Tupelo 30/30: We Need to Build Bridges Instead of Walls

Dear Reader, 

I'm here. At the end, which is just another beginning. 

Let me start by thanking you, again, for following the blog, reading the poems, and supporting me in word and with donation. I've learned so much about myself and my poetry in the past month. I've written 39 poems in 39 days. I've written when I was too tired or uninspired or terribly sad. I wrote when I had no words in my head. 

I've learned that I write best if I record an audio draft whatever idea/images/themes I'm considering. I don't self-censor when I'm talking to myself (even when neighbors see me chatting into my iPhone), and when I have a mass of text, I can find the best language/images and draft from there. 

I need that mass of text. I need to trust myself more. I needed this month to remember that I'm a *real* writer. The daily drafting made my art a tangible part of my life. I don't think I could have done this during the semester, at least not while I still have a toddler at home 4/7 days a week. And I am so grateful to Sundress Academy for the Arts and Rivendell Writers' Colony for offering me residencies during part of May and June. 

I have more to say about this experience, but I need time to process it. I think I've spent more than my share of words in the past 30 days. 

That said, I want to acknowledge the amazing poetry community I returned to in South Jersey. I facilitate the World Above reading series at Stockton University's Dante Hall in Atlantic City, NJ. Last night, we an exceptional reading: soulful. A word I rarely use. 

Despite all of the intolerance and violence in the world, our amazing community of wonderfully diverse people shared some of the most heart-felt poems I have ever witnessed. Our featured poet was Sham-e-Ali Nayeem, who shared her beautiful and sublime poems. The theater buzzed with a shared sense of love and loss. I feel so fortunate to call this writing community my poetry community. Thank you, friends. 

My final poem for the Tupelo 30/30 project is written in response to fellow SJ poet Belinda Manning's theme and a title donated by one of my favorite colleagues Francis Nzuki. It's a poem that thinks about how busy we are and how important it is to slow down and to connect, and how once we do this, we might find a greater purpose for our lives. 

Here is an excerpt from "We Need to Build Bridges Instead of Walls" (read the full poem on Tupelo Press' 30/30 blog): 

"Nobody’s innocent.

I, too, been running around like a mad woman,

which is to say I think I’m superhuman, which is say

I’m human. It wasn’t about eating the apple or tossing the core

into the compost pile. The body knows self-preservation best.

Will kick and thrash to rise to surface before it goes weak.

What if the conscious is the ghost of a girl drowned?

If we stay under long enough to listen we might not surface

the same. Sometimes when I sit still the thrushes forget I’m here

and will return to their song, the call and response

of their daily lives, because there are worms and mouths to feed." 

Reader, thank you for everything. I am so grateful for your support. 

I plan to offer a follow-up post and to share excerpts of drafts, publication news, and offer fun poetry news. 

Thank you for supporting me. You don't know how much I needed you.

Yours in poetry,

Emari

Tupelo 22/30: What Is There to Be Learned

Dear Reader, 

I will let you in on a secret. Yesterday was actually my 30th poem in 30 days because I started my own poem-a-day practice on May 23rd at Sundress Academy for the Arts at Firefly Farms. And today, as if my brain/body knew I had *met* some arbitrary numerical goal, I really struggled with writing a poem. Or it's possible that because I have so many titles/prompts to work with (thank you, my dear friends) that I don't know where to start and end up starting too many at a time, like I did this morning. 

Let's try a poem titled "Not Dead But Dead Set on Dying" (a title I love)...false start, sludge, scrap. Try again. Let's try a major revision of an old, failed poem with this new title "Breakfast at the Oasis" (another wonderful title)...blah, boring, bored with myself. Try again. 

Today's poem is after Larry Levis' "My Story in a Late Style of Fire," and it uses a title donated by my long-time best friend Lisa Hardy, who I love like a sister. 

Yesterday, one of my fellow Tupelo poets

posted on Facebook that she had a moment of clarity/realization that she is at the midpoint of her life (she contextualized this by saying that there is no way to prove this but that it was just a sudden strong thought). Similarly, on a six-mile walk two days ago, I was thinking about the span of my own life, and at 35, if I am lucky (and I mean that, I like living), I am one-third through this life (that's banking on the best of my good genes & older folks living into their 90s, modern medicine, and the mostly reasonable lifestyle choices I make). Like my fellow Tupelo poet, there's no way to prove this. Or if there is, I'm not privy to that technology. But it was a thought and that thought led to how much I've yet to learn and what I choose to keep in this life. So I think this poem wrestles with the choices we make, loneliness, and wanting to offer our best selves to those we love. 

Here is an excerpt from "What Is There to Be Learned" (read the full poem on Tupelo Press' 30/30 blog): 

"...If I am honest

with myself I love the way a substation sounds

like the ocean. Today the clouds look like x-rays

of a fractured skull and I understand wanting to stand

in the middle of the track, to jump from the trestle.

Like Levis and Holiday, like you, I’d like to make some

dignity out of loneliness, and if keep using the conditional

there’s a chance it will happen, right?" 

I cannot thank you enough for following this blog and for sharing your kindness. After my recent group email, I have too many title requests. I am going to have to write a longer poem with separate section titles. I don't know how I'm going to do that, but I will try. Of course, you can still give me five words, pick a topic/theme (though it may only be part of the poem now), provide me with a formal challenge, reserve a chapbook, or make some other request! 

Please see my first posting for incentive amounts and make your way to the Tupelo Press donation page. Be sure to select my name from the scroll down tab titled "Is this donation in honor of a 30/30 poet?" After you've donated, be sure to email (edigiorgio@gmail.com) or Facebook message me your requests. I don't want to miss your request!

Also, if you're enjoyed reading poetry this month, you might consider a subscription to Tupelo. You'll receive 9 books for $99, which is a steal! You can also *gift* this subscription to someone else (including me!)...I have friends and students who would be delighted to be the recipient. 

Yours in poetry,

Emari

Tupelo 5/30: What Lies Beyond Rescue

Dear Reader, 

Today's poem is written in response to a title by my dear friend, the poet Cindy Arrieu-King, offered after donating to Tupelo Press. 

It prompted me to explore/define "wreckage," and though my audio draft led me to some tricky cultural/political material, in the end I decided to stick with what felt closest to the bone. 

In the transcription of my audio draft, I wrote "I want to believe there is nothing that lies beyond rescue. That we might troll the river and find a family of beavers nursing the young boy who’d gone missing. Though I too understand lost causes, or maybe I don’t." Ultimately, these lines didn't find their way in the poem, but I think this is what the poem is about: wanting to be rational, but unable to shake a deep-rooted hope. 

I'm traveling today, returning from two weeks as a resident at Sundress Academy for the Arts (SAFTA) at the quiet and grounding Firefly Farms. 

Here's an excerpt from "What Lies Beyond Rescue" (read the full poem here):


"Spent rocket stages, paint flakes

and frozen coolant in Earth’s low orbit.

Ed White’s lost glove gathering speed.

An eye that’s scratched beyond repair.
The thing that’s gone too far past
a sink’s drain hatch, though a friend

retrieved his son’s stuffed humpback
who’d fallen in the open sewer cap."

If you would like to title one of my poems, select five words for a poem, give me a potential theme/topic, offer a formal challenge, or receive a chapbook at the end of this project, please see my first posting for incentive amounts and make your way to the Tupelo Press donation page. Be sure to select my name from the scroll down tab titled "Is this donation in honor of a 30/30 poet?" 
For those of you who have already selected your incentives, I will be delivering those poems shortly.

Yours in poetry,

Emari

Tupelo 1/30: Angel of Assassination

Dear reader,

A few weeks ago, I spent the morning at Ventnor Coffee and reread my recently accepted manuscript The Things a Body Might Become (forthcoming 2017, ELJ Editions).

Working on a second manuscript has helped me think more critically about how the first one works, and though I still believe that the first book is about how women, in particular, negotiate a dangerous world, I discovered that the collection was also exploring the nature of belief–religious/spiritual, political, personal.

Like I have outlined for my current manuscript-in-progress, I decided to list other poem themes that might be good additions to this first book. Some of the themes are in conversation with pre-existing poems, some are new angles.

Fast forward to this past week, where I've been a resident at the Sundress Academy for the Arts (SAFTA) at Firefly Farms. Here, I've had time to research many of these topics, including historical/political female assassins.

Though I've found myself interested in several of their lives, I was particularly drawn to Charlotte Corday. She was well read/educated and believed that Marat was responsible for the most violent threads of the Reign of Terror. I was also interested in the story that a man on the guillotine platform, possibly a carpenter, slapped her freshly decapitated face. That was the seed of the poem.

After writing some notes on an index card, I slept on it, and in the morning I recorded an audio draft on my iPhone during a walk. The notes from the audio draft led to "Angel of Assassination," excerpted here:

"...Hands bound, detached

below; if her tongue still flapped, she’d

spit Plutarch’s credo. The six-inch blade

of a woman's spite." 

This is the first day. And I will disclose that I'm nervous about putting something just-formed into the world. Already, as I sit down to work on my next draft-in-progress, the old ghosts of insecurity are rattling my cage. Shush, I say, shush. 

Cheer me on, friends. I know I can do it, but it helps to hear someone else's voice too. And consider any of the poem perks in the last post to help shape the course of my work this month. 

Love to you all.

Yours in poetry,

Emari