An art exhibition Saturday at the Meat Market Gallery in Dupont—Lisa Blas’s “Meet Me at the Mason Dixon.” It was small, but reasonably varied as Blas works in different media—it consisted of four paintings, about eight prints and an “installation” wall: a collage, a kind of large workbook that leads her through what she’s thinking about. While I really enjoyed hearing the artist talk about the exhibition, I was struck by a sense that without this wall of material, the exhibition would feel adrift. And though Blas now feels that the wall collage is “finished” it’s the one piece not for sale. I sometimes wonder about these types of installation pieces, because to move them involves a disassembly—without even going into the conservation nightmare (practical impossibility?) involved with the handful of newspaper clippings. But then, even as a “finished” piece, it’s transitory nature is what makes it so charming, and fascinating. She had a few pieces of text—on in particular, braiding biographical details of three historical figures whose lives had led them to areas around the Mason-Dixon line. This braiding as a form struck me as useful—both for thinking about the structure of the exhibition, but also potentially as something to explore for myself. (Good poets borrow, great poets…) I’m sure my father would be pleased that I chose an exhibition with Civil War associations rather than just any old exhibition!

I vanquished Sir Walter Scott last night, which leads me—delightedly—to George Eliot and Daniel Deronda. This last book of the semester for National Identity and the Nineteenth Century Novel. It is one I haven’t read before, though I am crazy for George Eliot. Somehow, I just didn’t get there. So—it’s a treat, although it will also be fairly intense reading loading with that alongside study for the final papers for Milton and Contemporary Poetry (or, as I more often think of latter, “Gewanter”). Reading poetry in my spare time—Lorca. Beautiful.

"A mosaic is a conversation with what is broken"

–Terry Tempest Williams

Looking at this morning's leonine post, I'd like to publish an online illustrated Milton. Especially with the animals. Also, reread creation. We have dominion over fish, and mammals that creep on the land. Whales and other sea mammals must be exempt.

How satisfying! I’ve begun what I guess will have to be my last series of ripping apart my manuscript. (Someone just has to take it away from me soon… That’s hopefully in the pipeline.) Looking at it now, ruthlessly, it’s so fun to wield the scalpel. Take this out, extract that stanza… I’m really glad, now, that I didn’t publish it before now. I feel like I’ve learned all these new ways of looking at poems recently, and that’s been so good for me.

When I caught up with Elena Knox—gosh! over a week ago—I was delighted to hear that her book looks like it’s also in the pipeline. She’s been on a train overnight from Chicago, and (from what I remember) had been working on edits during that trip, as well as, more generally, while she’s been in the States. Apparently an Australian editor had looked at her book, told her he liked it, thought it was great—couldn’t publish it. “It’ll sell 20 copies in Australia.” So, she’s been talking to an American publisher. Elena and I met several years ago at Varuna, the Writers’ House in the Blue Mountains (and, really, a little oasis) when we were there for a mentorship program during an absolutely delicious week of poetry. Our fellow-poets Ivy Alvarez and Kathryn Lomer have published their books already—Kathryn, precocious lady!, has published two volumes of poetry and a novel—so it’s nice that their stable buddies are slowly making good on the process too.

Is it cheating if, unable to find a poem from the Marshall Islands, I choose to use a myth instead? I’ve found a lovely one. But I’ve got over a month before my Independence Day hunt for poems from this particular nation of Oceania becomes pressing. In the mean time, I’m backing up the effort with the myth. I’m holding it in reserve.

Spoke to a friend who is fluent in Portuguese—I’d like to work in partnership with someone to do some translating. I don’t feel that any of my languages are fully up to the task—I can muddle my way through reading most Romance languages these days, but wouldn’t trust myself on a translation, except for some simpler Italian pieces. So it was time to find a helping hand. Or tongue, so to speak. Now I have to find something untranslated that I think it would be good to work on. The next step. I don’t know exactly when this will happen, but speaking to a translator last weekend, he said all I can really do is dive in—you’re never really “ready” as such. When are we ready for anything?

The grassy clods now calved, now half appeared
The tawny lion, pawing to get free
His hinder parts, then springs as broke from bonds,
And rampant shakes his brinded mane...

—Milton, Paradise Lost (VII, 463-466)

Rereading Anne Carson. I feel like I carried her so much with me for so long that I had to put her aside briefly—but returning to her. Returning to Decreation, which I only read the whole way through once. It’s such a pleasure.

Trying today to find the elusive David Gewanter. We said something about 1.30, but 1.30 and no Gewanter. Tried again an hour later—still no Gewanter. Maybe we’ll sit down to look at some of my poems tomorrow instead.

Have found a few art openings on over the weekend. Hopefully I will pop in to one or two of them.

Started thinking about Louise Brooks again this morning. Have been reading her essays, Lulu in Hollywood. I want to know if she wrote anything else. (I do plan to get a biography of her too.) It's such a shame that she destroyed the book she worked on for so long, Naked on my Goat - based on these pieces, it would have been well worth reading. I want to find the films of hers I haven't seen...

A nice surprise last night: within a few minutes of each other, emails from poets Adam Aitken and Chris Wallace-Crabbe arrived in my inbox. Adam is currently based in Cambodia—he’ll be back in Sydney later this year. So it was one poet-in-exile addressing another. And I was delighted to hear that he’ll have another book coming out soon with Giramondo. I came across his work when I was drawn to the cover of Romeo and Juliet in Subtitles, and, after taking it home, there was one poem that drew me into the book. Something to look out for—I guess I’ll be sending another wishlist home later this year, for books I can’t get here.

Then, Chris. Chris was one of my earliest mentors as a poet, and again I’m pleased to here that another book is forthcoming. A recent notification from ABR informed me that another selection from his diary was published in a recent issue—it made me wish that I could afford to be an international subscriber. If my book does end up working out, it will be in no small part because of his encouragement and assistance over the years. He must be one of the most generous poets in Australia, always willing to look over work and tell me when it’s “flat as a pancake.” (True—among the first ten or so poems I ever showed him, he liked a number of them; but one came back with this comment. I’ve valued his opinion ever since. I was especially proud when he told me I’d recent a quite-good terza rima.)

To top that off, Ella Holcombe sent me her first book, which appeared in last year’s New Poets series from Five Islands Press. I’m currently interviewing Ella, and am looking forward to reading the book, some other poems she sent with it, and writing about it here. It’s always lovely when a parcel arrives! On a purely superficial note, I’m so glad to see that Five Islands have shifted the series into a format that includes perfect binding and much better design. So often in the past, exciting new voices were buried in badly designed, stapled booklets.

Which has made it an even more poetry-filled week. Refreshing and exhausting—I wouldn’t have it any other way.

"The literature I love most is the literature of exile of ruins and the experience of exodus. I don’t know why but, for example, the Book of Exodus is very important to me—the wandering of the children of Israel has profound resonance for me. I don’t feel as if those stories are about a primitive tribe in some distant desert. That struggle for belief and faith in the face of humiliation, annihilation, apostasy—all that seems to me really what I go through and what we all go through, finally."

—Li-Young Lee, from the interview “A Well of Dark Waters” in Breaking the Alabaster Jar: Conversations with Li-Young Lee.

An odd experience last night: in what was perhaps a first for me, I couldn’t make any real evaluation of the work of Noah Eli Gordon and Joshua Marie Wilkinson because I was laughing too much. Which is not to say they’re poetry was comical—I don’t think it was (again, I’m hazy…)—but their reading was a somewhat delirious double act that was—hilarious. At 7.15 I was still wondering if I was really going to leave the house (the couch was awfully comfortable, and I haven’t had a night in, cooking, for ever so many nights…) but I’m glad I got myself out the door. If I’m still a little knocked sideways by the whirlwind that the reading seemed to be. That they’d driven all day from Boston seemed fitting. There was an underlying manic energy that I was quite enamored with.

Spoke to them both afterwards—Noah more than Joshua. Found myself babbling about Milton—(he’s taking over my life, or at least my consciousness, at the moment). I tried to buy one of his books—A Fiddle Pulled from the Throat of a Sparrow—because David Shapiro had written very nice things that appeared on the back cover, and David Shapiro (an underrated, under-known poet) has interested me ever since, way back in 1998, I messed around with setting a poem of his to music. Anyway, I would have bought a book, but then I suddenly found that I had lost my ATM card. Brilliant move. So, I went home and rang the bank, sympathising with the customer service man who had to ask every single customer if they were “satisfied.” Oh! Those were the days.

I realised, while searching for all my account details, that at any given time I’m less likely to known where my chequebook is than the draft of a new poem. Anyone else have that problem?

Having written all about Milton this morning, I’ve moved on to thinking about Anne Carson. I’m planning, now, to write on her for my final paper for Gewanter. A project that will, I know, make me happy.

I had a friend who, for a while, was thinking about writing (at least a section of) her thesis on oranges and happiness in 20th century poetry. I’m so sad that this project didn’t end up being her focus. I was hunting through my books, finding oranges. I’ll never read a poem about or including oranges the same way again.

No poetry reading tonight. Unless you count Milton. The class does always involve us reading sections of his work aloud.

Returned a stash of books to the library today, am replacing them with the few Anne Carson’s I didn’t bring with me when I moved here last year, and Lorca’s Selected Poems. Lorca. More happiness. Coffee, the scent of oranges and good poems. That, apparently, is all I need.

One last thing for today (I hope... Milton's been calling me for a while now...) is that, should anyone read this before tonight, the line-up at Bridge Street Books (on M Street, next to the Four Seasons Hotel) should be interesting. Noah Eli Gordon and Joshua Marie Wilkinson. No, I don't know how he ended up with Marie as his middle name either. 7.30. Free. (After 5 days in a row of paying for readings the lack of a price tag is appealing to me - and my budget.) Both are new to me, but their lists of accomplishments sound impressive. And, again - free.

"I took a friend to an art exhibit; it was an installation art piece. I believe it was Joseph Beuys. We took the subway to a very seedy part of Chicago. We got off the subway—it was about five o’clock, the streets were empty, it was snowing—and we knocked on a big freight door. A man in a security uniform slides the door open and says, “What do you want?” and I said, “We’re here to see the Joseph Beuys exhibit.” He said, “Come with me,” and we walk into this huge, empty warehouse. Then he goes to the other side where he opens this tiny, little wooden door, and we walk through this narrow, little hallway, and he opens another door and there’s another huge warehouse. Then he goes to the other side, and we’re walking all the time, and my friend is baffled. He goes to another tiny, little door that we have to stoop to go through, and he says, “Here it is.” And there’s a brick wall, gold-leafed, and there’s a hat rack with a coat and hat there. The guard says, “Well, that’s it. Take a look.” So we took a look. He says, “Had enough?” and we said “Yeah.” So we turn around and walk out. My friend and I were talking about it, and he says, “I didn’t understand it.” And I made the comment he would understand it if I told him we’re no longer awake, what we’re going to experience now is a dream. There’s a logic to dreaming. We don’t ask the same logic of dreams that we ask of life. So I don’t think we should ask the same kind of logic and understanding of poems that we do of life. I think I’m moving in a different element when I’m reading or writing poems. I don’t ask the same things of them."

—Li-Young Lee, from the interview “Seeing the Power of Poetry” in Breaking the Alabaster Jar: Conversations with Li-Young Lee.

Apropos: nothing, really. I think my near-life-long allegiance to my favourite colour (red) is wavering again. Maybe it's the daffodils, but every time I see yellow at the moment, it makes me happy. I want a writing studio with pale yellow walls, dull glass jars on the window sill and scattered postcards on the wall. But perhaps with a red teapot, just to show I'm not a complete turncoat. One day...

I guess anyone who’s (ever) met me knows I am a bit of an upstart. Sometimes I can’t quite believe the things I do…

The daily poetry readings aren’t over yet. Last night there was a Lannan reading at the Folger Shakespeare Library, with Mark Doty and Galway Kinnell. Even though I saw both poets read over the weekend at Split This Rock, I wanted to hear them again. Besides, feather-brained as I can be, I completely forgot to take the Mark Doty book I have in the US with me on Saturday night, and I did want him to sign it. Unfortunately the book isn’t the most recent, his Fire to Fire: New and Selected (I covet it, but I’m trying to not accumulate too many books) but the 2005 book School of the Arts.

He read a new poem—I didn’t write down the title, and so it’s flitted out of my memory, but it was set on Fire Island. It was incredibly moving—one of the few times I have actually been reduced to tears at a poetry reading. (I usually save the tears for my solo reading sessions.) Even though it was such a transfiguring experience for me, there was something that bothered me during the reading—it was so, so close that when a tiny moment crept in that jarred for me, I wanted to iron it out. So what did I do? Well, I’m an upstart (as has already been established) so—I told him.

Okay, I can’t quite believe my own audacity. But at the moment the words popped out of my mouth it wasn’t audacity, but an automatic response. (Perhaps in having had such an immediate emotional response to it, I felt an odd sense of partial-ownership? Does this happen?) It happened so fast, that it’s hard to know exactly what I was thinking—but the result was that Doty was interested to know exactly where it was that I had my jarring moment, and handed me his copy of the poem to read through again, so I could pinpoint it. I did, and I told him—a line that seemed oddly self-conscious in such a poem that really drags you in. For a moment it pulled the reader too far outside the poem. And the rhythm didn’t fit—there were too many beats in the line. For me. My friend Elizabeth was with me, and I pointed it out to her. She seemed to agree with me, but she might have just been taken aback at my having actually uttered the words! So, I told him. He didn’t seem offended. I can only hope that was really the case. Read him. Please.

But I don’t want to neglect Galway Kinnell. Who could neglect him? I was glad I saw him read again, as this reading was a little more varied than the Split This Rock reading, which of course had a distinct theme. What more is there to say?

Elizabeth and I were very lucky at our moment of arrival—there was actually only one ticket left, but they let us both buy tickets, knowing that there was going to be at least one person who didn’t show up. (I believe this is always the case, because all the Lannan fellows—undergraduate students at surrounding universities—get free tickets, and they never all show up.)

And—following one last reading tonight—my near-week of all poetry, all the time, is at an end. Back to the real world of study, writing papers, reading for classes… At least it’s made clear to me that I really should be writing about poetry. That I should follow my passion, even in that odd world that is academia.

Oh, and a small item—I had my first poem accepted for a US journal. SPECS. It’s taken me some time to get myself into gear, submitting work—figuring out where to submit work, etc. I don’t know much about the journal but at least something is happening on the poetry front after not sending out work in so long. And I wrote a little poem on Friday… More to follow? I can only hope.

An exhausting weekend, and very un-Easter-like. I was quite surprised by how little Easter I saw around me—in Australia there’s chocolate everywhere for months in advance. In Cambridge a few years ago, Good Friday was quiet as quiet can be, and the colleges were holding services all around the place. Then catching a ferry from Livorno to Corsica on Easter Sunday, I arrived in a shut-down Bastia. (Where I had a very strange adventure—that could have turned dangerous, but didn’t—which is a story for another time.) And here—everything is open. I saw one shop shut today for Easter Sunday, though it was open for Good Friday. I’m used to Good Friday being the much more solemn day. I was getting something to eat, and was surprised when my waitress asked if I would like to add beef to my order. For me it’s only a cultural idea, but I’m so used to eating only fish on Good Friday. After midnight last night I celebrated with a few bites of dark chocolate… but my Easter has not been Easterly. And it will be over far too soon—still so many things I’d like to read, not to mention things to do. Time flies…

Split this Rock is over now—though there’s lots of a talk about how the movement can continue. Yesterday I managed to get myself to a few events, and then I attended a reading this morning.

In the afternoon I attended a talk about archives and vaults, with three people involved in radio and digital archives discussing their work, and things that have been sitting on tape for decades that are now being digitised. While I’m increasingly interested in listening to things, I have to admit my greatest interest is still the written word: interviews, notebooks, correspondence, ephemera... and these are works that I find more interesting in getting to know a little about the author than being especially illuminating. Perhaps I’m just a flibbertigibbet. I’ll listen, and then my attention drifts—even with my newfound nightly podcast lineup that puts me to sleep—mostly radio national, sprinkled with New Yorker programs. Nonetheless, I’m fascinated by what sounds like a huge number of programs that will be available early next week through the Pacifica Program Archives—they’re making available programs from 1968, which will cover a fascinating historical moment. I’ll need to find even more listening time in the day.

As well as this panel, the last twenty-four hours have seen me at 3 different poetry readings.

First up was the 5pm reading with Coleman Barks, Pamela Uschuk and Belle Waring. Lucille Clifton had been scheduled to read as well, but due to illness was unable to make it—each of the poets read a poem of hers, so in a way she was still present.

I wasn’t entirely taken with this reading. Coleman Barks is largely known for his translations of Rumi—which are wonderful. But he was reading his own work, which didn’t really stack up to his translation work, to my mind. In fact, the most charming moment in his reading came when he read a poem written by his (quite young) grandson. In a way, I would have liked to hear more of his grandson’s work, or more Rumi. Still, it must be tough to be a well-known translator who is also a poet (rather than the other way)—you’re best known for someone else’s voice.

Pamela Uschuk’s reading didn’t really penetrate the surface for me—this is at least partly because I find it very difficult to listen to what seems to be a prevalent style of reading poetry aloud, especially by female poets, that is really quite mannered. I can’t at this stage comment on what her work is like on the page, because universally well-read as I’d like to be, I’m still just a grad student, and I have Sir Walter Scott’s Waverley to finish, as well as more highlighting of Paradise Lost left to do in the next few days…

Belle Waring, though, was wonderful: Waring has worked as a nurse, and this experience is apparent both in her knowledge and presentations of the body in her work, and also the steady gaze she brings to her subjects. She read the poems simply, and came across as very modest—but the work spoke for itself. I want to read more. (Time, as ever, the key factor here…)

This was followed by an all-star lineup last night (well, all-star to me) of Kenneth Carroll, Alicia Ostriker, Mark Doty, Dennis Brutus and Carolyn Forché. It was, I guess, really the last three that I came to hear—and I wasn’t disappointed. Kenneth Caroll’s work was by turns fun and serious (and often both at once). A piece in rhyming couplets about “Schnooky” and his relationship to the army and the war in Iraq was a real crowd-pleaser. Alicia Ostriker, unfortunately, didn’t penetrate—again, this could be her presentation as a reader of her work. Because I was really experiencing her work cold, it relied on her, and—well—it didn’t “do it” for me.

Mark Doty—what is there to say? The man is beautiful, the poetry is beautiful, and, apparently, his taste in art is beautiful too, because he read a poem about my favourite painter Joan Mitchell. In opening his reading he quoted from Taha Muhammed Ali:

And so
it has taken me
all of sixty years
to understand
that water is the finest drink,
and bread the most delicious food,
and that art is worthless
unless it plants
a measure of splendor in people's hearts.

The measure of splendour is front and centre in his poetry. I am enamored. He reads beautifully too—his poem on Joan Mitchell, though new to me, was drinkable. I drank.

Dennis Brutus didn’t really read—well, there was a short poem at the end of his time on stage. Instead, he stood and talked for about half an hour. Reflecting on the festival title, he recalled his time in prison on Robbin Island (the same prison in which Nelson Mandela was held) when he was kept in the maximum security area of the maximum security prison. He was give stones and a hammer, and each day he had to split these rocks—at the end of this effort to reduce them to gravel each day, they were scattered around the cell: illustrating the futility of the hard work he had to do. Nonetheless, this wasn’t the hardest job. Because he had once been shot in the back (a through-wound, the bullet came out his chest) he was spared the harder job that Mandela moved on to: splitting not just regular stone, but limestone. Just hearing him talk (and, really, after his life he is entitled to speak in absolutes) was a privilege.

And—Carolyn Forché. I’m under her spell. It looks like I’ll get to spend a lot more time talking to her soon. She read what is probably my favourite poem of hers—“Prayer,” which I read in New York in 2003, sitting in a Barnes and Noble (I couldn’t afford to buy the book, so I copied the poem into the notebook I was carrying with me). She also read a beautiful list poem, “The Museum of Stones”—I should tell her that I too have a miniature stone museum: a small black stone from the first time I swam in the Mediterranean, a pair of stones from Skågan in Denmark, from the day I walked off the northern end of Jutland, another pair my parents brought back from Gallipoli for me, a stone from the ground at Hanging Rock to hold in my palm when I need to feel Australia.

Then today Naomi Ayala and Galway Kinnell. A wonderful reading. This was being followed by a silent march to the White House—but for some reason I didn’t feel like joining the march. Perhaps it was the cento poem they were creating, with everyone contributing a line of no more than 12 words. I’m already exhausted from listening to all these voices—I don’t think I could take the buzz of many, many more today. After so many words, I need silence too.

I’ve been a bit exhausted lately—what I imagine Ezra Pound’s “emotional anaemia” must feel like. Attending a reading that was part of Split This Rock last night helped—I heard Brian Gilmore, Susan Tichy, Semezdin Mehmedinović, Jimmy Santiago Baca and Patricia Smith. I like these readings that have a lot of featured poets—they seem to keep my attention with relatively the swift changeover to a new voice. (I guess I’m more of a reader than a listener, generally.)

I skipped most of the first night of the festival—I went to the opening with Sonia Sanchez, which was something of a disappointment to me. Sanchez spent more time talking in a fairly rambling fashion (and, to my mind, extolling her own work and opinions) than reading her poems. I’ve only read a little of he work, but I feel that what I have read was stronger than the two pieces she performed. The opening was at Bus Boys and Poets (my first visit there) and it was really too small for the turnout (a pleasant problem at a poetry reading to be sure) and so I felt a little oppressed by the crowd. I just didn’t have it in me to head up to another reading at the Bell Multicultural High School, so I went home and did crosswords. It’s a pity I missed the reading—it would have been nice to see E Ethelbert Miller read again (and to see if my blogging warranted another hug) and to hear the work of a new crop of poets, but I was feeling a little “fragile,” so home I went.

Similarly, I skipped the panels yesterday and wandered around, then sat down with my copy of Milton, rereading the first few books of Paradise Lost—I felt like I couldn’t quite take all the talk… I’ve often felt frustrated with talk about social action—I just want to get out and do things. It’s different when it’s the more personal, educating narratives. Hearing Carolyn Forché speak, for instance, is at once horrifying, amazing, energizing, inspiring. She is reading tonight, in what is a stellar lineup—I have high hopes.

I was so pleased to finally meet Semezdin Mehmedinović, whose work I’ve admired for a while now. I was reading his two books available in English (Sarajevo Blues and Nine Alexandrias) a while ago and fell in love. It made me feel possibilities for a looseness and ease that interests me, in the voice itself (as translated by Ammiel Alcalay). And then the poems - devastating. When I spoke to him after the reading, I mentioned that I’d like to interview him, and he gave me his details. Again, I have to find that elusive time.

I was interested to hear Jimmy Santiago Baca, because he’s a big name, with a fascinating background: sentenced to five years in a maximum security prison for drug possession when he was twenty-one, he learned to read and write, and it was there that his interest in poetry really began. I was actually most interested in his talk in between the pieces he read. He mentioned that recently he’d been on a trip around the world, meeting poets everywhere, and getting recorded interviews in many, many different countries and languages. He talked about a sense that so many countries—and therefore their poets—seemed to be suffering from pervasive post-traumatic stress, and the poets responded by wanting to give and give. The interviews (over a hundred of them) need to be translated into English: I don’t know where these will end up, but I’m so interested to read them if they surface somewhere accessible.

Patricia Smith’s work was new to me, and I’m so glad that I got to experience it: she finished with a poem written in response to Hurricane Katrina, and the 34 residents of a nursing home that were left behind and died. As she was introducing it she said “the poem is long—but the stanzas are short,” which for some reason was charming! The poem was in 34 sections, the voices of the dead: it was a beautiful elegy for these forgotten people. Her next book as a whole addresses the aftermath of Katrina. If this is an example of the work she’s doing with that, then I’ll be interested to read the book as a whole when it comes out. Again, I’m hoping that an interview will emerge—we talked about finding a time in between two readings today to have a brief chat.

The festival has also been my first real opportunity to explore the U Street neighbourhood—I get the impression that it’s more of a nighttime area than a daytime place, but it’s been great wandering around. I don’t know why exactly I hadn’t made it over there earlier, but I hadn’t. I really love the multicultural areas of DC though, and am looking forward to getting to know the area better.

Speaking of things to look forward too, I’m excited that Siri Hustvedt’s new novel, The Sorrows of an American, will be coming out on the first of April. I wonder if I’ll be able to make some out-of-university time as the final phase of the semester starts kicking in to read it…

I mentioned to a friend that Namibia’s Independence Day falls today, and she told me that all she knew about Namibia was that it was where Brad and Angelina went for the birth of their child. Somehow this information had passed me by—I mean, I knew it was Africa, but I have to admit that I hadn’t been interested enough to learn which country in Africa. I’ve been wondering whether this ignorance about the movements of Brad and Angelina makes me more or less shallow? It’s an oddly troubling question.

My friend Sheena spent time in Namibia, as it’s a place where she could use her German (though English is the official language, both German and Afrikaans are recognised—and of course all three languages reflect Namibia’s cultural heritage)—so my main association was with the fact that she had lived there for a time. But reading about it, I’ve got to say I felt a real desire to go there—it’s the pictures of the Namib Desert that got me.

I used to be so overwhelmed by the ideas of Africa—and, too, Central Australia—that I just didn’t know how to engage them. Their vastness was so difficult to comprehend. I guess it’s a reasonably common experience in that situation that people turn away from contemplating the hugeness. (It can be as mind-bending as solid light currently is to me…) I’m still not one hundred percent sure what turned me around—although I do know that a major factor was the writing of the sadly deceased Polish writer Ryszard Kapuściński. His work is so extraordinary—if you haven’t read it, all I can do is urge you to do so. I can’t wait for the rest of his work to be translated into English—at the moment not even half of it is available. (Alternatively, I can’t wait to learn Polish—there are so many Polish writers I would love to read in the original…) It’s wonderful to place him alongside the other writer I’ve working my way through outside of university, Bruce Chatwin. (I'm currently reading In Patagonia. Learning more about Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, too.)

It has been suggested that, at the end of a year of researching independence days, I will be the perfect partner for a trivia night. As if I'm not trivial enough already. And since when is independence trivial? I'm tempted to mention the notion to an American on the Fourth of July...

I have to write about catching up with Elena Knox yesterday—that will come. Later. Right now, I plan to spend a few hours highlighting the uses of silence in Paradise Lost. Perhaps an odd pursuit, but I'm sure it will have a payoff.

Some days I feel like perhaps I’m a little crazy. I’ve been coming to the realisation that I’m happier writing on poetry than I am on prose—when I’m writing about poetry, I’m (obviously) thinking about poetry. I feel that it’s more likely to lead me back into my own writing. This means that I’m thinking about what exactly to do with my thesis next year… The work I’d like to do on Dickens is, I feel, an important project—and it’s less about Dickens than about Australian national identity (yes, I’m feeling a little self-exiled these days, and have become, perhaps, more Australian than ever) which appeals to me. But—I want to write about our poets, and promote contemporary writing that is exciting. I’ve thinking and talking and wondering. (Perhaps I can do some smaller papers on Dickens. I don’t know if I would be able to get hold of the materials I need to do the kind of large-scale study I have in mind anyway. The records I need are most likely all in Australia.)

Speaking of writing on poetry, I’ve been having some slightly crazy thoughts on Milton’s Paradise Lost. These emerged from thinking so much about travel literature recently—and I was thinking of the ways Milton employs aspects of travel writing in the poem. And then—perhaps crazier—I’ve been listening to a lot of (Australian) Radio National podcasts as I’ve been going to sleep, including a few science shows. The most recent one was talking about solid light and the idea that at a critical point light crystallises. This got me thinking about the ways Milton uses light and darkness in the text, including light that “pierces.” But thinking it through I just couldn’t figure out how to turn either into a paper in the next month, and instead it looks like I’ll be looking at patterns of silence and sound in the text. At times I start to realise that I have “grad school brain.” But then, I don’t exactly think it’s even a normal grad student reaction to listen to a science show and think “Ah! Milton!” so perhaps I just have my own (extremely idiosyncratic) brain.

Today I’m seeing a face from home—like ships that meet in the night, I’m going to have an hour or so with Elena Knox, who’s passing through DC on her way to elsewhere. She has three hours at Union Station, and I’ll spend about half of that with her. There’ll no doubt be food, talk, and possibly a (very) quick interview—I want to catch up with the creative force that is Elena, and hear all about what she’s up to with her writing and performance.

Also today, the beginning of the Split This Rock poetry festival—more poets to meet. There’s an exciting line up over the next few days. I just hope that my (sometimes delicate) energy holds up and that I actually get some university work done at the same time!

I went looking for poetry from Pacific islands yesterday—I found a lot, which was lovely, but am particularly keen to find a poem/poet from the Marshall Islands. Anybody got a suggestion?

A few frivolities:

On the weekend, I gave myself my first completely solo haircut. I’ve had good feedback so far. And, yes, I’m glad to save the $50 + it would cost to get it done by someone else in DC. I went the route of first cutting it in a ponytail, though in reality my hair is too thick for that, and then tidied up from there. Opinions? (The very sexy decor of the Georgetown Writing Center lies in the background.)

St Patrick’s Day. Yes, I made the effort to wear green. The thing I love about St Patrick’s Day, though, is that it is also the assigned birthday of our family friend Tram. She was born in Vietnam, and doesn’t actually know the date of her birthday. My dad took it upon himself to give her a birthday, and St Patrick’s Day is the day. It makes me happy.

A week ago Sir Walter Scott and I weren’t getting along so well. Our relationship is improving—the second volume of Waverley is somehow more engaging than the first. Or maybe Professor Ragussis has piqued my interest more.

My friend Amy Espeseth said she felt really famous when I mentioned her on my blog previously. So, I’m mentioning her again. You should look out for a novel from her sometime in the future. It’ll be something special.

After what I saw almost as a challenge from Hazel last week, I dropped in at The Bean Counter on the weekend to try their coffee. Good stuff! This reminded me that there are many more cafés to try out around Georgetown, before I swear complete allegiance to one. But then, I’ve never sworn complete allegiance to a single café. Within a few blocks of each other in Carlton, you would be equally likely to find me at Tiamo, Trotters or Big Harvest. I miss Big Harvest’s spectacular muffins.

I found a beautiful poetry anthology on the weekend—Language for a New Century: Poetry from the Middle East, Asia and Beyond. It helped me fill in some gaps by finding some poets for countries I didn’t have “covered” for the Independence Day Project.

This week I need to look for a poem from Namibia. I have a list of poets—good start—it’s just a matter of choosing the poem.

Speaking of African poets, Dennis Brutus will be in DC next weekend for the Split This Rock poetry festival. I’ve been reading some of his work recently, and I’m excited I’ll have a chance to see him.

Still some catching up to do today—more of Waverley to read before 4pm. I have faith it’ll get done. Based on the experience that I somehow always do.

Kevin Rabalais was interviewed on Ramona Koval’s program recently. His first book, the novel The Landscape of Desire, was released by Scribe at the end of February. It’s already been getting wonderful reviews. Listen to the interview. Read the book. Support an exciting new writer. And, yes, he’s a friend of mine. I admire the seriousness that both he and his wife Jennifer Levasseur display regarding their writing.

Speaking of interviews, I may also be the subject of an interview soon. I’ll keep you posted if it’s happening.

It’s been a week of just barely keeping up (or, in a few cases, catching up) but it’s been a good week.

Tuesday was another Lannan reading—E Ethelbert Miller and Ilya Kaminsky. Both the seminar and the reading were great. I’m so glad that I have the combination of my poetry class with David Gewanter and a lot of readings that I can go to this semester. I’m feeling words as very tactile objects right now—it’s a beautiful experience. I’m still finding it difficult to find time to write myself (and when I do, I feel like I’m not quite reaching the place I want to go) but at the same time, it’s been a really fruitful time for editing work that had been in the unfinished pile for a long time.

The theme for the latest Lannan reading was “Ancestors,” which proved an interesting starting point. Miller talked about poets that he has known personally whose work he tries to keep alive: he likes to include a few poems by these poets when he does a reading, and this was no exception, with work from, among others, June Jordon and Charles Bukowski included in his reading. I always find this a generous act on the part of poets: I suppose it is so rare that you have an audience for your own poems, that to use some of that time promoting the work of others is a lovely thing. He read a series of poems on Iraq that were particularly moving—I’d like to see these in print.

Miller also gave me an odd moment that pierced what I thought was relative anonymity—upon entering the seminar (early, as usual) he greeted me with “Ah! The blogger!” and gave me a hug. He wouldn’t tell me how he found this little blog, nor how long he has been reading it, but it was a lovely moment to realise that there are occasional readers beyond the audience I was aware of. I have a copy of his most recent book—How We Sleep on the Nights We Don’t Make Love—that I’ll be reading soon—and it looks like a (face-to-face!) interview will materialise, in between the juggling of everything I find myself doing.

Ilya Kaminsky was equally wonderful. I’m already a fan of his book (once again, Dancing in Odessa. If you haven’t read it, do.) In the seminar I was particularly fascinated—and delighted—by the approach he took to ancestors, which was so text-based. In particular, the way he looked at the continental European poets that I love so much—Zbigniew Herbert for instance. (I have to say it once again: I love the Polish poets so much. There is so much at work in their poems.) He traced the movement of ideas and forms from a poem by one poet into a poem by another: unfurling genealogies that he had obviously thought deeply about.

His reading was also a treat: eccentric and musical. Kaminsky speaks with a Russian accent, and this is particularly strong when he is reading his poems. Aware of this, he distributed copies of his book for the audience to follow as he read. I had brought my own copy with me, but I laid it aside—I already knew the poems, and while I didn’t catch everything, I wanted to listen to the rhythms that came out in his reading, that I felt in my own reading, but not quite as strongly. This is, I suppose, because I had the meaning-making foremost in my mind—and because I didn’t read most of the poems aloud. Hearing him read, it was rhythm that I wanted to think about the most, and it came out beautifully.

On Wednesday, I put on my academic hat again, and headed to Charlottesville for a conference at UVA—“Things Matter.” Last year I wrote a paper on Samuel Johnson’s Journey to the Western Islands of Scotland, and the notion of a mental cabinet of curiosities. I had rewritten this paper to include Bruce Chatwin’s The Songlines, thinking through aspects of travel writing as an experiential “thing” that acts as both journey and souvenir for the reader. I wasn’t sure if I had spiralled into abstractions until I presented it, but I got a good reaction.

What I saw of Charlottesville was lovely, but as it was really all about the conference, I have to go back sometime for a more leisurely visit. And I have to get to Monticello.

Attending the panel following mine, I met four girls who are doing interesting work in nineteenth century literature—Emily Madsen (her paper was on the image of the black doll that appears in three illustrations in Dickens’ Bleak House), K. Irene Rieger (she was looking at nineteenth and twentieth century texts and nostalgia—she had a lot of fascinating information about hair jewellery that made me want to look into the phenomenon) Christen Mucher (a paper about the “ginger nut” in Melville’s Bartleby the Scrivener, that unfolded into an investigation of the relationship between the Caribbean and the US) and Eugenia Gonzalez (writing on “the doll” in Vernon Lee’s story of the same name). It was a really rich experience—both to see what graduate conferences are like in the US, and also to meet people. The standard was really very high.

Rewriting my paper, it made me interested in doing some more work on travel literature—particularly some early travel texts from Australia. Another little island of material to connect with my work at some time.

The other exciting aspect of the conference was that the keynote speaker was (the almost impossibly hip) Bill Brown from the University of Chicago, who edited the issue of Critical Inquiry entitled Things, and a few years ago also published the book A Sense of Objects. Working on Henry James and systems of collecting, his work was particularly inspiring. Similarly, I found the collection of essays on “Things” just as I was starting to get really interested in the subject.

In his keynote he talked about the art of Brian Jungen—I wasn’t familiar with the artist before, but I was fascinated. I have to read more. The masks he made using deconstructed sneakers are beautiful. Last week (gosh! only last week?) I was making collages, and looking at art again made me want to get right back into making things. I started thinking about the number of things I could recycle, transform. Brown talked about the desire of materials to be transformed—I felt myself responding.

He also mentioned that in the book that this writing is going to be a part of, he has written on Walter de Maria. I asked him if he is also writing on other earthworks artists, Robert Smithson in particular. I’m always excited when I get a chance to talk about—think about—Smithson in any way. I feel like an interrogation of Smithson, and the way he uses entropy as a subject for his work, is such a fruitful area to look into. And it reminded me again (travel being on my mind) of my determination to get to the site of the Spiral Jetty in Utah. One day.

Upcoming this week is Ilya Kaminsky's reading at Georgetown as part of the Lannan series - also reading is E. Ethelbert Miller, who I'll have to familiarise myself with before then. In the mean time, I've recently read Kaminsky's wonderful first book, Dancing in Odessa - which, when I find that elusive time, I plan to review here.

If you're in DC, come to hear Kaminsky and Miller read: Tuesday 11 March, 8pm at Copley Hall, Georgetown University.

Yesterday was quite a day—mostly spent at the Library of Congress, after a coffee at my new favourite DC café, Baked and Wired, (red velvet cupcakes, “manly” quiche and great coffee) and ending with whiskey, mussels and chocolate mousse at Bistro du Coin, home at midnight.

Yesterday I participated in a master class with Charles Simic, the current poet laureate of the United States. In an hour and a half he looked at one poem apiece from about fifteen poets from the DC area. Apparently it hadn’t been well-advertised, which, ironically, is how I came to hear about it: one of the staff of the Library of Congress emailed David Gewanter last week because the class wasn’t full, and he forwarded the information to us students. I seem to have been the only one to follow up (I guess because so any people were out of town this week—and those who weren’t work fulltime, so couldn’t make a daytime class) and so I found myself in the room with a group of poets I hadn’t met before. There was one that looked youngish, but I felt like I was the youngest by quite a lot of years. (I thought this experience would have ended years ago...) There’s no shortage of poets in DC, that’s for sure…

What I liked about the class was that Simic was much more interested in the poems than in the poets. I guess for most people (those wanting to make a personal impression on the poet laureate in order to help with their careers) this may have been a little frustrating, but I found it wonderful how much his attention was on the words themselves. I was pleased that he seemed to like my poem (“Fat Ben Jonson”—written for the lovely Anne Brumley, then in the throes on the aforementioned fat, literary man) though he did point out that, self-indulgently, I had probably used the word “fat” too many times. It was just such a satisfying word at the time. Still, he was right.

The other thing that I really valued was that we were all there to listen to his comments, and so no-one was trying to one-up everyone else.

I also got a chance to write a new poem while I was drinking a post-class coffee. Ah, coffee.

After a few hours break, I went back to attend last night’s reading by this year’s winners of the Witter Bynner award, Matthew Thorburn and Monica Youn.

This was one of the best readings I’ve ever been to—both poets have published one book (Thorburn’s is Subject to Change and Youn’s is Barter), and each have second manuscripts that appear to be ready to go. There was such energy and playfulness—even exuberance—in their work. The audience was also clearly there with them—there was a lot of laughter.

I bought both poets first books (again, hopefully in the coming months some more email interviews will unravel) and last night, on the way to Bistro du Coin, I read a third of Thorburn’s book. Again, I’m hoping sometime I’ll find a moment to at least post a brief review. Sometime.

I’ve been realising just how many very good poets there are in America that we never hear about in Australia—it’s such a pity. Even big names don’t get much press at home. It’s still the case that most poetry is published by small presses—so of course a huge number of very fine poets don’t get distribution outside of America. It’s exciting discovering these poets—I hope other people will discover them too.

First: some news. It looks like "THE BOOK" is moving forward. I mean, I've heard from the publisher who is "keen to publish it" - but I'm sure there are lots of things that can happen between now and whenever an actual publication may happen. I got the email yesterday - after spending the morning working on a bunch of poems that had been in my "problem pile" (I solved a few problems too!) - and I gasped, nearly cried, then went to meet Lisa to see a film. (Charlie Bartlett. Fun. A great rendition of my favourite Cat Stevens song: "If you want to sing out, sing out." Steals shamelessly from the superior Rushmore.) Then last night, some wine to celebrate - though I feel like celebrating could be premature. Can you tell I'm a novice?

It seems unreal - it's been so long. When I start to feel like it's happening, I'll most likely update.

I had plans for getting out of town this week, but it hasn't happened. I may still go for a day or two over the weekend - I just can't decide. My brain has been a bit addled today, so I've been fiddling with collage materials, thinking about a poem and wandering around in the sunlight.

In the past few days I took the opportunity to go to the Corcoran and Phillips Galleries: both have large (and impressive) holdings of modern and contemporary art. Of the two, I found the Phillips collection more exciting: both had on special exhibitions that covered the breadth of the collections. I guess the Phillips partly appealed more because it was more geared to the modern and contemporary, while the Corcoran's exhibition placed modern works alongside nineteenth century pieces. But more than that, there were a large number of individual works I wanted to spend time with in the Phillips Collection - and a Rothko room, with a beautiful deep blue-green and burgundy canvas, and a red and orange canvas on perpendicular walls. A Robert Motherwell print called "Australia," in black and ochre. Photographs. So much stimulus!

The best part for me, though, was the fact that both collections had on display paintings by Joan Mitchell, who - almost solely through reproductions - has been one of my favourite painters for years now. I've seen these paintings in books (I always wanted to make A3 sized colour photocopies of a couple, to keep them close at hand...) and finally I got to sit in front of them.

Joan Mitchell's canvases are so huge. I like this photo on the cover of a monograph about her work: the physicality of the act of painting these canvases, and the fact that she didn't, like Jackson Pollack, lay them flat on the ground. The painting in this photo is her largest work either. She's such a wonderful colourist - and I feel that she makes real sense of the space of these large canvases. There is a lot of light and movement, and even while they remain abstract they suggest their subjects wonderfully even without the titles.

The weather has been lovely the last few days. Spring is here!

The next few days I have a lot of reading to do. At last: my first experience of Sir Walter Scott. I have to read Waverley for National Identity and the Nineteenth Century Novel. Also, after having just spent six weeks discussing various poets who are considered "modernist" in my Modern and Contemporary poetry class, I have to write a paper on four poems, using the poems to try to define modernism... Define modernism? Sure, easy as ABC. Next week is the UVA conference too, so I've got to get that paper in shape - I booked a hostel, and am hoping I've begged a ride. So -it's business as usual, and more so. With maybe a few poems thrown in as well. Fingers crossed for sanity.

Tomorrow I meet the Poet Laureate. Fingers crossed I don't swoon.

I recently twice had the privilege of seeing the poet Carolyn Forché speak and read from her work. Later this year Forché’s memoir is being published, and I have to say I’m thrilled that this is the case. The memoir is addressed to the poet Ilya Kaminsky—a former student of Forché’s (who, incidentally, did his Bachelor's degree at Georgetown) whose first book, Dancing in Odessa, I’ve read recently. (There should be a review of the book and his reading at Georgetown as part of the Lannan series sometime soon.)

As well as being considered one of the best poets writing in the America today, Forché is also widely known for her commitment to work in human rights: in 1978 she went to El Salvador, writing poems at the same time as working with human rights networks to document what was happening in El Salvador. The portion of her book she read touched on this experience: it was an account of her visit to an El Salvadoran jail during which she witnessed men being kept in boxes—she afterwards learned that some men were kept in these boxes for months at a time. It was amazing—in an awful way. To hear that read in the author’s voice, ahead of its publication, was a real privilege.

This time in El Salvador was the beginning of a long career dedicated to the cause of human rights, and, too, to the work of poets working out of what she terms conditions of extremities. To listen to Forché talk about her career is to realise how little most people ever do. In addition to her direct work in the human rights fields, she has translated the work of other poets, and encouraged her students to get involved in translation: one effect of her teaching is that she has former students scattered all over the world. I understand this—sometimes people tell me they don’t understand how I do as much as I do, but when I hear Forché speak, I feel that I’m not doing enough. I at least feel that the Independence Day Project is doing a little both to increase my knowledge and also to contribute to a sense of poetry in the world.

As a result of this dedication to human rights and the poetry that emerges out of these conditions of extremity she put together the anthology Against Forgetting: I’ve been reading it on and off over the last few months—there’s so much to discover. (All I can say is buy it: buy it now.)

She read, too, a new poem: this was also dedicated to Kaminsky, as she recently took him back to his native city Odessa: I wish I had been able to take down the poem, but instead it washed over me. I look forward to her next book of verse too—I saw her speak in 2003 in San Francisco when her last book was being launched at City Lights. At the time I couldn’t stretch to a hardback, so I bought The Angel of History, which I read a few days later in Central Park. When I had finished that, I went to a bookshop and read the whole of the then-new Blue Hour over a coffee. (There is definitely an advantage to the chain bookstores: they can be used as libraries.) Blue Hour contains an amazing “abecedary” poem—the longest of its kind I have read in English, and a tour de force.

One of the things she talked about that fascinated me more than anything was the way she talked about Paul Celan: talking about how, out of World War II, he chose to write in this German language that had been broken by Nazism. Celan has been an important poet to me for quite some time—I especially appreciate John Felstiner’s translations, which at times coil back into that broken German. German—another language I have to learn, just so I can see how Celan refigures it in his work.