Hands, Clenched or Open

I've had hands on the brain for several weeks now. That line of Obama's about how we'll be willing to extend a hand if others unclench their fists has stuck with me.

I had already been thinking about hands because of visiting with my nephew, who is 2 and a half years old, over Christmas. He's not shy about asking to hold hands. One night, he even wanted to hold hands at dinner. I like his ability to ask for what he needs, whether it's hands to hold or someone to play with, or a book to be read.

Last night, after my poetry class, I was thinking of Tennyson's poem, "In Memoriam, A. H. H." I thought of the image of hands stretched out with no one there to hold them, which is so prevalent in the poem (but is it throughout the poem or just in the one chunk that I used to teach? I'll have to look it up later). I've always found that image so devastating.

If I was writing my dissertation today . . .

No, I wouldn't have enough material. Still, I'd love to know how many times the image of hands shows up throughout the history of poetry. It's a powerful image, perhaps more powerful than that tired image of the heart. Or perhaps it's just a more flexible image, since hands can be held, clenched, used in so many ways.

I like Obama for many reasons. I love the pictures I've seen of him, when he's holding a book, and he's got a finger in it to hold his place, as if he was interrupted during his reading, and as soon as the consultation is finished, he'll dive right back into the book. Much has been made over his nonfiction reading habits, but his speeches show that he's got an understanding of the poetic image as well.

When a Beloved Author Dies

After I wrote my post yesterday, I came across several other media offerings, which I thought I'd offer, in case you're mourning Updike.

Like Lorrie Moore, you may be feeling the world is emptier without Updike in it (go here for the whole article, a lovely piece of writing). I usually feel that way when an author dies, even if the author wasn't a favorite of mine. I feel the same way about many artists in all sorts of mediums.

But if Updike was your favorite author, you must read John Guzlowski's post on beloved authors who die. Here's a taste of it: "It's hard when a writer you love dies, but it's only hard for a while. His death begins to fade when you pick up his book again, return to that secret place."

If you're wanting to hear Updike interviewed, listen to the Fresh Air broadcast from yesterday. Go here, either to listen or to read a remembrance.

Thinking about John Updike

First, a confession. I haven't read a complete John Updike novel since high school. I read Rabbit Run and thought it was O.K. So I went on to Rabbit Redux. I was horrified by its depiction of adult life, with all its boredom and worries that one's best days are back in high school. I spent my high school days thinking, if these are the best years of my life, let me kill myself now. And here was Updike, telling me it could be worse?

During one adolescent summer when I was bored (say around 1981), I picked up Couples. I was hoping for a racy read, but once again, found myself repulsed by the characters. I couldn't fathom the sexual lives of Updike's characters. I much preferred the vision of sex offered by the racy romance novels that I read on a regular basis.

As an adult in midlife, I haven't gone back to revisit those novels. And I won't. Why plunge myself into existential despair? Life is short, and my reading time shorter.

Still, I've always appreciated Updike's views on writing. I've heard him talk in interviews through the years, and I've always felt like I learned something about the life of a writer. And he was so much older than I am that I never felt threatened as a fellow writer, never felt like Updike was my competition (unlike Henry Allen, who wrote an interesting Washington Post article on Updike here). Updike already inhabited a different universe, and a whole different set of questions interested him.

Observing Gorillas, Observing Poems

On Saturday, I watched a PBS show about gorillas. They interviewed one researcher whose wife had spent over 1,000 hours observing gorillas.

I immediately felt inadequate, even though I did a quick calculation and determined that I had spent over 1,000 hours observing poems (by observing, I included reading poetry, writing poems, and revising poems--I didn't count typing poems up/entering poems into the computer and sending poems out). I thought about gorillas and poems--could I develop differences between poems in the wild and poems in captivity? There's a poem in here somewhere I suspect, but it has yet to come. If it inspires you, swell.

I also thought about all the other areas of my life where I've spent 1,000 hours: grading essays (which requires some semblance of reading them) came immediately to mind. I've spent over 1,000 hours in classes that I've taken and more than that in classes that I teach. I've probably spent 1,000 hours jogging. But do I look like an Olympic athlete? Sadly no--because I also have spent over 1,000 hours cooking and baking.

Somehow, none of these activities sounds as impressive as spending 1,000 hours observing wildlife, especially wildlife that may soon be extinct.

I wonder if that researcher would feel the same: she thinks about the observations she's made in the wildernesses she's camped in, and she wishes she had been writing poems and creating book length manuscripts.

Maybe we all wish for skills and talents that others have. Or maybe that neurosis is uniquely mine.

Library of Congress Promo

This reproduction might be too small, but I couldn't figure out a way to enlarge it. I got the attachment by way of e-mail on Friday, and have been tinkering ever since.

So, if you're in downtown DC on Feb. 10, and you'd like an alternate lunch activity, please join us. Poetry at the Library of Congress--what could be better?

Putting the Cost of Education into Perspective

As the Assistant Chair of my college department, I think a lot about education, both in its present state, and its possible future states. I'm astonished at how much higher education costs the student these days. I wonder if this state of education is sustainable.

I'm not alone in thinking these things. In a recent New York Times article, Stanley Fish references a book, The Last Professor (go here to read his thoughts on the subject and the book), which I've added to my reading list.

It's easy for me to slip into doom and gloom mode. I think back to my graduate education. If we had a teaching assistantship, then our tuition cost only several hundred dollars a semester. We could take all the classes we could manage, and we were paid a small stipend. A very small stipend. Recently, I found a notebook with my graduate school budget inside. How did I live on so little? We were paid around $7,000 a year, which even in 1987-1992 terms (when I was in school), wasn't very much--but tuition was cheap!.

One of my friends even took 18 graduate hours in a different field. I wish I had done that, especially when I research graduate school today.

Why would someone with a PhD in English, like me, go back to school? All sorts of reasons. I miss school. I miss being in a class, which means that I'm not the only one reading a book; I've got an instant discussion group (book groups just don't do the same thing for me). I miss having that kind of life of the mind. Some day, I might like to teach new subjects, although the ones that interest me, like Theology and Religion or History, have even more dismal job prospects.

It's hard for me to get around that price tag. But on Kelli's blog, I found a great entry that puts it into perspective. She talks about the MFA this way: "They are pricey little diplomas. By the time this poet is done, there will be $20K to $30K+ spent. Of course, someone once pointed out to me that it is the same price of a mid-sized Sedan. They told me to: Just consider your education is one less Camry you'll own in your lifetime. And honestly, I'd rather have had the experience of my program than a Camry, so I feel I came out ahead."

A Poet Considers Inauguration Day

Tuesday was quite the poetry day for me. By the end of the day, I fell into bed, completely wrung out by the emotions of the day.

To begin, the inauguration ceremony itself had an actual poem, something which has only happened in 3 past Inaugurals. I was pleased with Elizabeth Alexander's poem, although there was some part of me that couldn't resist thinking of the images I wish she had developed, especially that idea of patching. And I wanted to see how it was written on the page. I wondered if her delivery would have been different in a different setting; I can't imagine how difficult it must be to read a poem in blinding January light, in sub-freezing temperatures, in front of the whole nation.

If you, too, want to see the poem, either on the page or via video, go here to Collin Kelley's blog.

I thought the rest of the ceremony had plenty of poetry too. For example, the benediction had its poetic moments, with its use of "Lift Every Voice and Sing" (stirring poetry in that hymn) and its updated images from Scripture--my favorite was turning tanks into tractors.

I spent much of the ceremony thinking about how I would have written things and offering silent revision tips. Is this the writer in me? The Composition teacher in me? But overall, I was pleased.

No, that's an understatement. I was profoundly moved: by the words, by the images, by the history, by the music (that piece that Yo Yo Ma and Itzhak Perlman played--I may never recover!).

And then I tried to clean up my tear stained face, and I went to the Palm Beach Poetry Festival. I heard 2 excellent craft lectures by Denise Duhamel and Gregory Orr.

Then I zipped down to my office, and zipped back to the Festival for the evening reading. I heard Denise Duhamel read and then Martin Espada. They were two very different readings, but both very compelling.

I had picked up some books before the reading, including Denise Duhamel's new book, Ka-Ching!, hot off the press (I'll write a review soon), and I had planned to have them signed.

But after the reading, I watched all the people stream towards the small room where the signing would take place, and I just had this desire to be in my car, headed towards home (it's a 30 minute drive). Going home, I stumbled across a program on the Oldies station, bits of Obama speeches mixed with inspirational songs from the 60's and 70's, like Stevie Wonder. It was a great way to finish the day.