The Best American Poetry

Real Men [by Sally Ashton]

Outside the open window
The morning air is all awash with angels.

I'm imagining many of you across the country will wake up to a morning like this--snow!--from all the weather reports I've seen. Snow, and lots of it. I couldn't help but repost this couplet from the Richard Wilbur poem included at the end of yesterday's entry. But close that window! Even here in California, it's too cold for that.

The solstice presses upon us and we gather our traditions close to prepare for the darkest night of the year...Cards have begun to arrive in earnest, invitations extended or hoped for. The morning air is all awash with angels.

I'm typing in the dark. I'm always a day behind (and a dollar short, sadly) on the west coast. If I tried to compose and post the same day, you'd never see this until evening on the east coast. So I sit with laptop and down comforter and think of the distances. The computerized bell on the Presbyterian church strikes six...

Some are in bed-sheets, some are in blouses,
Some are in smocks: but truly there they are

I can't believe that the commentator on the News Hour just called the health care overhaul and debate, "sausage making." No kidding. Is there a sausage zeitgeist after all? Do the angels know my name?

Now they are rising together in calm swells
Of halcyon feeling, filling whatever they wear
With the deep joy of their impersonal breathing;

In my beginning poetry class, I won't let students write poems using angels. No angels, no butterflies, and no "love." Perhaps that's why I'm so smitten by Wilbur's poem. He leaves butterflies out.

Now they are flying in place, conveying
The terrible speed of their ominpresence

"The snow fell at the rate of an inch an hour. Whiteout. Flights cancelled." And yet, my youngest son arrived at JFK after a year abroad this evening at 8pm. My friends, Lisabeth and Colin, en route from San Diego to a new home in Massachusetts driving their packed car and dog, get stuck in first Albuquerque, then Amarillo, waiting out the storm.

and now of a sudden
They swoon down in so rapt a quiet
That nobody seems to be there.

I don't know about angels. If they are like snow, okay. Otherwise I'd rather not see any. In the Bible they are terrifying. They are not like what my beginning workshop students want to say they are.

"Oh, let there by nothing on earth but laundry,
Nothing but rosy hands in the rising steam
And clear dances done in the sight of heaven."

That more or less sums it up for me. But, when it first falls, after the first few hours, before the plows, the first footprints, the car accidents, the lost power, before the elderly woman bundles up, goes out to her snow-filled walkway and wields the shovel of her late husband--then, the way the world seems to wait in its stillness of snow, for those minutes, I think I see.

Let there be clean linen for the backs of thieves;
Let lovers go fresh and sweet to be undone

So a real man? Sorry, save it for Friday. Neither angels nor snow may be stopped. But my husband did bring home pho' for dinner.
(written last night)

Real Critics; Real Men [by Sally Ashton]

A good poet friend, Nils Peterson, recently lent me an out of print gem. Perhaps some remember the book since it was in print in the early 1960’s and likely has hung around in many poets’ bookshelves long since the way it has in Nils’ (along with a good many other out of print gems, that emeritus elf). The Contemporary Poet as Artist and Critic edited by Anthony Ostroff is subtitled as Eight Symposia and proves to be just that, an intelligent and revealing meeting of opinion. Each symposium is comprised of three poets’ critiques to a “recent” poem of an “important contemporary,” followed by the author’s own response to the poem and to the peer commentary. What an intelligent idea! As Ostroff remarks in his 1964 foreword, “the scheme introduces something new in literary criticism,” that is, “calling upon poets to perform the essential critical task.” Which puts me in mind of the Foreword to this year’s Best of.

While 1964 no longer serves as contemporary, the list of participating poets is stellar and to which I do a disservice by merely highlighting: Auden to Berryman to Bogan, Deutsch to Dickey to Justice, Kunitz to Lowell to Miles, Ransom, Rich, Roethke and Rukeyser. A regular pantheon! (please forgive me for those I left off). Is there another recent if not contemporary collection similar to this in its intent? Ostroff’s symposia prove to be a superbly illuminating and enjoyable set of conversations by some of the most-admired 20^th century+ poets who thoughtfully consider the work of their peers for the purpose of understanding instead of ranking (or should I say rankling). How civilized! Imagine! I have yet to read all the entries, but I found this author’s response speaks as volubly into our contemporary moment.

Richard Wilbur speaks to the critique of his poem, “Love Calls Us to the Things of This World” as given by May Swenson, Robert Horan, and Richard Eberhart. “…I can only say that it is good to be so thoroughly understood. However troubled by the desire to please, poets soon come to ignore most of the criticism they receive; approval or condemnation are not interesting in the absence of understanding...(these three poets) have been willing to perform the humble, fundamental task of criticism—the interpretation of the work in the light of its apparent intention. Three critics would not have been so modest or so penetrating.” The appreciation in his words is understandably palpable. And unfortunately still contemporary. Wilbur goes on another good four pages specifically answering their critique with civility and equal insight. It’s kind of like watching My Dinner with Andre. Somewhere in the midst you realize how rare true conversation has become.

 At a minimum, find yourself a copy (me first!), but perhaps some other remarkably generous editor can put together a similar symposia with similarly inclined poets. And if someone decides to pursue a symposia as practiced by the ancient Greeks, some “convivial meeting for drinking, music, and intellectual discussion,” can I please get on the invitation list? That’s my idea of good times.

Richard Wilbur's poem referred to above, "Love Calls Us to the Things of This World" speaks of angels and love and I think particularly appropriate to this season so I've included it beyond the extended entry, below. I hope you enjoy its mysteries as I have.

And as for real men? See ya tomorrow for that one.

Speaking of Rejection [by Sally Ashton]

Speaking as an editor speaking of rejection I will say this. Rejection involves the Golden Rule: it is better to give than to receive. You didn't really expect me to say the opposite, did you? Anyone who has risked rejection by submitting a piece of writing knows the spectacular if momentary rush of success and satisfaction that comes upon opening an acceptance letter or email. So too on the other end of emotion's spectrum when your work is rejected: deflation, discouragement, frustration. Etc. And it doesn't really help that a given editorial team "particularly admired" a certain piece. If they admire it, why don't they just go ahead and publish it? Let's not enter that quagmire, but I will say that saying a poem "came close" may offer some distant encouragement to some poets, and some lessening of angst to some editors who offer such small comfort, but in the short term that's all it is. Small. Very small and very Unsatisfying. And No, No Comfort.

I've never had the experience summed up any better than in this fine poem by Marjorie Manwaring first published in the DMQ Review where Manwaring was subsequently invited to join the editorial team. Anyone with the ability to render this particularly nasty but necessary (?) experience so wittily as a poet is someone you want as an editor.

Rejection Letter from Gertrude Stein

Dear Poet Dear Author Dear Someone

We are pleased very pleased

To regret sir.

Regret to inform you the list for

Talents selected not you dear.

So many many and many

Many talents not you dear.

Received many fine not you.

Thank you extremely fine thank you.

Keep us I mind please keep us.

Please keep

Your submission in mind.

Entries so fine many fine

Winners selected not you.

Not you. Not quite

What we need

At this time not quite.

Keep in mind best of luck next time.

Editors wish you this guideline.

Best of selected regret.

Not chosen you were not able.

We inform our regret.

We reject your receive.

We receive we regret. Inform you we do.

We do as we do.

Today: To do: Don’t forget.

Difficult choice we regret.

Space an issue weren’t able. Limited

Space unable.

Please

Accept this issue

Our complimentary

Gift to you.

Letterpressed gift in which you

Do not appear we regret you.

We regret to reject with respect

Please accept. Do

Not not accept

This reject

If you do

If you do

With respect

With respect

We reject you.

 

-by Marjorie Manwaring

Speaking of Editors [by Sally Ashton]

But first—woooooooot! Just JUST finished teaching my last class of the semester. That’s the last of it for this meat grinder. Okay, okay. No more sausage. And I do have something more serious to consider today. It’s Monday, afterall. But once you get started with a metaphor, it’s so hard to let it go.

 As editor of a poetry journal, the DMQ Review, I must admit the first thing I read in any new issue of the annual Best American Poetry Anthology, once I’ve scanned the list of names on the back cover for my own personal favorites, is the pair of introductions to each volume. These introductions, the guest editor’s and the series editor’s, are always must-reads. In his, David Lehman offers both an introduction to the guest editor as well as an incisive “year in review” look at the world of poetry, its trends and trend-setters. Never afraid of the Big Questions or the hot topic, Lehman opens this year’s consideration asking, “What is a poet?”

The guest editor, on the other hand, must provide a rationale—if not defense—as to why she or he is naming these poems “Best” out of all the poems published in a year, as well as why he or she feels qualified to make such determinations. Tricky and instructive. This year, I am particularly intrigued with guest editor David Wagoner’s introduction to Best American Poetry 2009. Wagoner doesn’t shy away from the hard questions either, asking at one point, “What is a poem?” Between the two of them, these editors are taking nothing for granted!

What I found really fascinating was the submission test Wagoner put himself through during his guest-editing stint in order to gauge current response times, effectively asking why can’t poetry editors make up their minds sooner!?! He relates how on December 1, 2007, he submitted poems to fifty American magazines, and 13 months later had not heard back from almost a fifth of them! Nine journals still had not responded! This is news most poets could have provided themselves, but coming from the founding editor of Poetry Northwest, this is news indeed. Did he use a pseudonym, for chrissake? When he was still serving as editor, Wagoner says his own policy was to reply in a month. This made me wish I’d submitted to Poetry Northwest before! 

Editors are often writers, too, and know both sides of this conundrum, making those who don’t respond to their contributors within some “reasonable” time frame seem less than compassionate. At the DMQ, response time is typically 2 months. For us, a virtual team of far-flung editors, our method of collecting and distributing online submissions on a monthly basis doesn’t allow for a quicker turn-around. Submissions must be processed, distributed, reviewed, returned and re-processed. This takes untold hours. If our submissions suddenly doubled, there’s no way we could keep current response times without some serious restructuring. . .And we, like many journals, are an all-volunteer operation. The DMQ editorial team is a cracker-jack group of practicing poets, dedicated to getting work that isn’t their own published, and putting together a journal that we too will enjoy reading. I’d think that’s how most journals operate, whether hard copy or in the ether as we are.

So, fellow editors, what’s up? Back logged and short-staffed, underfunded or what funding? That’s my guess. And of course, many journals are produced as part of the academic year. But for those 10%ers out there…it’s good to rethink what we’re doing and how best to do it, to take care of both the poem and the poet.

(I’m serious; put that metaphor down).

The Sausage Factor [by Sally Ashton]

I know, I know. I’m writing this at the risk of being forever categorized as the blogger of processed meat. If you spend much time here at the Best American Poetry Blog, you will typically find at the bottom of an entry the suggestion “You might also like:” with 3 links to previous entries. I always wonder what those suggestions are based on, the profile of the visitor or the associations of the current posting? Likely the latter. However, often enough the blog-gods suggest that I might also like: the M-m-etc.-mortadella entry. Of course I would; I wrote it, AND I’m at least temporarily still crazy for Mortadella di Bologna (see said former entry).

And it’s strictly coincidental that my introduction to this week of guest-blogging should once again veer toward a meat grinder’s product, but alas. Such is the case. Here at BAP, as it’s fondly referred to after typing the full name out a couple of times, we guest bloggers move freely from the highbrow to the lowbrow. I for one was swept off my feet by last week’s guest blogger Lera Auerbach’s engaging entries. What a stunning combination of reflection, music, photos and video. If you missed them, go back and catch up. I especially recommend the video documentary, Return to Dresden (yes, embedded right there). Brava Lera, and thanks. It was a remarkable week.

Besides Lera, Nin Andrews posted a bitch of a poem, and what could be hotter than a man in the kitchen (a man in a yurt??)—I ask you. As you can see, there’s always something to pique anyone’s interest here at BAP, from the sublime to the, er, sausage.

So as I considered how to dive into my own guest blogging stint, I was reminded of the story my good friend Rich tells about the time he ran for the school board in our community. One evening during the campaign, the candidates were given the opportunity to give speeches to the voters. Rich tells how the candidate before him got up and introduced himself. “Good evening. I’m George Buonocore. In Italian, buonocuore means good heart. If I’m elected that’s what you’ll get, a good heart.” I happened to have had this gentleman as a high school science teacher. I could picture him, tall, dark, doe-eyed, soft-spoken. Buonocuore to the core.

After his opponent had elaborated his strengths and strategies, Rich, also Italian but of stockier build, took the podium. “Good evening,” he said to the audience. “My name is Richard Salsiccia. Salsiccia. In Italian that means sausage.”

While ultimately he didn’t win the election, his good humor served him well. I’m looking forward to spending time here this coming week with the best of company, and like Rich, serving up what I can.

See you tomorrow, PST.

The Trouble Clef – Moment in Time [by Lera Auerbach]

I am drawing happy little people of many colors. They are dancing next to a brown house with a small window. Above the house the sun and the moon are side by side with light blue clouds and big stars. Smoke rises from the house's chimney to the sun – evidently Alichka's cake for the little people is baking. There is grass around the house. I carefully draw each blade of grass. Among the blades of grass there are flowers of many colors, like the people, and big, like the stars. The people are dancing and laughing.

I am sitting in a chair with my legs tucked under me. On the wall there is an enormous magnetic chessboard with a game in progress. My brother Igor sits for days on end at the large table opposite the chessboard as he prepares to enter the university in impregnable Moscow. My nanny, Marianna, sits on a stool in the kitchen and knits little rugs out of old rags. I can hear her talking in Polish to the cat Kos, her only listener –she's sharing memories of her youth. She's wearing a black apron, tied in a knot in the back, which I always untie, after choosing just the right moment, and then duck the inevitable slaps. I am drawing little people of many colors and I am smiling. My little people are the happiest people on earth. They are dancing and also smiling from ear to ear – the happiest smiles. The sun is yellow (the yellow color of a newly born chick), the moon is light blue, the dancing people are happy and from the chimney the aroma of Alichka's cake drifts toward the sun. The big stars are reflected in the flowers in the yard in front of the house.

  Listen: What is Music?  [From Songs for Children by Lera Auerbach]

I run to show my drawing to Mama. "Mama, look!" After taking a look at the drawing, Mama asks, "Why are they fighting?" "Who?" I ask, not understanding. "The people. Aren't they fighting? And why do they have such angry faces? And look, the house is leaning, it's going to collapse. And then you can't have the sun and moon in the sky at the same time." "Those aren't angry faces, they aren't fighting, but exactly the opposite, and the house isn't falling down, but is flying, and the moon married the sun and now they can live together in the sky!" I'm practically crying."Oh, so that's the way it is... Well, then I understand," Mama agrees to make me feel better, after seeing how distraught I am. But that doesn't work with me. How could it be that Mama thinks that my happy, dancing little people are fighting? I look at my drawing and it seems wonderful to me, more wonderful than ever before: yellow sun, blue moon, stars, flowers and happy little people. But a shadow of doubt has crept into my heart.

I forget about the drawing, but several days later I come across it when I'm leafing through my album. The little people with the monstrous gashes of their mouths that run from ear to ear, grimaces of either anger or disappointment, have frozen in awkward poses – they're fighting or arguing. The brown house is at a slant – it's going to collapse on them at any moment. The column of black smoke from the chimney is propped against the sun. The thorny grass is like needles between which the varicolored smudges are supposed to be flowers. In the sky hangs an absolutely incongruous light blue plate, apparently the moon, and big, sharply pointed flourishes represent the stars. 

I study the drawing with horror. Where has the world of wonderful, dancing little people with the happy smiles gone? These grotesque monsters don't have anything to do with it. Nevertheless, this was my drawing. What has happened? I cry inconsolably, my tears run on the paper in varicolored smudges, and the world of happy little people that has nothing at all in common with my picture floats away on the river of losses to the shores of memory in order to be saved by memory in the primordial world.

Only children are given to cry over true tragedy and to know bliss.
 

View: Children Drawings of the Spanish Civil War 

__________

Brain-teaser [Day 1] Answer:    
 

Brain-teaser [Day 2]: What do these ten words have in common? 
cookie • cosmic • cues • moose • mummy

muse • quick • squeaky  • wages • yes

Your Brain on Turkey & Fixings [by Martha Silano]

How does your brain function the day after a holiday focused around eating and drinking? My brain does not function well, but despite this I am still managing to, though barely able to sit up, have quite a bit on my mind on this day that’s come to be known as Black Friday.

First and foremost, I am thinking about a holiday focused around eating and drinking (is there a U.S. holiday not focused around massive amounts of consumption?). 

Not to say that other societies don’t have their eating and drinking extravaganzas. For instance, I thought Ramadan was a one-month fast-o-rama -(dana) until one of my Eng 101 students recently explained to me that most Muslims actually gain weight during Ramadan. Why? Because while the daylight hours are a vast and solemn culinary void, once dusk hits it’s chow time.

What’s on the menu? After savoring a single date, it’s time to tuck into a bowl of thick, sweet or savory soup (halim in Pakistan, India, and Iran; kashka in Iraq and Turkey). Between gulping down that broth-y wonder and dawn’s early light there’s Tunisian lamb with saffron, stews of all sorts (lamb and eggplant, chicken and pomegranate, and beef lentil, to name a few), Arab pancakes, sweet rice pudding with saffron, and encouragement to eat one’s weight in dried fruits and nuts marinated in sugar and rosewater, the better to stave off hunger pangs the following day.

Starve/gorge/starve/gorge/starve gorge: this goes on for 30 days. How could one not have to loosen one’s belt at least one notch after a month of being deprived all day and then welcomed to a table of delectable goodness?

However, this new-found knowledge that Muslims enjoy supping as grandly as your average Texan is not leading me to dismiss the spiritually empty way many, many Westerners “do” holidays. I’m not saying all Westerners, but I’m thinking of the 25 percent who reportedly hit the Black Friday sales between 5 am and noon today. What do I have against them? Well, individually, probably nothing at all. I mean, if Bekka needs a Mac for college, then by golly Bekka should drive down to Tigard, Oregon (tax free Oregon) on Thanksgiving night and sleep in the parking lot till the Mac Store’s doors fling open at 5 am. She should save hundreds of dollars on a big-ticket item she otherwise could not afford. Go, Bekka! Really. But nearly 100 million other Americans also getting up early and hightailing it to the Target or Toys-r-Us or WalMart at the crack of dawn? That’s when I start to wonder what kind of a culture I live in.

During Ramadan, practicing Muslims wake up and return to the table just before sunrise to down a hearty bean soup meant, along with the dried fruits and nuts, to sustain them till the rager continues when the sun next slips below the horizon. Meanwhile, on Thanksgiving night, Westerners stumble into bed after the second or third round of dessert and a nightcap. But while both Muslim and Westerner might need to down a couple of Alka-Seltzers during the night, when the sunlight glints off a Muslim’s frying pan it’s time to pray for guidance and ask for forgiveness; it’s time to fast yet another day for the sake of God and for purification.

But what time is it for Westerners? Time to hit Hickory Farms! Okay, you might argue, many Americans are living on tight budgets but still want to exchange Christmas gifts. Why not take advantage of door-busting markdowns? I get it; I get it, yes. And it’s good for the economy. I just can’t help but feel we made a fatal error somewhere along the way. I’m not preaching some sort of back to the good old days—not that at all—but that perhaps the day after Thanksgiving should be more than a day of mall worship. Why not make it a day of service? A day to (on the way to the mall?) drop a bag of canned goods at the local food bank? I know I can do this myself and keep it quiet, but I wouldn’t mind having the President remind its citizens that the Friday after Thanksgiving might be a good day to, along with perhaps procuring Aunt Cindy the newest watchamacallit for her gizmo, take some time for introspection, maybe even for reminding folks that giving thanks shouldn’t be a once-a-year occurrence.

Poem for Thanksgiving

HUNGER
(by Samik)

    Eskimo

You, stranger, who only see us happy and free of care,
If you knew the horrors we often have to live through
you would understand our love of eating and singing and dancing.
There is not one among us
who hasn’t lived through a winter of bad hunting
when many people starved to death.
We are never surprised to hear
that someone has died of starvation – we are used to it.
And they are not to blame: Sickness comes,
or bad weather ruins hunting,
as when a blizzard of snow hides the breathing holes.

I once saw a wise old man hang himself
because he was starving to death
and preferred to die in his own way.
But before he died he filled his mouth with seal bones,
for that way he was sure to get plenty of meat
in the land of the dead.

Once during the winter famine
a woman gave birth to a child
while people lay round about her dying of hunger.
What could the baby want with life here on earth?
And how could it live when its mother herself
was dried up with starvation?
So she strangled it and let it freeze.
And later on ate it to keep alive—
Then a seal was caught and the famine was over,
so the mother survived.
But from that time on she was paralyzed
because she had eaten part of herself.

This is what can happen to people.
We have gone through it ourselves
And know what one may come to, so we do not judge them.
And how would anyone who has eaten his fill and is well
be able to understand the madness of hunger?

We only know that we all want so much to live!

Mark Bibbins On Where Poems Start & Backing Away from the Stinky Dead Beast aka Confessional Narrative [by Martha Silano]

I'm drawn to Mark Bibbins' work because he is not a confessional poet, and also because linear narratives do not seem to be exceedingly important to him. He is, of course, not the first contemporary poet to move away from confessional narrative, but what stands out about Bibbins' work (at least for me) are three things: his attention to and aptitude with sound/rhyme, his use of word play, and the unexpected forms his poems take. Here the author answers questions about his new book, The Dance of No Hard Feelings (Copper Canyon 2009).

MS: You state in your 2009 BAP contributor note that “Concerning the Land to the South of Our Neighbors to the North” gained its foothold when the final line of the poem (“Connecticut! We’re sawing you in half.”) popped into your head.  Is it common for you to get first (or last) lines in your head, triggers that coalesce into poems? Or do poems come to you elsewise?

MB: For me a poem starts with a phrase or a sentence that arrives, usually without warning or preparation, then the rest grows around that. Some wind up as titles, others beginnings or endings; most change their minds and move around as it’s coming together.  I certainly wouldn’t have sat down to write a poem “about” America, as my level of ambition is pretty low. I prefer to let something besides that direct a poem toward or around its subject(s).

MS: Speaking of “Concerning the Land . . .,” it’s a wonderful poem on the first go, but, at least for me,  it only gets better with each re-reading. Can you share a bit about the making of this poem? Did the Necco wafers and New Jersey’s queer shoulder come quickly to you, or did it take several throws to get each state just right? Also, how conscious were you that each state’s stanza is gazelle-ishly distinct? Did anyone read a rough draft, and if so were there any suggestions for revision?

MB: A handful of states came during a train ride through the Nutmeg State, and I picked up again after returning home a few days later—it happened quickly, and the conceit really hustled it along. I like hearing of odd events and foods and landmarks that places are “known for.” It’s preposterous and sweet, sometimes creepy. Also arbitrary, which is why I felt entitled to fabricate, and why it didn’t always matter what information was attached to which state (New Jersey and Ginsberg being, as they so often are, exceptions).

Nobody saw a draft of it. The wonderful Danielle Pafunda had offered to consider something of mine for La Petite Zine, which she was coediting, and I’m grateful for her consideration. I usually don’t show poems to anyone until I feel I’ve finished writing and revising them, which isn’t to imply that I haven’t been given good advice in the past. Nor do I mean to separate the processes of writing and revision.

MS: The Dance of No Hard Feelings is a delightful read, mainly because of its striking use of language (“ice javelins our throats”), its word play (we fly [fly] / will fly / should fly /will have flown / are flying apart”), and its gritty/urban walking-around-on-a-golf-course feel. There’s so much fire and ice in this book—boiling seas and firey angels; snow and ice and freezing. Is the world going to end in fire or in ice?

MB: Right now I suspect it will end in paperwork. That, or water—abundance and/or lack thereof. But the earth won't be ending. It will be editing.


MS: In these poems you seem to continually resist and give into narrative, into a speaker with a past, present and future. What’s your relationship with narrative poetry? Is the confessional poem, or the I poem in general, an old, hairy, dead beast to back away from as quickly as possible?

MB: A quick look at my bookshelves reveals very little narrative or confessional poetry, assuming I understand what you mean by those terms—is “The Day Lady Died” narrative poetry? an I poem? I like it when poems surprise me, and a lot of what falls into the above categories doesn’t do that, mainly because of the style in which they’re executed, not their content. As old as this debate is, it seems the dead beast isn’t going anywhere; that doesn’t mean I want to hover over it, sniffing it and describing the stink.

MS: Explain your use of brackets.

MB: Phantom opportunities.

MS: I enjoyed “Forcefield”—it’s hard to write about breaking up, and you do it well here ([no succor / no syntax / no sleep]. I have to be honest, though: I don’t think I would have enjoyed an entire book of these space-ful, language-y-conscious type poems. A few good ones of this ilk, okay, I’m fine with that. And yet, you seem comfy wearing many different aesthetic hats. Incidentally, are you and Ashbery tight? Which poets have influenced you the most?

MB: I wouldn't want a whole book of those either—thanks? To me they seem less about breaking up than enacting or embodying a kind of brokenness. I have no idea who or what's influenced me the most; there are so many people and things, and I don’t like to rank them, but I enjoy Gertrude Stein and My Bloody Valentine a great deal (whenever I’m asked that question, I can’t help naming bands). John Ashbery’s writing has amazed me for many years, and I’m happy to call him a friend.

MS: How did LIT magazine come about? Do you enjoy that part of being a poet? Who reads the slush pile? Does being an editor hinder or help your own writing?

MS: We hatched it when I was a student at The New School; the faculty and administration were very supportive in getting it going. We drummed up work for the first two issues mostly by solicitation, and my tenure as poetry editor officially ended before there was much of a slush pile. Current graduate students and the alumni who serve as editors now read the submissions, and I remain safely “at large.” My editorial experiences have mostly been helpful, although I edited fiction reviews at a magazine for a couple of years, which wasn’t.  
 

MS: Finally, the $10,000 question: How did you go from being a kid in love with words (correct me if I’m wrong on that) to Best American Poet? What’s the recipe for best-ness?

MB: You’re certainly not wrong, although a lot of the time I still feel like a kid (not always a great thing). Not following recipes has informed both my successes and failures. Sorry if that’s a $10 answer. Do you need change?

Ed note:  Read another interview with Mark Bibbins here.  Find a schedule of his upcoming readings here.

Pre-Thanksgiving Emergency Situation Narrowly Averted [by Martha Silano]

Everyone’s gathered at the gourd-festooned table. The TV is momentarily turned to OFF, the carved turkey and gravy boat are beckoningly steaming.  That’s right: It’s time to bust out the Poem o Thanks. But OH NO! You forgot to write a poem of thanks, or even do a Google search for a poem of thanks. Hark! Heck! You’re without a poem of thanks!

Have no fear that this will be your T-day nightmare because you have Martha’s quick and easy, handy-dandy reference guide for the perfect Turkey-time poesy. Here come Thomas Lux, Ronald Wallace, John Berryman, Charles Simic, Anne Sexton, and Joy Harjo to the rescue. Now you can belt out a poem or two (see below), sit back, and enjoy some good old American-type face stuffing.  Maybe you'll even convince yourself, as the wine and cranberry sauce flow freely, that you'll write your very own thanks poem next year. Clink! Crunch! Burp! 

POEM IN THANKS - Thomas Lux

Lord Whoever, thank you for this air
I'm about to in- and exhale, this hutch
in the woods, the wood for fire,
the light–––both lamp and the natural stuff
of leaf-black fern, and wing.
For the piano, the shovel
for ashes, the moth-gnawed 
blankets, the stone-cold water
stone-cold: thank you.
Thank you, Lord, coming for
to carry me here–––where I'll gnash
it out, Lord, where I'll calm
and work, Lord, thank you
for the goddamn birds singing!

BLESSINGS - Ronald Wallace

occur.
Some days I find myself
putting my foot in
the same stream twice;
leading a horse to water
and making him drink.
I have a clue.
I can see the forest
for the trees.

All around me people
are making silk purses
out of sows' ears,
getting blood from turnips,
building Rome in a day.
There's a business
like show business.
There's something new
under the sun.

Some days misery
no longer loves company;
it puts itself out of its.
There's rest for the weary.
There's turning back.
There are guarantees.
I can be serious.
I can mean that.
You can quite
put your finger on it.

Some days I know
I am long for this world.
I can go home again.
And when I go
I can
take it with me.

John Berryman's "Address to the Lord"

Charles Simic's "Summer  Morning" 

Anne Sexton's "Welcome Morning"

Joy Harjo's "Perhaps the World Ends Here"