So yeah, I had a blog post all ready yesterday (okay, mostly ready). Fine. I was working on it. And then I checked my inbox.
NBD, just a chapbook competition closing—LAST NIGHT.
I know how premature this might sound, entering a contest mid-fever dream and new to poetry, but this cold has had me underground with poetry. And it was either do something with the work or host a fire sale to clear the emotional clutter.
My husband said I’ve been like Kenny from The Middle — totally absent and absorbed. Guilty. But he gets it. Sometimes art has to come first.
Deadline as Defibrillator
It was good discipline. A great way to figure out which poems might be ready and which were…half-baked but necessary. Kind of like writing a novel: something’s off, but you can’t name it yet. I’m still learning what makes a poem work. I just know what works for me. Because honestly? I have to like it first.
Anyway, I spent the last few hours of yesterday collating, shining, and submitting poems. I even dabbed a little rouge on a couple before sending them into the wild.
Was I scared? Intimidated? That someone was about to read my insides, which are barer than my outside by far?
Weirdly, no. I was more excited than anything.
(I don’t know the judges personally, so there’s that.)
Want to See the Titles? Please Say Yes.
They were so fun to come up with. It reminded me of when I wrote headlines for the college paper, and my editor kept begging me to write normal ones. I knew how. I just didn’t see why. If you could jazz it up and make people actually read the thing? Why not?
(Some of these you’ve seen before. Some you haven’t. One, “Renewal,” I had forgotten about, and then I realized it was a cornerstone. That’s the one based on Logan’s Run.)
Soundtrack:
As I compiled last night, I listened to Comfort Eagle by Cake. Perfect energy. This morning, I texted my husband, “Hey, what’s that Beach Boys album with ‘Flip, Flop, Fly Away’ on it?”
(That is not the name. He’s used to my musical manglings.)
He gently redirected me to Endless Harmony. I recommend it—especially “Kiss Me, Baby.” Haunting.
And P.S., the song I meant is actually called “Loop De Loop (Flip Flop, Flyin’ in an Aeroplane).” It’s got vaudeville vibes. From the Beach Boys. I know.
Brian Wilson is a genius. I’m a reasonable woman, but if you talk trash about Brian, I will invite you to the Waffle House parking lot.
(I have a new cowboy hat. Don’t test me.)
This Just In (Because the Raccoon Has Ears):
On Rob Lowe’s podcast Literally, he and Chelsea Handler did a dual-feed episode. And guess what they ended on?
Handler thought he was going to talk about the Big O. He claimed he wasn’t—but then teased that he would. On her podcast.
Classic.
I’m quite sure it’ll be irreverent, hilarious, and not at all sexy. Still… I both don’t and very much do want to hear what he says. Oh who am I kidding, I just listened to it. It’s…anticlimactic. False advertise much, Robbie? Eh, you’re forgiven.
A Guided Tour of the Cathedral (with Commentary)
• Look, I Built a Cathedral – Title poem. Earnest and ironic. And an invitation to see yourself in it.
• Can’t Call Myself a Cathedral In a Title (Can I?) – The parenthetical is the title.
• Paging Father John Misty – Was I Bat-Signaling him? Didn’t mean to, but maybe.
• Rob Lowe Is Definitely Funny – Divine generosity. Dammit.
• Emotional Support Comma –I’m pro-Oxford. Fight me. You know when and where.
• It’s the Real Thing – That Mad Men scene. You know the one.
• Blue Cardigan of Age – Devastating. A plea. Don’t laugh or I’ll put you in one.
• Mr. Damn Darcy, Is It? – A late-night feminist protest because I was pissed.
• Flipping Pancakes and Expectations – Now I want pancakes. You in?
• Teaching Him to Play – Nothing witty, everything heartfelt.
• All In – A plea to do the thing already. (Sensing a theme? Short of a cattle prod, this is all I got. Wait, I don’t have a cattle prod. That sounded weird.)
• Mutual Mass – A quiet god and her pilgrim. Nothing ensues.
• Wound and Witness – Banished brilliance. I am pissed.
• You Can’t Laugh This One Away – Water metaphors. Or are they?
• Authorial Intent Ale – About workshop and authenticity or the lack thereof. I have feelings. And proper brew.
• Grecian Urn, Busted – Read the Keats. Then come back to me.
• This Is Not An Invitation to Home Invasion – Boundaries.
• Some Said It Thundered – You’ve seen this one here.
• A PTSD Role Reversal – Espadrilles and self-respect.
• Might As Well Call This The Sound of Your Own Voice – Silence, with teeth.
• Shredded Journals for Breakfast – A light Swedish death cleaning. Metaphorically and not.
• Almost a Prayer – Truffles. Regret. A poem.
• Well, Someone Hit Send – You already know. This is for you, clubbers. Mama got you – hand over your phone.
• Stephen King at Midnight – 1990s fridge included.
• I Guess It’s Okay to Still Color My Hair – Transparent grief, sponsored by Clairol.
• Renewal – No sanctuary but the fire in your hands. Have you seen the movie?
• Fight Me in the Waffle House Parking Lot at Dawn – Still a favorite.
• Homegrown Defibrillator – Bounces. Doesn’t break. Mostly.
• Glossary of Gentle Threats – The title fits but also doesn’t.
• If You Please, Sir – Donuts. Dawn. Tenderness to the abandoned gift. Don’t do that. I will open an orphanage for abandoned talent and come and kidnap your gift kid.
• The Art of Exhaustion – Saltshakers and maternal rage.
• Things Found on the Backs of iPhones – Comes with a lens cleaning cloth.
• Quietly Feral – The word diadem showed up and stayed.
• A Post-It Note Found On Your Self-Worth – Library vs. liability.
• Collision Energy – The poem of a newly anointed, uncertain poet.
• Lose the Tie – That whisper at the end? Only to be done with pearls running through your teeth.
• Casting Spells on Scarecrows – A woman interrogates Midwest mascots.
• A Men – Not a typo. Not really a prayer. A gentle dismount.
Stay tuned: DJ Word Raccoon will be reporting soon on her rain-drenched writing adventures yesterday, complete with undergrads, an accidental serenade, and a new song that might be a lunar spell.
Spoiler: Poetry on the road still hits. Just not quite as unselfconsciously. Not yet.
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