Schools of Poetry

I'm three weeks into an eight week poetry class. It is called Reading for Writers and it is a literary gallop through twentieth century schools of poetry. I did not major in literature in college, hell, I barely eked my way through high school. So I was a bit worried about my ability to comprehend an academic jog through poetry. I had no idea that poetry was categorized by 'schools'. I can only describe this by having you think about different movements in visual arts. Impressionism, cubism, surrealism and others. As with the visual arts, different movements of poetry emerge to follow, reflect and shape the times. Many of the names are shared and overlap or run concurrently in time. We study two schools each week, read poetry aloud from the genre, and get a brief history of some of the known and lesser known poets who practiced in that style. It is heady stuff. I am not as well read as others in the class. I used to be the kind of poet who only wanted to write the stuff, not read the fluff. Sorry I couldn't resist throwing a rhyme in here. It is not what I really mean either. I understand my poetry. I may not understand yours... or theirs! Back in June I wrote about not being accepted into a year-long program called The Poetry Collective. The teacher of my current class is one of the facilitators of the collective. I was not devastated when I wasn't accepted. My philosophy was that I wasn't ready. Not Yet. A friend of mine who read my Not Yet piece had also applied and was also not accepted. Notice how I do not use the word rejected. I had enough of that crap in high school, no need for that in the fourth quarter of my life. Anyway, my friend said my piece was graceful. I think he meant gracious, but I like the twist. Maybe it is grace-full to not harbor resentment. Not being accepted pushed me into committing to a nighttime class in a not-so-nice neighborhood that is almost 35 minutes from home. If I had not applied and had not mentally accepted I wasn't ready, I may not have paid my money to take this class that is stretching my view of my favorite thing in life; poetry. I show up early, not because I am an overachiever but because I want a parking spot in the small lot. I may write poetry, but my head is not in the clouds. I am practical and poetic. It gives me a chance to review the weeks readings. Clear my head if it's been a rough day physically. I eat a snack - I am truly famous for having food in my car at all times. It has been suggested by the teacher to attempt to write the same poem in each of the different schools. I love a challenge. What I find hard is to pre-write a piece about a movement we have yet to study and discuss, so I have felt a week behind the last couple of classes. I am going to try and play catch-up and be more prepared. Procrastination is one of my character defects. Perhaps that is why I was not a successful student in past endeavors. At 59 I am not too old to change my ways. Last week I published a poem called Platt Park on an October Afternoon. It was an imagistic poem and I felt like I nailed it. I love to evoke images in the readers mind. Take you - them - there with me. Wherever it might be. This week's poem is based on the same lunch, in the same park. I am actually not sure if it is vorticism or futurism. I just know I had a tough time reconfiguring the original into a more masculine, mechanical poem. Here is a peek into my mind and the process. The boys in the park had skateboards as their transport mode. Since mechanical references are part of both these schools (I think?) I read about the history and construction of skateboards. The references to the parts are smattered throughout my poem. The double meaning is left to you the reader, but every part; kingpin, bowl, half-pipe, pivot cup, maple board, goofy and regular, grip, bushings all have an alternative way to look at the word. It has everything to do with skateboards and nothing to do with skateboards. Enjoy! Propelled by Gravity

Eating my sandwich of barbed wire and nails

Full bowls and half-pipe dreams

Dirt and grime inhibit the grip

Tricks performed on concave maple boards

Full bowls and half-pipe dreams

A kingpin holds it all together

Tricks performed on concave maple boards

Stiff bushings make the turns easier to bear

A kingpin holds it all together

Imperfect fit.  Pivot cups endure the hard times

Stiff bushings make the turns easier to bear

I scrutinize these boys; regular and goofy

Imperfect fit.  Pivot cups endure the hard times

Dirt and grime inhibit the grip

I scrutinize these boys; regular and goofy

Eating my sandwich of barbed wire and nails By the way the above poem is a Pantoum. Time to Write, Jane

Platt Park on an October Afternoon

Platt Park on an October Afternoon

Scanning the expansive green of the park

Spying an empty bench with a warm

Ray of sunlight across the brown metal slats

Two little girls in pink tutu’s

On scooters, helmets with plumage

Toddler flamingoes gliding across the concrete sea

Near the edge, young adults in sleeping bags

Uncamouflaged lifeless mounds

Haystacks of homelessness

Lunching on Brussels sprouts with lemon aioli

Roasted golden yams under a brittle blue sky

My mind wanders, my eyes dart

Between the fuchsia flamingoes and the wingless wanton

How can just a few short years separate

Brilliant flightless birds from those with clipped wings?

Never a Dull Moment

When folks ask me what I write, I tell them this - Poetry, prose and prattle.  I am a poet first.  Prose can be fiction or true life and I lean strongly to the latter.  Prattle is just going on and on, mostly about myself (my blog, lol), sometimes nonsensical, more often an honest accounting of a life event.

What about fiction? is inevitably the next question.  Don't I want to be a novelist?  Mmm, not really.  I prefer non-fiction in both my reading and my writing.  A few years back I stopped, then haltingly restarted, reading fiction.  Damn, there are many good books out there.  Wonderful stories by prolific authors that beg me to keep turning the page.  But, there is also much to learn, hence my predilection for non-fiction.  Memoir, to me, is a nice mix of both the F and NF words.  I enjoy reading about others lives, triumphs and tragedies.  Oy vas mir* - how cliché.  It is also a challenge for me to take a small happening or a series of events in my life and string them cohesively into an enjoyable tale.

The freedom of memoir speaks to me.  My recollection.  My purview.  How I lived it and how I remember it.  I never set out to be a teller of tales, but as I get a little bit older, I find it enjoyable to both orally relate stories and type them out for perpetuity.  I've always considered myself a skeptic, a cynic and sarcastic.  Why not translate that wry way of thinking into pleasurable tid-bits for my friends and sometimes family?  I say sometimes because I think some of my relatives (siblings, perhaps?) are my least enthusiastic readers.  That's OK.  I can't compete with the NYT crossword puzzle and Joe Kenda.

About two years ago I began attending a 'memoir' class for those of us over 55.  Yep, I qualify and then some.  We've been through a few iterations of purpose and now meet weekly to discuss all types things; writing, written, wrote, rote, and verboten.  Lively, intellectual discussion followed by a prompt driven in class write, reading our piece if we want to.  We meet at a Denver Public Library, the teachers are delightful and volunteer their time and efforts to keep us amused and stimulated.  I try to make every class because I always get a decent 'write' out of the day, or at least some motivation to go home and keep at it.

Last Friday we continued our discussion of Strunk and White's The Elements of Style.  I knew I owned a copy, most assuredly a thrift store find of yore, but couldn't put my hands on it.  I've been borrowing the libraries edition and can say with much relief that I found my own book early this morning while pulling out a poetry book from my one little bookshelf.  Moments like these give me extreme pleasure and reaffirm my belief in a Higher Power.  After debating fancy words, orthodox spelling and over explaining, Ray handed out our weekly prompt.  Always two to choose from and I took on this one. "Dull not to..."  Here is my (almost) unedited write.  I did read my piece with a preface that I also share with you.  This may or may not be fiction.  Pick your own parts to believe.
Enjoy!

DULL, not to be confused with drab or simple minded.  He of dull mind.  She's a dull girl.  No.  This dull is an acronym:

Divorced
Uninhibited
Lusty
Ladies

It is a private club.  Not too small with a few chapters spread throughout the United States.  Denver's chapter, the charter, is quite active.  Active.  With a capital 'A'.

Mostly we began as a group of women who had led formerly dull- yes dull in the conventional sense- lives.  Children and dishes.  Laundry and missionary.  Gossip and homework.  Church, PTA and the hundreds of other things dull women do.

I started the Denver chapter in 2008; the year of my divorce.  The acronym back then stood for:

Denver
Unites
Lovely
Lonely(s)

We were a kind of lonely hearts club for women who were a bit
older, unfamiliar with the dating protocol du jour. Gals who wanted to go out, have some fun, build friendships.  Breakaway from the formerly mundane (dull?) lives of housewifery.  And boy!  Did we do that and more.

Dating younger men.  Exploring one-night stands.  Chippendale's.  Belly dancing in the moonlight.  Flirting with men in cars - but only orange cars.  Calling old boyfriends.  Facebook hook-ups.  J-Swipe and Tinder for seniors.

The twelve of us were completely out of control.  Word got around and more women burnt their bras, put purple streaks in their hair, bought black thongs.  And I don't mean sandals.  We were wild women!  Girls gone crazy. 

Chapters sprung up in New York, LA and Chicago.   National conventions convened.  T-shirts were made.  Key-tags for members gave us discounts at Christal's stores nationwide.

What started out as a small group of horny middle-aged women grew into a monster, a machine of it's own.  Every time I typed the newsletter I feared the porno police would beat down my door.  My ex told my kids I was not only unfit, but a sex addict.  My friends no longer talked to me for fear I would recruit them.  

Now I am in the process of rebranding this non-profit again. Can you believe we are a 501c3?  Our new acronym will still be dull:

Divas
Uninterested in
Living
Large

Time to Write,

Jane

* Oy vas mir - woe is me

Fire Five

Fire Five

By Jane Hillson Aiello

June 2017

Fire took my neighborhood
But left a house for me
And though I had a place to live
My heart yearned to be free

Fire took my friends’ abodes
Houses turned to ash
And though my house was standing
Still… I wanted a new path

Fire took my life purview
Of want and need and stuff
And though ‘twas hard to let it go
I knew I’d have enough

Marriage done and children grown
Fire roared - go it alone
Sold my house, family treasures
Fire whispered - find new pleasures

Fire took part of my soul
Singed me to the core
Yet embers of the life I loved
Live in me evermore

Ah, Denver

Denver.  Legalized marijuana.  Population boom.  Gentrification.  Traffic.  Front Range.  Blue skies and brown clouds.  Great food - farm to table.  Hipsters and homelessness.

Denver.  I first came here in 1978.  It was a cross country trip that is best not discussed here.  Suffice to say that when my friends headed to California, I stayed in Denver.  When they passed through on the way back east, I stayed here.  When my mom needed some serious surgery I went back east and helped to take care of her.  And I worked my ass off to finance a return trip to Colorado that would last almost ten years.

I've lived in Denver, Evergreen, Lakewood, Colorado Springs, Fort Collins and Centennial.  And maybe a few other places I have not named.  Colorado Springs holds the record for longevity.  But then fire took my neighborhood and compelled me to leave Mountain Shadows and a house that never felt like home to me.

Now I live in south suburban Denver.  I am close enough to Littleton and Highlands Ranch that I could probably vigorously spit and hit either one of those enclaves.  I dream of being an urbanite, but the parking and traffic deter me.  So do the rental prices.  And dealing with the density and being hit-up for money at every foray into the city.

I belong to myriad cultural organizations that are in Denver proper.  Museums, Gardens and the like.  I find myself driving quite often into central or downtown Denver.  Parking is surprisingly easy most days.  I grew up in New York and can usually manage to parallel park with ease.  The uneasy part is being hustled almost every time I exit my car.  No I don't have 'extra' money to spare.  No I can't buy you a bottle - Jeez the kid who asked me that was about 14.

Last Sunday I found myself at the DCPA* complex on the south edge of the downtown area.  I attended an event billed I AM DENVER.  Parking here was tricky.  Most of the meters had yellow hoods over them.  Meters are free on Sundays, but these hoods are deceiving.  Is the meter hooded because parking is complimentary?  I got out and read the 'rules' on the sidewalk side.  Seemed to indicate I shouldn't park there.  I drove around, found a spot and had to walk just a couple of blocks. I perused the city of Denver website for insight on the rules, but that was an unfruitful search.  Maybe I'll call them.  The old fashioned way.

Through a series of prompts and exercises, I came away from this no-fee writing workshop with two decent stories.  I was surprised that more people weren't there.  Am I just cheap...always looking to do things that are free and different?  Then I remember that Sundays in Colorado are sport days.  The Rockies were playing at home.  The Broncos were away.  Note to self - avoid heading toward the highway to come home at two pm...  backroads, country roads and city streets rule!  Plus I know my way around pretty well!

There were also opportunities to pod-cast and/or video record your stories.  I took advantage of both.  You can read my unedited stories in this blog.  They are both true, to the best of my recollection.  I admit to changing a slight detail in the Cherry Creek piece.  It was Gene Paul who had the Cadillac, not his wife.  But literary license allows me to not have to introduce another character into a short write.  Consolidation has a legitimate place in memoir.  In my opinion.  Plus I am 'fessing up here.

Enjoy my (mostly) unedited versions of my two I AM DENVER stories:

Cherry Creek (podcast)

When I first came to Denver in 1979

I fell into a neighborhood

I fell into a job

Cherry Creek, when Cherry Creek was

Low brick ranchers and the mall was small

Burgers at the Cherry Cricket, or Round the Corner

I worked at Cherry Creek Jewelers

For the Paul family

Fortunately for them 

I came fully trained

From my Dad's store in New York City

I could tell a diamond from a CZ

Engrave by machine or hand

Wearing heels from Ferragamo's

Riding my bike a few short blocks

To work for this Denver family

Celebrating Dee Paul's milestone birthday

We went to Elway's just a few blocks from where

Her store stood, where she parked her baby blue Cadillac

Her son asked her if she remembered

Remembered the store that we all worked at

At First and Fillmore

And this woman - born at Mercy Hospital

Former shoe model for Neusteters 

Descendent of Globeville and Derby landowners replied

In her gravelly, but still strong, 90 year old voice

"I remember Cherry Creek when it was just a field

Sun Valley (videotaped)

This old photo of the 'new' Elitch's reminded me of all those years ago when my boyfriend and I went to a Bronco's game.  I am sure we were gifted those tickets because even in the early eighties (before that photo was taken) we couldn't afford the price of admission. Back then there were many older houses dotting the land on the west side of I-25 - the Valley Highway.  There were a few flat lots to park in, but they were pricy for a couple of kids in their early twenties.  Pete drove a grey Buick of some sort that we all called the Silver Bullet.  A nod to Coors, Colorado Kool-Aid, 3.2%.

These row houses now long gone in favor of the newer stadium and other development were mostly occupied by Hispanics.  And many of these folks offered parking on their driveways or lawns, enabling people to walk to the old Mile-High.  We paid our six bucks and said a little prayer.  We hoped our car would be there, intact, upon our return.

I can't remember who the Broncos played that day.  I can't remember if they even won.  The most memorable part of that day was this.  We return to our vehicle start it up; preparing to leave.  The lady who took our money earlier that day came running out of her house with a small, steamy bag in hand. "Wait!  Wait!" she called out.  "I have a dozen tamales for you.  They are free with your parking fee." 

Time to Write,

Jane

*DCPA -Denver Center for the Performing Arts

Pretty in Pink

Most days, I exercise.  Most often I am barefooted.  Or in my little Nike Studio Wraps.  Either way my toes are exposed.  Ergo, I like pedicures.  I love having a flash of color on my toes.  I always want orange, but only indulge myself that favorite color in summer.  If my toes are orange in early fall, people infer I am a Broncos fan. (I'm indifferent) Mid autumn has folks thinking I love Halloween.
(I don't)  I just love orange.  Probably because my mother loved it and I try to find ways to honor her memory. I rarely pick red.  Not my favorite and in winter way too Christmassy.  People think I'm festive.  (I'm not)

This leaves me pinks and purples.  Yellows and greens - though I admit I've never chosen either of those hues.  I have braved a few shades of blue.  Turquoise is lovely, navy is too close to black.  Medium tones of blue denote those Broncos again...  I try to stretch this necessary pampering out to every five weeks in summer; six in winter.  But I always regret that decision.  I am on a medication for Rheumatoid Arthritis (RA) that thins my hair and splits my nails.  It seems my big toe likes to crack in half right down the middle.  I've come to view a pedicure as practically a medical necessity.  I'm determined to overcome my thriftiness by committing to every three weeks in summer and four during shoe season.

As much as I love having my toes done, I am not a manicure kind of gal.  My fingers look fat and feel swollen from the inflammation associated with having RA.  My nails are best kept short; before the breaking point.  I take folic acid daily to countereffect some the hair and nail issues caused by methotrexate.  Once a week, 6 to 12 hours after my self-injection of this 'cancer' drug, I ingest another medicine to further ward off the awful effects of taking a 'cure' that has my hair coming out in handfuls.  My nails thinning and splitting.

Last week I attended a day-long writer's conference.  I was seated next to Sandi Rhynard, the president of the Poetry Society of Colorado.  I noticed her hands.  They looked nice.  Trim with square cut nails; painted bright red.  I should have told her that her hands looked lovely.  Clean.  Ready to get to it.  And by it I mean writing.  Her hands got me to thinking how as writers (and she is a writer, as am I) our hands are our tools.  Almost vise-like as they hold the implement - be it pencil or pen - that enables us to scribble words on to a page.  Even when I choose to use my keyboard are my hands not the appendage doing the bidding of my brain?  What is in my mind is ultimately tapped out by my digits.  And who is it that gazes at these hands all day?  Why that would be me.  I follow my hand on the page while writing to ensure that I stay in the lines and don't exceed the margins.
When I type I am still looking at my hands.  All ten fingers in full view.  Shouldn't I have something pleasant to look at?

I've spent too many years picking at my cuticles and filing down nicks.  I've also become self conscious of the size of my fingers, though my Rheumy assures me they are "not too bad."  I  stopped wearing rings ages ago as to not draw attention to my hands.  Maybe I have this all wrong?  So when I called my nail place to get a same day appointment for a much needed foot fix, I easily replied yes when she upsold me to include a manicure.

I try not to overthink, but call me guilty!  All day I lamented the extra cost.  I couldn't stop thinking about whether I would go matchy-matchy or let the upper and lower halves of my body go rogue. I wondered why technicians always do the toes first, when it seems more logical to give my hands more time to dry.  After all my toes only have to grip the front part of my very expensive, anatomically correct flip-flops.  On the other hand - HA! - my hands have so much to do post manicure.  Pay for the services, dig out my car keys, start and steer the car.  Seriously the list is endless.  But I don't control the world, let alone this Asian nail salon - which I only mention because they sell homemade wontons as a side business.  Random, but true.

In the end I pick a medium shade of pink to grace my keratin.  It is not millennial pink which I did not even know was a thing until Nina Garcia mentioned it on Project Runway.  More to my own generation, I would call it Bazooka Joe pink, after the famously hard, tooth breaking, jaw aching bubble gum of my youth.  But the comic strip wrapper was an easy read!  I could stretch my imagination to say Pepto Bismol pink, but my mother actually never made me drink that vile bismuth concoction.  Thank goodness for the little things.

I get home and I am pretty darn happy.  One could even say tickled pink.  My toes look good, the split repaired.  Even and smooth.  Ready for the pool, yoga and dance.  My hands look good.  No hanging cuticles.  The gorilla look temporarily banished by a generous slathering of lotion.  However they are not ready.  Not ready to do dishes or any form of housework because I have no Playtex gloves!  The last thing I want to happen is messing up my mani before 24 hours have even passed.  I put my OCD aside and let the evening and the morning dishes sit.  Aaggh!  Dollar Tree to the rescue.  I will conquer the sink when I return home.

I have been sitting here writing and holding down the page with my left hand and every time I see those little pops of pink I smile.  I feel feminine.  Professional perhaps.  My hand(s) are my means to penning my poetry, prose and prattle.  I buy or liberate nice pens so the ink will flow smoothly.  I purchase cute notebooks and pads in order to spark something good (hopefully) to grace the pages.  A manicure seems a natural extension.

Here's my happy note.  I feel good with my hands looking good.  I may have to budget this treat and do it regularly.  I'm pretty in pink!

Time to Write,
Jane

Short and Sweet

Short and sweet.  Today's blog is nothing more than a simple rant on why I can and can't write to my heart's content.  What is this thing called life - obligation - that keeps getting in my way?  Children, grandchildren, laundry...

If I stay home I am inclined to clean the freezer, run an appliance or two.  If I visit my kids, I want to get on the floor and play with a toddler or baby.  If I go to a coffee shop I have to buy an expensive drink and then stew about my dislike of Starbucks, et al.

Right now I am in the library.  I do not own a printer so I come here to procure a page or two of necessities.  I like the wafting small voices coming from the children's library.  I like the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights.  I like the promise that the air will be ever so slightly warmer when I exit this building than when I entered.

I appreciate my fortitude to rise early, clean house, eat Wheatena for breakfast.  I dig knowing the dishwasher runs without me suffering the noise and cycles.  That laundry will  be dry.  The house aired out with an infusion of almost crisp fall breezes.

What keeps me from writing?  Actually, everything.  The TV, NPR, politics, lunch with friends.  The gym, Al-Anon, running errands.  Reading books, talking on the phone.  Facebook!  Damn that Facebook.  

Maybe this is all writing in disguise.  In order to write about life and love and loathing, I need experiences.  Human interaction.  If I choose to write about nature, I have to get out there and commune with the trees, and flowers.  Listen for birdsong - those feathered beauties have so much to teach me.

Short and sweet.  That is my mantra for today.

Time to Write,

Jane