The Big Poetry Giveaway 2012 — The Results

I’m later than I intended, but I’m sure you understand. But here at last are the results of my contribution to Kelli Russell Agodon‘s Big Poetry Giveaway. I chose the winners using the Random Number Generator. Last year I posted pictures of each result, but I don’t have time for such fussiness this year, so I hope you’ll just trust me.

To recap, this year’s prizes include a chapbook and 4 journal subscriptions (1 year each). The winners are:

Thanks so much to everyone who threw their names in the ring! I’ll contact the winners shortly for their addresses. New blog post coming soon, but in the meantime…

Georgia Revello Gauthier, born April 30, 2012.

The Big Poetry Giveaway 2012!

Tomorrow is April 1, the first day of National Poetry Month, which means it’s once again time for the Big Poetry Giveaway, a blog event created and organized by Kelli Russell Agodon where poets and poetry lovers giveaway two books of poems on their blog. Please visit her blog to get the full list of participants.

To play, all you need to do is leave a comment on this post. Usually, I then choose the winners, using the Random Number Generator, on May 1, but since I’ll be in hospital with the new baby then, I probably won’t have the chance to post the winners until around May 7.

This year’s prizes include a chapbook and 4 journal subscriptions (1 year each):

Let the games begin!

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I forgot the “about me” segment… Since I began this blog 4 years ago, my life has gone through seismic changes. From running a wonderful indie bookstore to working for my favorite small press, babies (babies! Me!) (and still another to come!), and last year the loss of my mother, my grief over which has rather taken over the world since. I keep no hard and fast rules regarding what I write about here, except that I tend not to mention my husband too much because he’s not comfortable with that. I have a chapbook, but it’s not part of the giveaway because I don’t have any copies. I’ll amend that one of these days — I think my local indie down the road still has a couple. I’m selectively submitting my full-length manuscript to a few very particular presses and contests, so knock wood that I’ll hear good news on that front one fine day. If you have a question you’ve always wanted to ask me, feel free to include that with your comment entry below!

Magical Thinking

If I’m mired in grief, it’s not for Mum’s death alone. Since March there have been so many losses:  four mothers dead, and only one of them mine, and another just 42, just last week.

This will surprise no one, but it’s not my grief that’s the most difficult, but the anguish of these bereft others. Because I know that anguish, down to each exquisite, excruciating detail, but I’m as helpless as anyone else to carry it for them, or even to get them to the other side. How can I? I’m not there yet myself.

And anyway, I don’t believe there is another side, just a coming-to-terms with the gaping lack that will forever lie at the center of your life. Learning to run like a three-legged dog — from certain angles others could forget what’s missing. The miracle that maybe a few times a day you will, too.

I delayed reading The Year of Magical Thinking a long time, thinking I might not be able to bear it.  But I found Joan Didion a kindred companion. It’s not so much that she’s unflinching — she flinches plenty, with plenty reason — but there’s an austerity to her tone, a matter-of-factness that refuses to apologize for itself:

‘I had done it. I had acknowledged that he was dead. I had done this in as public a way as I could conceive.

Yet my thinking on this point remained suspiciously fluid. At dinner in the late spring or early summer I happened to meet a prominent academic theologian. Someone at the table raised a question about faith. The theologian spoke of ritual itself being a form of faith. My reaction was unexpressed but negative, vehement, excessive even to me. Later I realized that my immediate thought had been: But I did the ritual. I did it all. I did St. John the Divine. I did the chant in Latin, I did the Catholic priest and the Episcopal priest, I did “For a thousand years in thy sight are but as yesterday when it is past” and I did “In paradisum deducant angel.

And it still didn’t bring him back.

“Bringing him back” had been through those months my hidden focus, a magic trick. By late summer I was beginning to see this clearly. “Seeing it clearly” did not yet allow me to give away the clothes he would need.’

— Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking

From the descriptions of her husband and their marriage that she laces throughout the narrative, you see that their lives were deeply intertwined, that they loved each other’s very thoughts. Didion relates the wild weavings, the unspoken beliefs we harbor in the backs of our minds, with an understatement that only serves to underscore the depth of her loss.

Grief comes to us all, but every grief is as unique as the one grieved. There’s no way around, only through. Didion’s book is more than a chronicle of a year’s grief, but a critical delving of that journey in 226 taut pages.

I borrowed this book from the library, and renewed it once already, though I’ve finished reading it, because I find so much in Didion’s emotional experience and her delineation of that experience that resonates for me, so many passages I want to return to.

Knowing it ends before the death of her daughter, I found myself wanting a second book, wanting the tribute to her husband that this book truly is be given to her daughter as well.

And so she has: Blue Nights is being published this fall.

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CREDO / Ariana Kelly

When I say loss, I mean loss.
Blue is elaborated by the blue jay,
black by the black fly,

but loss only licks the wounds
of more loss. Likewise,
the sea does not equivocate,

nor do the trees hesitate
in their implications.
Wind moves through the leaves,

italicizing them.

(from Poetry Northwest, Vol.VI, Issue I, Spring & Summer 2011)