games. Whispers in a friend’s ear. Trading snacks. Leaning on a classmate during story time.
It seems thoughtless and cruel for the US to abandon masks when young kids--the people who have had the greatest portion of their lives disrupted by the pandemic--cannot get vaccinated. A 5-year-old, for instance, has lived 25% of their life under pandemic conditions.
In light of everything this bit of news is small, but it comes on a day when I am beginning another phase of hospitalization, and I wanted to take a moment to step outside of this strange medical atmosphere to say proudly that this book is, at long last, officially on its way!
Books are a pyramid scheme. Reading one means you are then required to read eight others and those eight others require you to read sixty-four others and so on until you are dead and they bury you in a pyramid-shaped library.
People have a lot of library memories! I’m putting them all together in one giant imaginary structure in my head and it’s pretty wild. (There’s a whole floor dedicated to the Smell.)
Pretty great feeling to get to bring one’s 100+ pounds of books back to the library, having finished a draft of a book one has been working on for 3+ years
This is a picture of what the book in my head looks like, which is related to but not the same as the book that will some day be released into the wild.
7-year-old--who has had some recent public recognition of her poetry--informed us last night that she plans to continue writing poems, but "not as a career."
What’s a line of poetry you would be happy to pull from an envelope and read for the first time?
(I’m making some mail to send to my students as a way to create a haptic connection across digital distance.)
One of the best things in life is when you set down the bottle of dish detergent on the kitchen counter a little more forcefully than intended and a tiny bubble floats up into the air and stays there for longer than seems reasonable.
In my solitude I have figured out a reading system for my chaotic brain: each room in the house has a different book I am in the middle of. And nobody moves them! They stay in their assigned spaces!
I have a new poem up today at The Nation! (Gratitude to Kaveh.)
You know what I like? Endings, that’s what.
Poets are lucky; we get to make so many endings.
Poor novelists. Such abstinence!
Today a nice person tweeting about reading The Crying Book led to us realizing that his mother was the nurse who attended my birth and I think that is pretty neat.