For Women Who Are Difficult to Love

I'm completely captivated by this piece from poet Warsan Shire, "For Women Who Are Difficult to Love". Full text under the photo and video (written and performed by Shire).

For Women Who Are Difficult to Love

You are a horse running alone
and he tries to tame you
compares you to an impossible highway
to a burning house
says you are blinding him
that he could never leave you
forget you
want anything but you
you dizzy him, you are unbearable
every woman before or after you
is doused in your name
you fill his mouth
his teeth ache with memory of taste
his body just a long shadow seeking yours
but you are always too intense
frightening in the way you want him
unashamed and sacrificial
he tells you that no man can live up to the one who
lives in your head
and you tried to change didn’t you?

closed your mouth more
tried to be softer
prettier
less volatile, less awake
but even when sleeping you could feel
him travelling away from you in his dreams
so what did you want to do love
split his head open?
you can’t make homes out of human beings
someone should have already told you that
and if he wants to leave
then let him leave
you are terrifying
and strange and beautiful
something not everyone knows how to love.

Video Poems

Just found this great site, Moving Poems: The best poetry videos on the web. Check 'em out--there are pages and pages of work by a variety of poets. Here's one below, by Rachel Eliza Griffiths, from the 2011 Mule & Pear (I actually got this from You Tube, as I can't figure out how to post individual vids from Moving Poems):

Awesome, huh? I've got to get back in there and watch more, once my internet connection speeds up (major issues, of late!). Cheers, Lauren

Neverland

The eyes always get you, those faces staring

from supermarket posters, the missing children

plucked off streets, vanished into forced labor,

begging gangs, prostitution; some maimed,

some recovered, some gone forever.  Once,

on a train to Shenzhen, a teen boy, dressed in rags,

one eye, half his chin missing, entered our carriage,

hushing the chatter, singing like an angel for coins,

and I mean like Bocelli, or Pavarotti, our car filled

with ear-melting Italian opera, rocking and swaying

through the Chinese countryside, the closest we,

in our economy class hard seats, would ever get

to La Scala, or the Bolshoi, if we even knew what

those were, and the boy finished to utter silence,

our open jaws and wet cheeks, his good eye

scanning the crowd,  and for one second it rested

on me, this otherworldly eye, this eye of the stricken

universe, and I am ashamed, but I looked away, as

did the others, ruffling their newspapers, pretending

it never happened, in that uneasy air, before the boy

moved on to the next car and beyond, to be lost

among the billions. No one spoke, all of us

aware of the sticky business of childhood in Asia,

knowing that the eye had seared itself into us;

an open wound that would fester within for years.

~ Lauren Tivey

*This poem originally appeared in the debut issue of The Verse (August, 2013), which is now defunct. Editor Dan Navarrete wrote of the poem, "A call to take action, excellent depiction of the reality surrounding impoverished youth in China. Truly a piece that sinks into our hearts and refuses to let go, just like the imagery". Sorry to say The Verse didn't last, and the website's now gone. I was lucky to find a copy of this, hidden in my email files, as I'd lost the original in the expansion drive crash, and the only other copy was on the website which closed. 

Dancing in the Park

Old-timers gather in the evenings after dinner,

at a square near the lotus pond, loudspeakers

spilling Classical music in the setting sun.

Couples form and begin twirling and dipping,

women in crisp skirts and heels, men in blazers,

the shy wallflowers with glittering eyes, waiting.

It’s Valentine’s Day, a first date, that awkward

high school dance, even the father-daughter

dance you shared at your first wedding

under a sparkling tent; but you never dance

anymore.  Now you watch.  Off to the side,

chattering grandmas are making deals, playing

matchmaker, trading photos of their marriageable

offspring like baseball cards, while divorced women

frown, lonely and ignored (this, a traditional city).

And you consider stepping to the sidelines, causing

a stir as the only foreign woman, a divorced one,

at that, but you don’t, and it grows dark.  Couples

are leaving hand in hand, soundmen joking over

cigarettes, packing up their equipment, as the

lotus blooms begin to wilt in the fading light.

~ Lauren Tivey

*Note: 2013 salvaged poem from my expansion drive crash

Year of the Snake

It slithers in, wet and black in the night,

bringing its bombs, guns, knives, wide

eye of the lunatic fringe, encouraging

the fanatical, and that’s no joke, no

cute astrological nonsense, now, is it?

This morning rain is cold, spotting

the windows, as I sit and worry

about loved ones near and far.

In a good Snake Year, business

deals, money-making (beware

of loopholes), but a Water Snake

year is the Satanic abyss, the void

of deep space, a hungry wolf

howling in the Arctic expanse,

humming on a full moon nerve.

In the blue light of the television,

I am sending electronic messages

of support, carrying on with both

hope and dread.  When it stops raining

later today, I will go out and look at all

the flowers of this mad, gone world.

~ Lauren Tivey

*Note: Salvaged poem from my expansion drive crash. This was written last year, in 2013, which was the Year of the Snake. Currently, we are in the Year of the Horse.

The Departure

for *Hai Zi (1964 – 1989)

Have you gone into the sunflower,

young brother of Van Gogh?

Have the ravens lovingly picked

your mangled body clean?

When you laid your life on the tracks,

that whistle to the void, calling, calling,

was it for the empty plains of Tibet,

the sea waving its flags by Fujian?

Perhaps the boyhood fields, lush

Anhui, the ancestral grass?  Land

of autumn, or the stars, the moon?

:  We trace your comet in the sky.

Rumors of love’s neglect, yet I see

you upon a beach, arms flung wide,

qi of your grin, your child’s love,

charms, faults, embracing the All.

That iron bearing down—your last

train out to the cosmic hinterlands,

the psychedelic sun, where the coin

is poetry, and all the gods are young. 

~ Lauren Tivey

  

*Hai Zi (Zha Haisheng), a young Chinese poet who wrote of nature, love, loneliness, and death. He was from a poor family in Anhui, and went on to study law at Peking University at 15, Later, he taught Philosophy and other subjects, and devoted much time to writing poetry. He committed suicide at the age of 25, by lying on the train tracks near Shanhaiguan. He left behind about 200 poems, and though never published much in his lifetime, he has become a cult figure in modern Chinese poetry. 

**Note: This is a salvaged poem from my expansion drive crash (written last year). 

Learning to Play

Digging through my usb files the other day, I was happy to find six poems that weren't lost in the Great Expansion Drive Crash of 2013. Cool! As I mentioned in an earlier post, I'd lost ALL of my work (writing, poetry manuscript, photos, teaching materials, etc.), and didn't think I'd ever recover any--I must've had these five poems in a different place. I don't think I'll submit these anywhere, as I've started over fresh, so I'll post the poems here over the next few days. Anyway...here's the first:

Learning to Play

The pale birds of her hands flutter

over the strings of the guzheng,

sound of the lotus, a bamboo forest,

a peaceful boat on water. Her fingers,

born for porcelain teapots, calligraphy,

silk, are plucking out High Mountain

Flowing Water, are conductors of dark

storms, confident upon the bridge, as in

Three Variations of Plum Blossom, or

mellowed with reflection, as in my favorite,

Song of Fishermen on a Homebound Boat

During Sunset, before the happy home port

of its coda. She places my awkward palms

upon the rosewood, guiding the unsure

attempt;  me, attuned to electric guitars,

heavy drums, afraid of something

so delicate. I’ve no talent here. Her laughter

lifts me though, like the chiming of bells.

~ Lauren Tivey

Romantique

I love this line from French poet, Francois Coppee. It translates to "I'll be the poet, and you'll be poetry". French really is the language of love, eh?

Postcard Poem Project

Now, here's a lovely idea, the Postcard Poem Project. I just joined the other day, wrote my two poems, and will mail them from China this week--one to the U.S. and one to Canada. Hopefully, they'll make it to their destinations (the Chinese postal service has a habit of losing things), and I'll receive two poems in return. How wonderful it'll be to get a handwritten poem in the mail, from someone on the other side of the globe! It'd be cool to connect, so if you're one of the people to receive a poem from me, or one of the senders, and want to stay in touch, look me up--either here or on Facebook--I'm always interested in meeting other poets and writers.

If you'd like to join the project, you can find the event page on Facebook, here:

https://www.facebook.com/events/1398401707051407/

Here's the deal, according to the event page:

Every few years, we poets who love sending and receiving snail mail engage in an enormous pen pal event called the Postcard Poem Project. Last time, in 2012, we swapped poetry and postcards between over 250 poets from 16 countries on four continents. This time, we're hoping for all seven continents. Here's how it works:

Poets who wish to participate have until Friday, September 19th, 2014 to email their address to the website. On that weekend, they will receive two randomly-picked mailing addresses; they could be from the other side of the world, or just down the street. Poets will buy (or make) two postcards, write a short poem on the back of each (preferably about the pictures on the front of each postcard), and send them to their mailing addresses before the end of September. Easy, right? Come October or November, you will hopefully receive two poems in your mailbox from two complete strangers... poems written just for you!

You probably have questions. We have answers. But first: Are you in, or out? If you're in, here's what you have to do:

Send an email to postcardpoemproject@gmail.com that includes your full mailing address, the way you would write it on a postcard yourself. It should look something like this:

Your Name

Your Street Address

The Rest Of Your Address

Your Country

(People often leave out either their name or their country. Please don't leave out your name or your country. Also, WE DID NOT KEEP ADDRESSES FROM THE LAST ROUND, so please send your address in even if you have before!) 

You will receive a reply email with all the details and an FAQ section. In the meantime, help make this project grander by passing this event on to any poets you know! Spread the word, and help spread good words in the mailboxes of the world!

Poem in The Coachella Review

My poem, "Outsiders", appears in the Summer, 2014 issue of The Coachella Review (link below). I feel lucky to be included with some great writers--be sure to also check out Diane Lefer's fiction piece, "Our Lady of the Mineshaft", which takes place in Bolivia. Many thanks to the editors for the inclusion!

The Coachella Review, Summer 2014:

http://thecoachellareview.com/wordpress/?page_id=162

Chinese Pastoral

Once in awhile, I get lucky:

After losing ALL of my unpublished work in The Great Expansion Drive Crash of 2013, I thought I'd go and at least copy my published work off the internet, to help get my bearings and start rebuilding my portfolio. Unfortunately, a couple of the literary journal websites had closed, leaving no archives behind, and that published work was lost forever. I understand, though--I know that editing a literary journal is tough and often thankless work, and being an editor is not something I could ever do. Sites close down all the time. I've seen journals pop up and then disappear within a month, even. It's not a business for the faint of heart, for sure.

Anyway, the editor of one of the longer-standing journals, the respected Hobble Creek Review, made the decision to close its doors recently, as well. HCR held the only copy of my poem, "Chinese Pastoral", but I didn't get to it in time before the site went dark. My expansion drive crash had wiped out all my written work--now, the site with the only copy of the poem was closed, as well (ouch!). But, it's not the editor's job to make sure writers have copies, or to keep archives active, or even to notify writers a site is closing, so I just resigned myself to the fact that the poem was gone. That's why I was so surprised when HCR editor Justin Evans was able to retrieve it, and I'm so grateful to him for going out of his way to get it to me.

A spot of good luck! Who'd have thought, after all that? I'm posting the poem here, which originally appeared in the July, 2012 issue of HCR. I'd also like to thank Justin and wish him the best in his future endeavors--I'll certainly miss HCR.

Chinese Pastoral

(a trptych)

i. Guangxi

Long-haired Zhuang women are singing,
clapping, stomping feet to the drumbeat
in the wooden village house, bells
of their silver headdresses, chiming.

Stopping, they raise hands in unison,
driving it up, past the corn-draped rafters,
up, into the hoary skies, their spells
cast far, to the fickle ears of harvest gods.

Their men don't interfere, but watch
and smoke, as brown as the rice terraces
ribboning the hills, weathered,
as the dormant fields of dragonfruit.

The drum sounds again; again the women
pound the boards, their wool-wrapped legs
jumping, voices ringing over all of Guangxi,
as they conjure the planting season into being.

ii. Jiangsu

Aromatic tea fields sparkle in neat rows.
Women in straw hats bend in a ballet, spry
as the bushes they scratch around, the happy
animals of their bodies, moving in sunshine.

Beans twist up bamboo stakes, the pinch
of manure and soil baking in the nostrils,
play of tomatoes, herbs, and birdsong,
names of every plant on the tongue.

Tractors rumble by, and whistling men
with shovels, who stop to urinate
in the woods. Often, a violent burst
of afternoon clouds, rain tamping dust.

They laugh during tea breaks. They work
long and hard. They work long and hard.
Their young have left for the cities, forgetting
the songs, the land, but sending money.

iii. Sichuan

Before leaving for the upper pastures,
the women are tossing flour to the wind,
toasting skies with strong barley beer,
chanting prayers, singing for the crops.

Men are readying the mills, fixing carts,
slapping backs, and singing their own
kinds of songs. The mules stamp
and snort, game for their bundles.

Husbands and wives bicker, shoot
glances and mutter curses, their hands
raw with work, a cruel sun pushing them
to move fast. All day, the loads roll in.

Tomorrow, the next day, and the next;
these shining meadows of sunrise,
awaiting the songs, the caress of hands
in the soil, with all the loyalty of a lover.

Poetry is...

High School Poetry Slam

On April 1st, we held our first annual poetry slam here at Nanjing Senior High School. Participating were 35 students from three grade levels--all of our American Program Chinese students, plus our visiting German students. After a month of preparation, the evening event was held in the lecture hall, to great success. Cash prizes for 1st, 2nd, and 3rd place were given, along with four honorable mentions, and the slam was even filmed. Fellow teachers, Simeon Campbell and Katherine Marie Priddy also helped organize and run the event, for which I am very grateful, and some of our other teachers, Gerry, Reuben, Ollie, and Lillian were our volunteer judges.

Since many of our Chinese students hadn't had much exposure to poetry slams, or to poetry, for that matter, the entire month before the event was spent studying poems. Though my junior AP English class had been reading a few poems, here and there, since the beginning of the school year, mostly as supplementary material to other literature, and had even read Shakespeare, we really needed to delve into mechanics and modern style. I also did a poetry unit review with my senior AP English class. This involved the reading and study of many poems, lessons in figurative language, short poetry videos and PPTs, writing workshops, outdoor writing exercises, and the poetry slam documentary, Louder Than A Bomb, which the students greatly enjoyed. Students wrote their own poems, workshopped them with their peers, revised them, workshopped them with me, and revised them again. We discussed the performance aspect of a poetry slam, and students practiced their poems aloud, both at home and in front of their peers, even doing a rehearsal run in the lecture hall the afternoon before the slam. Though they were all nervous about the slam that evening, they did well. And they had created some wonderful poems!

Here are some photos:

Cool poetry slam posters, designed by fellow teacher, Kate

Poetry slam judges: Gerry, Reuben, Ollie, and Lillian

Poetry slam in full swing

Winners, from left to right: Jasmine (HM); Claire (HM); Andy (HM);
Tom (HM); Shimmer (3rd); Chen (2nd); Andrew (1st)

Andrew won first place with his poem, "Pretentious Pimples", a piece that was not only brave, but cleverly structured as a conversation with his acne, and had a strong delivery. Chen won second place with "Homeless Dog", a persona piece, and Shimmer took third place with the confessional poem, "Her". All students, whether winners, honorable mentions, or not, did a fantastic job with their poems, and showed a lot of courage in reading their work in front of an audience--a first, for many. This helped build confidence, as many of the students expressed afterward.

All in all, our poetry slam was not only fun, but made a deep impression on the students. As one said, "Writing a poem is not as easy as I used to think. I had to modify the lines again and again, and read them aloud to seek the best voice to express them. It is funny--I earned award money in the poetry slam. It was the first time I earned money through my own effort". Another student said, "After this poetry slam, it seems that everything in life can be the subjects of poems. The matter is, what do I pay attention to? I have started observing life more clearly and carefully, and I've found a lot of beauty which I never paid attention to before."

As a teacher, I can't ask for more than that...

The Prodigal Poet Returns

Sooo...I've been a very bad blogger. Seven months have passed since I last updated. What happened? Well, I went through a sort-of devastating loss--of my own making--and I'm just now getting back to the poetry (and blogging!) life. While in Rome last summer, I dropped my external hard drive, which held ALL of my writing, onto the tile floor of our apartment, and it broke. No one, not even the so-called "experts", have been able to retrieve the data. I had no backup. That's right, I was stupid, stupid, stupid. See, before I left for my summer travel to Scotland, Italy, and Turkey, I was busy and distracted, and though the thought occurred to me to "back that shit up", I never did.

When I say ALL my writing was on my external hard drive, I do mean ALL of it: my poetry manuscript, which I'd been working on for four years, and which was getting close to completion; all my poems under construction; all completed poems not part of the manuscript; all my publishing contacts, correspondence, and submission records; and the journal I'd been keeping for four years. In addition, I lost all the photos I had taken in Scotland, and half of the ones I took in Italy. I lost all my teaching materials--syllabi, course outlines, student records, resources, and more. Though I've spent the past seven months rebuilding all my teaching materials (and backing them up regularly!), I'm afraid I'll never get the creative writing or photos back. The IT shop I use here, after working on my external hard drive for two months, was unable to do anything, so they sent it off to the "experts" in Nanjing, who kept it for another month, and came up empty-handed, as well. Some business about needing an exact copy of the disc used in the external hard drive to copy the material to. I don't know...if the FBI can retrieve data off burnt, crushed, drowned hard drives, why can't someone pull some poems and photos off mine? I've still got the drive, and I'm going to bring it to my crack-IT guy/nephew in the U.S. when I go back next winter for a visit. He may not be able to do anything, either, but at least there's still a glimmer of hope.

In the meantime, I've been dealing with a lot of anger over the whole thing. I was pretty mad at the universe for DOING THIS TO ME, but really, I was angry with myself for dropping the drive (I'm such a klutz--always have been), and for not backing up my material in the first place. In fact, I was so disgusted with the whole thing that I just stopped writing. Yes, I have refused to write for seven months. Muse appears, and I turn her away, which is probably some sort of sacrilege, for which I'll probably be punished later, in some other horrifying turn of events. Instead, I turned my creative attentions in other directions--I concentrated on my photography, built a Facebook bohemian community page (almost 6,000 followers, which you can check out, here), went traveling and adventuring, etc. Things have been okay. But there has been a nagging feeling all along, that I need to get on with my writing, get over the anger, and start listening to the muse again.

Poetry doesn't want to leave me alone--it's made that quite clear. Whether it's waking me in the middle of the night with lines begging to be written, or sending me requests for material from editors, or asking me to judge a kids' poetry competition, or surprising me with an acceptance from a long-forgotten submission, or requesting that I write reviews for other poets, or having me help organize a poetry slam at my school (all of which have happened these past seven months), poetry has not given up on me, no matter how much I've shunned it. So, it's time to get back on with it, and start rebuilding my portfolio. I'm looking at it this way: that the loss of the manuscript and other work is an opportunity to start over, and create something even better this time. I've had my hissy fit, given poetry the silent treatment, and now I'm ready to forgive myself. As Hugh White said, "When you make a mistake, don't look back at it long. Take the reason of the thing into your mind and then look forward. Mistakes are lessons of wisdom. The past cannot be changed. The future is yet in your power". 

Wish me luck. I'm going to back up all my material now... 

RIP Seamus Heaney

Sad news, as Nobel Prize winning poet Seamus Heaney has passed away at the age of 74. Heaney, once described by poet Robert Lowell as "the most important Irish poet since Yeats", died this morning after a brief illness. You can read his obituary here. The world lost a great one today, a "once-in-a-lifetime portent, the comet's pulsing rose" (to quote from his poem, "Exposure"). I'm leaving off here with a video of one of my favorite poems of his, "Death of a Naturalist". RIP, Seamus Heaney. You will be missed.

Casa di Goethe

Located at 18 via del Corso, just steps away from the Piazza del Popolo, is the Casa di Goethe, the house where Goethe spent his time in Rome during 1786-1788. Here, he lived with the German painter, Tischbein. Though most of the displays are facsimiles (originals being located in German museums and other places), it is still a moving experience to wander through his old rooms. One can just imagine Goethe, in his stockinged feet, leaning out the window to look at the street below, as depicted in Tischbein's 1787 drawing! And, they have posters of that for sale (had to buy a copy). In one corner of the largest room, which was Tischbein's studio, an easel holds a copy of the artist's most famous work, Goethe in the Campagna (also 1787), which is very striking, and surrounded by excerpts of Goethe's Italian Journey printed on the walls. There's even a copy of the huge Jupiter bust Goethe purchased while living here. What was perhaps most interesting, however, was to view Goethe's actual books, excerpts from his letters, and his drawings and sketches. Another highlight: Andy Warhol's rendering of Goethe in the Campagna, a visual delight! Here are some photos:

Copy of Tischbein's Goethe in the Campagna (1787), in the studio

Italian Journey excerpt, printed on the wall

Copy of Tischbein's drawing of his friend, Goethe, at the window (1787)

A deep and abiding friendship

Facsimile bust of Jupiter, which Goethe used to pray to each night

Library

Goethe research materials in the library

Warhol's painting, Goethe (1982)

Me, in front of Casa di Goethe, Roma

While I thoroughly enjoyed visiting the Keats-Shelley House the other day, I admit that Goethe had more of an impact on me than the Romantics ever did, so visiting the Casa di Goethe was important to me. I was largely self-educated in literature before going back to school, and Goethe's work was some of the first serious lit I ever read--to be standing in his rooms, surrounded by his things (and copies of them), had a bit of a celebratory feel. Now, to hunt down his statue in the Borghese Gardens. Ah, Roma! Ah, Goethe!

A Visit to Rome's Protestant Cemetery

Set in the peaceful, shady, and beautiful Protestant Cemetery located at 6 via Caio Cestius (officially, Cimitero acattolico, sometimes referred to as Cimitero degli Inglesi), are the graves of poets John Keats and Percy Bysshe Shelley. Here you will also find the grave of Beat Generation poet, Gregory Corso, the final resting place of Wordsworth's grandson, and a memorial to Goethe's son. It's a lovely place to spend an afternoon, away from the hectic city center. We even packed a lunch and ate at one of the benches overlooking the Pyramid of Cestius. There were chirping birds, a gentle breeze, lots of flowers, stunning statuary, and none of Rome's summer crowds. Oh, and there were lots of cats to make friends with. :)

Take Rome's Metro Line B to the Pyramide station, and walk across the street towards the Pyramid. Follow the road to the right about a block, along the cemetery wall, and you will come to Caio Cestius on the left. It's just a short walk down to the entrance on the left from there. Note: just after you turn onto Caio Cestius, look through the little screened window in the cemetery wall--it looks right onto the grave of John Keats! There is no entrance fee to the cemetery, but they do suggest a donation of 3 Euros. Be sure to stop by the visitor's center, and grab a map (for a small fee). Coming out of the visitor's center, turn left, and go through the arched door toward the pyramid. If you follow the path to the corner of the cemetery, you'll find Keats' grave, along with Severn's and Severn's infant son. There's also a memorial plaque on the wall, and a bench where you can sit and visit.

John Keats' grave

Keats memorial plaque

From there, continue following the path, past the pyramid, and toward the back of the cemetery. If you stay on that path, up to the rise of the small hill, you will find Shelley's grave at the top along the wall, and that of his friend, Edward Trelawny.

Shelley's grave. Cor Cordium: "Heart of Hearts"

Was Shelley's heart really saved by Trelawny during the cremation on the beach, and sent to Mary Shelley in England, to be later buried with their son? Or is that just a romantic legend? It's something lovely to ponder, at any rate, as you pay your respects. Note also the lines from Shakespeare's The Tempest at the bottom of the headstone, as well. Directly in front of/below Shelley's grave, you will find the grave of Gregory Corso, a Beat Generation poet:

Gregory Corso's grave

Corso died in Minnesota, but his ashes were brought all the way to Rome, to be buried at the feet of his beloved Shelley. And though Corso was Catholic, an exception was made to allow his ashes to be laid to rest in the Protestant-only cemetery.

Other special tombstones include Wordsworth's grandson's; the memorial stone to Goethe's son; the famous "Angel of Grief" of William Wetmore Story; and those of various artists, writers, and musicians. In particular, I loved all the angel statuary everywhere--there are some very striking ones. In fact, I found this to be one of the loveliest cemeteries, if not THE loveliest cemetery, I've ever visited (and I've been in a lot of cemeteries around the world!). So, if you're not into the Romantics or the Beat Generation, or poetry and literature, or heck, even cemeteries, you will still find this to be a worthy excursion, just for the sheer beauty of the place, and a quieter, gentler experience of Rome.

Keats-Shelley House

Visited the Keats-Shelley House in Rome the other day. Here are some photos--Keats' death mask, the room where he died (overlooking the Spanish Steps), a bust of Shelley, and shots of the library. It was an amazing place, one which I've wanted to visit for a long time. Viewing Keats' death mask, especially, was a powerful experience. I've a separate post with photos of their graves in the Protestant Cemetery coming in the next post.

Keats' death mask

Room where Keats died

Bust of Shelley

Library of the Keats-Shelley House

Library of the Keats-Shelley House

A Favorite Line

I love this line, from T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock", one of my all-time favorite poems. I just covered it recently with my senior class. Not sure where this awesome photo came from, or I'd credit it.

National Poetry Month 30/30

April is National Poetry Month. Since I don't have access to any poetry events here in my small Chinese city, my plan to celebrate is to write a hella lotta poems--what's that NaPoWriMo challenge? 30 poems in 30 days (30/30)? I'll accept! Whether it be a short little thing, or just a crazed, messy free-write, perhaps I'll post the results, or some of them, here. They WILL be in need of revision, but I figure that posting them will force me to polish them up sooner rather than later.  I'll see what pops up over the next 30 days--could get some useful pieces out of this exercise.