bronze_ribbons: Wawrinka with towel in mixed zone (stan with towel)
Rattle has just published as its Sunday poem "Look at that, you son of a bitch" (the title comes from the late astronaut Edgar Mitchell, who threw a javelin on the moon 45 years and a few days ago).

Meanwhile, I've been training my lens on tennis players in Memphis:

And, from the Department of Tennis Can Provide a Metaphor for Anything -- here's a glimpse of partners getting their signals scrambled...


(Oliver Marach of Austria and Fabrice Martin of France)

...and one of Kei Nishikori strrrrrretching (and sliding and squeaking) his way out of trouble (eventually -- between Sam Querrey's unreturnable serves and Kei's tendency to hit wide/long during the first half hour, it was not a good first set for him):

Nishikori v. Querrey
bronze_ribbons: 18th century harpsichord (harpsichord)
[The subject line is from Lu Yu's "Autumn Thoughts," which Dawn Potter quotes at the end of her Thursday post.]

There is much going on that has been frustrating, frightening, or disheartening. But there has also been great happiness:

thirty years of friendship

My friend Daniel (left) was the groom at the wedding I attended in Brooklyn two weekends ago. We first met at a conference in 1985. (My honorary big brother, Steve, is the other guy in the photo. He was the officiant.)

My poem "O Clouds Unfold" has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

7x20 featured five pieces last week...

half... well as five pieces back in October:

Co-cola salad...
painting spells...
mother interred...
Persian calligraphy...
Code Name Taurus...

On a fandom note -- Peter Wimsey sighting, y'all! a Soviet film poster currently at the Jewish Museum in New York. Which one of you is going to explain that? ;)
bronze_ribbons: snapshot of me in standing bow (DelPo on verge of oh smash)
The Cubs are inflicting the usual dose of October heartache/heartburn, so I'm going to pickle carrots instead. (There's also work to get through, but staying away from monitors for the next few innings seems like a good idea.)

There seems to be no escaping Thoreau today, albeit in texts that address the mythologizing of him. In Mark Caldwell's The Last Crusade: The War on Consumption, 1862-1954, his death from tuberculosis is presented as an example of a 19th-century tendency to cast such deaths as gentle, pure goings-into-the-good-night -- an erasure of what one could argue were the victims' true personalities (vigorous, worldly, earthy) when they were healthy. And Dawn Potter relays Katherine Schulz's observations about Thoreau, including thought-provoking comparisons of Walden to Prospect Park (neither being all that off the grid) and Thoreau to Laura Ingalls Wilder (fictional vs. real isolation).

(An extra layer to this, which I only just remembered: I'm attending a wedding later this year in Prospect Park... and the groom and the officiant and I participated together in a mock trial about thirty years ago where I was drafted to portray Thoreau. "But I haven't read any Thoreau." I forget how our classmates persuaded me that a quick trip to the library would give me enough to improvise with, but I vaguely recall them managing to make contrarian-ness sound like a compliment, and they later reassured me when my Thoreau turned out to be a terrible witness on behalf of Socrates [who was once again sentenced to death], because what I'd said as him was in character.)

Signal boost: 7x20 is seeking tweet-sized pieces by women and writers of color. Non-paying market.

On a related note, I'm the featured poet at 7x20 this week. So far:

Code Name Taurus...
Persian calligraphy

*peeks at scoreboard* FFS, Cubs. OK, I'm off to do some violence to root vegetables.
bronze_ribbons: Sveta kissing her French Open trophy (Kuz kiss)
container basil

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:

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 [personal profile] 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!

new poem

18/3/14 18:15
bronze_ribbons: Sveta kissing her French Open trophy (Kuz kiss)
The new issue of Goblin Fruit is up, it is beautiful, and it includes my poem "Spelling 'For Worse,'" both as text and recording:
bronze_ribbons: (hooch boots)
Highlights of week so far: lunch with [personal profile] xochiquetzl; drinks and dinner with Mike and Mary; notes from assorted friends; the latest episodes in [ profile] geri_chan's Unmasked

Downsides: much swearing at Microsoft; current project kicking my butt enough that I've had to punt tennis, correspondence, and getting together with other friends. Also feeling worried-helpless about some of those friends.

Signal boost: Blizzard's Global Writing Contest: "The company is accepting 2,500 to 7,500-word pieces of fiction set in the Diablo, StarCraft or WarCraft universes until August 23, 2010."

Recent publications (all very short):

  • "Hazy on the Details," a PicFic

  • "By the waters..." at microcosms

  • "A Study in Setting" (text and audio) at qarrtsiluni

  • "free from school..." at tinywords
  • bronze_ribbons: Dee and Ryo from FAKE in deep kiss (Dee/Ryo liplock)
    So, maybe you remember how I was thinking of riffing on "Lay All Your Love on Me" to get it out of my system?


    bronze_ribbons: snapshot of me in standing bow (diana closing her door)
    Today's NaPoWriMo prompt from Poetic Asides was "travel." I started to write about Amsterdam, but somehow ended up with this:


    Last summer, while in Chicago, I gave away )

    Oh, and I've got two cinquains in the new issue of AMAZE. One of them was inspired by the Japanese Festival of Seven Herbs.

    In other news, all y'all can go ahead and laugh at me: I have indeed been staying up until stupid hours with part 3 of "Not As Dumb" -- and I think it's on the verge of done. (The smut's been deferred to part 4, however - there's a reason I've mentally labelled this fic "The One Where the Characters Will Not Shut Up"...). I'll post it in a day or two (i.e., after I finish this Sunday's sermon, and provided I don't find anything unspeakably irreparable when I go tidy it up).
    bronze_ribbons: snapshot of me in standing bow (wicked fairy apologist)
    Dear [ profile] bitterfig, I am late in the day, but this is for you. May your 37th year bring you better health and bright joys.

    If I owned the wind and the trees, I would )
    bronze_ribbons: snapshot of me in standing bow (Jose Calisto harpsichord)
    Earlier this year, [ profile] marginaliana won my offer to write a custom villanelle. Her prompts included "LPW, Peter reflecting on the way that his work leads to someone being put to death" and
    "LPW, Bunter and Harriet's relationship." Herewith...

    A man cannot help what he deduces... )

    Thank you again to [ profile] marginaliana for contributing to the cause!
    bronze_ribbons: snapshot of me in standing bow (feather)
    What kind of idiot manages to lose their library card on Shakespeare's deathday? Not that Shakespeare or death have anything to do with it...

    *rolls eyes at self for the n-tieth time today*

    Anyway. In observance of IPSTP:

    (1) a number of my poems are available for your use as e-card texts, chez Blue Green Planet.

    (2) I've unlocked the initial draft of the agnostic Jewish Advent poem I posted as a gift for [ profile] orbitalmechanic last November. Here's the current incarnation of that story:

    Unconverted )

    (3) Here's another poem for which I fear the sell-by date has come and gone, but for which I have a soft spot for nonetheless. If nothing else, it reminds me of things I've already (already!) forgotten since then.

    Mittens at Fenway, 2004 )
    bronze_ribbons: snapshot of me in standing bow (feather)
    The Spring 2007 issue of flashquake is up, with two of my poems: "She says, follow the graves" is an Editor's Pick, and there's also "Hosiery running deep."

    The titles for both pieces come from poems by Reb Livingston in Wanton Textiles, a chapbook she co-wrote with Ravi Shankar (whose poem Simpatico remains one of my very favorites from the Motel).

    In addition to writing poem-prompting poems, Reb also has good taste: one of my poems was included in the first NoTell Motel anthology she compiled, and another will appear in the new one currently in press. Isn't it a fabulous cover? Sexy times ahead! :-)
    bronze_ribbons: snapshot of me in standing bow (Default)
    [ profile] orbitalmechanic sent me earrings. I promised her a poem. Her prompt was "family."

    This is the first draft (albeit with a few tweaks since I hit "post"). I haven't decided if I'm going to revise/circulate it further or not, or whether I should write a second poem that's less about me and more to do with the prompt. Regardless, this one's still for Jessie. ;-)

    An Agnostic Jewish Advent Poem )
    bronze_ribbons: snapshot of me in standing bow (feather)
    Apparently what my brain really wanted was for [ profile] mrissa to prompt me to write a poem (via the art-about-your-friends meme), because that's what it ended up focusing on as I planted the lilies of the valley this afternoon.

    So here it is, first draft. I fancy I can revise it into something publishable, hence the locked entry. [ETA: Decided to unlock it and leave it here.]

    Dear M'ris

    Before I could bake tomorrow's bread )

    ~ Peg
    bronze_ribbons: snapshot of me in standing bow (Default)
    This is an old poem of mine that appeared in Star*Line a ways back (July/August 2003). I'm reposting it here because it's still one of the better villanelles I've written, and because I'm being thumped by a quantum plotbunny (e.g., Dumbledore as Niels Bohr, Neville as Wolfgang Pauli, Draco as Werner Heisenberg, Lupin as George Gamow, Snape as Enrico Fermi...).

    Schrödinger's Top Hat )
    bronze_ribbons: snapshot of me in standing bow (Default)
    The Oxford Encyclopedia of Children's Literature is now in print!

    (I wrote several dozen entries for it. It feels good to see several years' of work finally on its way to library shelves.)

    Also (mentioned here a couple of months ago before the site went live), a number of my poems are now available for use on e-cards at BlueGreenPlanet, an e-card and eco-education site. The site is run by artist Janet Chui, whose own paintings are gorgeous.
    bronze_ribbons: snapshot of me in standing bow (feather)
    Dear Daddy,

    Today you would have been sixty-five. This morning
    I drove to church - sang Tallis's "Lamentations"
    and thought about lighting a candle in your name
    but I didn't want to talk about you, don't want to be consoled
    for this awkward sorrow that cannot be smoothed
    into a tender summary. Were you still alive,
    you'd still be giving me hell
    for never keeping my mouth shut.

    Ten days ago, your older sister
    treated me to lunch: steamed fish, savory eggplant.
    A special order -- as we cleaned our plates,
    her friend the owner said in Taiwanese
    "she's pretty" -- about me. It hurts
    how much such throwaway gifts matter,
    and how you would still be underimpressed
    with my minor poems, my shortage of status --
    it can't be helped anymore than the fact
    all your wanting to stay alive couldn't save you.
    You would have liked the eggplant and the fish --
    especially the eyes. My aunt reminded me of that.
    And what the owner said? You would have observed
    it's sort of thing men have to say about nieces.
    But you would have been pleased that I still remember
    enough of your language to thank him for it.

      - pld, 9 April 2006
    bronze_ribbons: snapshot of me in standing bow (Default)
    Happy belated birthday, [ profile] kassrachel! Your friendship and encouragement mean a lot to me.

    Hastily drafted (where does the time go!?), but heartfelt nonetheless:


    At this turn of the year, we are greedy for light
    in the way that those who have dined too long
    on heavy blandness crave the brightness
    of unadorned salt and feathery sauces.

    At this stretch of the year, we stubbornly sink
    our teeth into all we can chew, no matter
    how unpalatable the blessings sometimes remain
    and how difficult they can be to swallow.

    At this spin of the year, we count our candles
    and all of the suns and the stars that command
    our gifts of witness and our celebrations of choices:
    here's to your new year. Here's to rejoicing.

    With love,
    bronze_ribbons: snapshot of me in standing bow (Chagall. Songs.)
    For [ profile] elisem's Competition Challenge. I wasn't the winner (congrats, redbird!) but I had fun writing this.
    To sing, you must listen to the roar of silence... )

    What's a ghazal, you might be asking? See here for a heap of detail; like many writers in English, I observed only the rule convenient to me -- in this case, that each couplet end with the same word; my referring to the competition hostess in the last line is a twist on the tradition of the poet mentioning their own name in the final couplet. :-)


    bronze_ribbons: snapshot of me in standing bow (Default)

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