Call for Submissions

      I've always been enamored with Rumi, and love his poem This Being Human. I know that I am not alone in loving that poem and that many people have been helped by reading it. Yet when I hear it I often find myself inspired by just the title, and my monkey mind goes swinging off in another direction. This morning I succumbed to that inspiration and wrote the poem that actually came to me on my yoga mat yesterday. It later occurred to me that I would love to read more of these, poems written from the prompt of those three words, This Being Human.

     So let's do it! I will organize, edit, and seek a publisher if we compile enough poems for a volume. Your submission can be emailed to me at T4tu@comcast.net.

     Here is the original, though there is no need to stick to Rumi's interpretation of This Being Human. I want to read yours.

On seeing Natasha Trethewey

     I went to see and hear Natasha Trethewey speak at my Alma mater this week. I was already a fan of her work, and had been looking forward to the talk entitled "Changing the World One Poem at a Time: Using the arts as a tool for understanding difference and as a catalyst to explore complex topics such as race", so central to the research and writing I have been doing.

     But something happened during the talk. I'm not at all sure what it was. But Ms. Trethewey, simply by sharing herself with her audience, became my favorite poet. I realize that sounds silly and simplistic, and will attempt to explain.

     My writing, both prose and poetry, is more often than not, an exploration of issues of race. My poetry, like Natasha's, often looks at snippets of history and / or art, to try to make sense of my own life and the America I live in. I have always been more drawn to narrative poetry, and consider myself a story teller, but I aspire to something more. Something she has voiced about herself as a writer as in this quote;

     “[I am] a poet interested not only in the sounds of language and in its beauty, but in its ability to help us deal with our most difficult knowledge and help us move towards justice.”

     I am especially interested in working with the concept of historical amnesia that Natasha talks and writes about, and much of my own work seems to be an exploration of that.

     Her comments on that subject have inspired the following poem from me today. It is brand new so will be reworked several times before it is finished. It occurs to me this morning that this childhood memory, that has always stayed with me, may have been the very beginning of my own excavations of what came before me and what created me. Yet I would not have written this without Natasha's influence on me this week.

Visiting Gettysburg

I was so little

that I remember little.

Only boundless rolling knolls

of luxurious green grass.

A perfect place for family fun.

But I think I had a child’s sense

that the beauty was false.

A sad secret rippled beneath.

Not the green of the grass

or the blue of the sky, but red.

A cold clotted river of loss,

mixed by bayonets and shovels.

Men, women, and children,

black, white, and native,

union, confederate, objector.

All co-mingling together forever…

beneath my skipping Mary Jane’s.

I breathed the false exquisite beauty

of boundless rolling knolls

of luxurious green grass.

Tammi J Truax. All rights reserved.

      The favorite writer status she has with me now is not just about me admiring her as a writer. It is at least as much about me seeing her as a teacher.  I endeavor to write the way she does; with great honesty and courage, but in stunningly beautiful words and forms. Considering the chasm between our accomplishments in that regard, this is a daunting task, and I have a lot of work to do!

     I share this video of Natasha talking about her work on Native Guard which caught my attention because one of the dozens of books I've read this year for research on my historical novel was Dr. Mutter's Marvels by Cristin O'Keefe Aptowicz. I was not aware of this museum.

     Finally here is a video of Natasha reading her poem Incident.

Retreating to the Green Mountains

      Well, you probably already know I am a serious word counter, and post my daily total on my Facebook page. You may also know that I have become a fan of writing retreats. It has actually been quite a long time (two years, feels like a long time!) since I have had a real vacation (not that I am opposed to that!) as I have been spending any travel money I have on retreats or research trips.
      I am happy to announce that I have been accepted into one this winter which gives me something to look forward to as I hunker down here and finish up this first draft of my first historical novel. I hope to head up into the Green Mountains of Vermont in mid-March with a completed manuscript, and begin my revisions there. I think I can do it!
      The retreat is called When Words Count and takes place at the farm pictured below.

  

Death Becomes Her (Sometimes)

     Here is something I wrote recently following one of my weekends in NYC. This was originally published by Seacoast Media Group (Dec. 2014). I also took all of these photos.

      Death Becomes Her

By Tammi J Truax

       Vanity Fair called it “… a perfect little black cocktail dress of a show…”, and I highly recommend it too. Now through February first there is an exhibit at The Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Anna Wintour Costume Center which I recently visited, and knew many of you would be interested in it. The exhibit is called Death Becomes Her: A Century of Mourning Attire.

           This exhibit really is a striking artistic as well as cultural display. The detail and darkness of the garments are contrasted starkly by the white mannequins wearing white wigs in the all-white gallery. White curtains and panels add a quiet and slightly sacred softness to the large open space. There are about thirty ensembles for men, women and children on display, along with accessories, quotes, fashion plates and historical photographs.

       The history of mourning attire is fascinating as alluringly alluded to in this quote from the exhibit’s curator Harold Koda, “The predominantly black palette of mourning dramatizes the evolution of period silhouettes and the increasing absorption of fashion ideals into this most codified of etiquettes. … The veiled widow could elicit sympathy as well as predatory male advances. As a woman of sexual experience without marital constraints, she was often imagined as a potential threat to the social order.”

      While the wearing of black garments when in mourning dates back to ancient times, this exhibit covers only a century of the tradition spanning the years from 1815 to 1915. That century, though was a period of time when mourning fashion, as a part of grief expression, became very serious in our nation in large part due to the overwhelming loss of life in the Civil War. While across the pond all time champion mourner and fashion trend setter, Queen Victoria, donned an all-black ensemble upon the death of her husband Albert in 1859, which she would continue to do every day until her own death forty-two years later.

     The more common cultural requirement for wearing black during that century was two years. These demands were focused on the female, but men had some requirements to follow too. As evidenced by the elaborately designed ensembles in the exhibit this must have been more than just an emotional drain on the bereaved, but also a financial one. A considerable amount of money had to be set aside to have a mourning wardrobe made, which of course, many war widows could ill afford to do. Poor people would often resort to dyeing their clothes black so as not to defy convention. There were stages of mourning dress as well; “full mourning” was followed in due time by “half mourning” when a woman could begin to introduce one or two other colors into her black outfits as long as they were not bright or light. Shades of gray were considered safe.

      After the death of her son First Lady Mary Todd Lincoln was once reported to be wearing “deep black”, the meaning of which seems inexplicable, but helps us to understand how society judged the person by what she was wearing. There were even expectations on the fabrics that should be chosen, with a preference for dull, not shiny ones, such as crape.

       I had always assumed that a widow’s black clothing communicated only that she was still grieving for the loss of a loved one. I was surprised to learn that these costumes were also used to communicate her availability for remarriage, and that suitors and busybodies could interpret when she could be remarried based on the stage of dress. Veils, generally only worn when leaving the home, had another variety of meanings for the onlooker to interpret.

      While I am greatly relieved that such harsh expectations have been eased, I do find the study of them interesting. Unlike most museum exhibits, this one has a little something for just about everyone. Death Becomes Her is an enthralling look at our past that will be of interest to both fashion and history enthusiasts, as well as all ilk of Goth folks and ghost hunters. The exhibit can be seen seven days a week at the museum’s 1000 Fifth Avenue location in New York City which charges pay-what-you-can admission.

       

Speaking for Grace Paley

      Today on what would have been her 85th birthday I pen a tribute post to Grace Paley. A Jewish girl from the Bronx, Grace lived out her later years in Vermont.

      Shortly before her death in 2007 I had an opportunity to study with her at a New Hampshire workshop, but because of family obligations I didn't. I have not, and I'm sure I never will, stopped regretting that. Regrets torment me sometimes. Writing of them relieves the torment. Sometimes.

      So I embrace her words, the gorgeous, relivable legacy of a writer. Her prose and her poetry, but more often her advice. This is a favorite;

       “The best training is to read and write, no matter what. Don’t live with a lover or roommate who doesn’t respect your work. Don’t lie, buy time, borrow to buy time. Write what will stop your breath if you don’t write.” 

         Though we suffered the loss of her, I am glad that she was spared living through recent events in our country which I think would have pained her deeply, as evidenced by the following quote given when she was asked of the world that she hoped her grandchildren would live in;

       "It would be a world without militarism and racism and greed – and where women don't have to fight for their place in the world."

      We can do better. We can bring more Grace to the way we live.

                                                            

      Still, we must not give up. As evidenced by these words she also left for us;

"Let us go forth with fear and courage and rage to save the world."

      And here in a 1992 interview Grace talks about her writing;

http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/2028/the-art-of-fiction-no-131-grace-paley

White Mother Musings

       This is a painful week of Thanksgiving. The proudly American holiday of counting our blessings and of celebrating and sharing our abundance, occurring at the same time as all of the ugly truths and falsehoods in Ferguson remind us, yet again, of all that we have not accomplished as a nation. An ugly old legacy we just can't seem to process.
      I don't want to add to the divisiveness, which is so severe, that maybe, just maybe, some good can come from it. So I'm not blogging on the subject to engage in debate, simply as a bit of reflection.
      I just keep thinking of the Mom. Michael Brown's mother, Mrs. Lesley McSpadden.
      I have a son who is 6.4 and 250 lbs. too. I've had some fears for him since he achieved that size. My son, too, did some stupid things when he was a teenager. Mine too had several "brushes with the law", (though his were for marijuana and nothing violent). And the law where I live always allowed, even encouraged, me to throw wads of cash at them as a resolution. Which I always did. I have never had to worry, or even contemplate, that he would be shot six times. Shot dead.
      Sadly, I know many people will annihilate my analogy to justify the death, saying it was necessary and/or deserved. I have heard the arguments. They have accepted the old-as-the-Emancipation Proclamation self-defense testimony of a white man of equal size calling the suspect a hulk and a demon. Let's say, for the sake of argument, that that were true (though I don't find it all credible or even remotely believable in this case), we should still ask, we should still care, why? Why would any of that behavior have occurred? If the suspects were white youth what would have been different?
      What if he were your son?
      I'm going to share again the poem I wrote after the Zimmerman verdict, and am so sorry for the Browns. I wish them peace and comfort this week and always. What I know for sure is that while I can sympathize I cannot know their sorrow. I simply cannot know it. I can imagine it is unbearable, but I will never know.

My son and a friend in the back of my car a few years back.

      Lastly, since my blog is supposed to be about writing, I leave you with this excerpt from a 1960 American masterpiece of literature;

“The one place where a man ought to get a square deal is in a courtroom, be he any color of the rainbow, but people have a way of carrying their resentments right into a jury box. As you grow older, you’ll see white men cheat black men every day of your life, but let me tell you something and don’t you forget it - whenever a white man does that to a black man, no matter who he is, how rich he is, or how fine a family he comes from, that white man is trash.”

                                                                       ~ from To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee.

For the Other Parents

Since the year 1863

there has been a talk many American parents

have to have with their American sons

at just about the time that their son’s

voices begin to change, and their muscles

harden into impending manhood,

at just about the time that referring

to the boy as boy becomes something else.

They say things like these,

things I have never had to say to my son,

nor have any of my ancestors

since the year 1863.

***

There will be times, from now on

when people will be afraid of you.

You have to be aware of this at all times,

to develop a sense for it, to feel it

before it turns bad, because

very bad things can happen to you

when people are afraid of you.

You can’t play with toy guns anymore,

or swords, or pick up pipes, or even sticks.

Always be aware of your surroundings.

Try not to go anywhere alone,

especially at night.

If you’re being followed try to find someone

so you’re not alone.

Cooperate with authorities even when

your dignity makes that hard.

Don’t do anything with your hands but put them up.

Don’t worry about winning or losing.

Your goal is to survive.

Let them stand their hallowed ground

that they’re afraid of you taking.

You just stay alive.

And always - remember

there is nothing wrong with you,

nothing wrong with the way you look.

You are who you have always been

and that is the ground that

you have to stand.

by Tammi J Truax

all right reserved

NYC Reading

      It was a thrill to be invited to participate at a recent reading at Book Culture in Manhattan, a book shop known to be very poetry friendly.

                                      


     The reading was for The Widows' Handbook: Poetic Reflections on Grief and Survival, edited by Jacqueline Lapidus and Lise Menn (Kent State University Press, 2014). While I have met many of the other poets included in the anthology who are from New England, the opportunity to meet several others from the greater NYC area was a privilege. The book is doing fairly well, and has gone into a second printing. As you prepare for holiday shopping, consider buying a copy for someone on your gift list who is dealing with loss. It really is a special collection.

      More info can be found here: http://www.widowshandbookanthology.com/

      Here I am taking my turn at the podium, with the panel of contributing poets seated behind me.

       I knew that I would find some great books to assist in my novel research at Book Culure, and I was right. Here they are, and they made the long bus ride home enjoyable.