Young Pups

Our friend Robert, holding the new pup Elimae.

Jocelyn, holding the almost-new pup Sylvia.

Water Log

We'll call Summer 2010 the Water Log. So much and yet so little going on. I feel like a woman waiting patiently for no one to arrive. In between the raindrops and the oil reports, I've been reading many so-so books of poetry. There are a few exceptions, which I've posted, but mostly it's, why post the so-so? I've been writing, too, but my writing also feels so-so, or not quite authentic, or something along those lines. Apathy might be the word I'm looking for.

Despite the rain and the apathy, however, I've been walking the dogs. After we put Max behind us, we adopted another Pet Refuge dog, a s36-pound slip of a girl, sweet and loving, nine months old, without an agressive bone in her body, unless you're a fly. She is Elimae. She and Sylvia the Weim and I have been tearing up the walking paths twice a day. I can't be sure, but I think my butt may be acquiring some tone.

I've also become intrigued by Twitter, not necessarily the tweeting part, but the being tweeted. I found the The Poetry Channel a few days ago, which apparently has all sorts of videos of poets reading. It might be worth a perusal. Here's today's offering: Michael Rosen. I appreciate his passion, you know, his animation.

Today I'm writing a poem that features Paul Bunyan and Little Bo Peep in a Peach Orchard. That's how the summer is going to go.

Mathias & Trembling

A few weeks ago I went on a book buying binge, ordering some 20-odd new and used titles, but family life has been so busy I haven't really had time to talk about the treasures I've found. I think now, however, I have a moment to take a poetic turn.

Louise Mathias has a new chap out, Above All Else, the Trembling Resembles a Forest, from Burnside Review Press. The entire chap is wonderful, but I suppose the following is my favorite. So hard to choose!

Sea Crimes

Now listen to me good. To be dreaming
of the cove, the light pink cottage
that was always on the edge. This being the year

my jeans fell from my frame. You said I was close to God
but he wouldn't concur. Weeds

grew up on bales of clean white salt. All summer
everyone wondered

where I lived, watched the carpenter ants on the rocks.
When I wasn't in my body, I was dead. Cops

circled, paraphernalia swirled
inside my lonely purse.

There was nothing to do but wait.
Contraband, will you
turn to silk again? Tilt his white, Atlantic
throat up

to the shy shy-eyed puffins?

Beach Stones

The weather gods favored us during the five days Tom was home.

The clouds parted and the temperature dropped into bearable range.

We were able to make our annual trip to the Central Avenue Beach

The Indiana Dunes National Lakeshore.

At 11 a.m., we were the only ones there.

Jocelyn is the stone skipper.

Tom is the stone retriever.

Today's Forecast

Nat Mayer Shapiro

Rabbit Light Movies

I found this poetry link on Zachary Schomburg's site: Rabbit Light Movies. Enjoy.