Some Fellows at the William N Banks Studio:

Marilyn Hacker: July 1980
Kathy Mangan: Sept-Oct 1982
Patricia Clark: June-July 1984
Phillis Levin: Jan 1987
Franz Kafka   Gedichter   Februar 1987 [I think this may be a joke]
Kathy Fagan: July-Aug 1988
Sara Rath: Mar 1989
Stephen Dunn: Aug 1992
Jeffrey Eugenides: Aug-Sept 1994
Tina Chang: Sept-Oct 2001
Jo McDougall: 1998 & 2003
April Bernard: Dec 2003
Cecilia Vicuña: Aug-Sept 2004
Kenny Fries: December 2002, 2003, 2004
Me! Jan-Feb 2005

Maybe some of the magic will rub off on me?

I saw more tracks in the snow. Hooves and spurs, tiny pawed tracks, and another, larger. Stories in the snow of chases and hunger, and scents.

I wrote a long poem, with which I'm cautiously pleased. Hard to say what I'll end up accepting. Everything I write feels so raw, but the rate at which I'm creating is unreal, accelerated.

Laundry day today. Poetry is a dirty business.

I'm posting out more copies of my chapbook—hurray for the sock fund! Please don't be shy about requesting details for ordering a copy. Just leave your email address in the comments.

Later: I just saw a herd of deer, about half a dozen. They stood and stared at me under some pines as I stood and stared at them, whispered hello. I walked forward, and they bounded off, crossing the road to the other side. One trailed behind, caught up with the rest, vanished into dusk.

Excerpt from 'Kitchen (door)':

a halogen lamp
interrogates the corner
the basket
the chipboard floor
shadows on wallpaper
black as an alibi

I've been reading poetry journals and books—absorbing, absorbing. So glad the library's here. Wouldn't have been able to afford all the books I've been plowing through otherwise.

Two good things: A game of ping-pong to warm you up. And eggs benedict with hollandaise sauce, and potato patties for breakfast.

Later: It was groovy to meet some 'locals', Lorianne of Hoarded Ordinaries and beth of Cassandra Pages. Hot beverages are cool.

And The Toadstool Bookshop have four signed copies of my chapbook. Victory!

A group of us went sledding before dinner. It was my adrenaline rush for the day. Feels so good to laugh, and feel cold, then warm. I went down in a little plastic seat with a butt shape and handles on the side. Strange contraption that actually goes quite fast. I also went in a pink dish thing. Oh, snow!

Just now the phonebox ate my money! I tried to audiopost a poem, but I don't quite know how to work the phone in the phonebooth. I think I dialled the wrong number. I'll wait until I get more coinage and try again later.

It was a good poem, too. I think.

French toast and real maple syrup for breakfast: how am I going to leave this place?

Ah, there I go again, anticipating my sadnesses. I guess it just makes me savour what I have.

I am writing so many poems. A fellow poet who's been here 10 days has written 22 sonnets. 'That's great!' I said. 'Well, that they're any good is another matter,' she smiled. Yes. It might not be until I come away from here that I can read what I've written and consider whether they're any good. I'm too much in the fire.

Let me burn.

Excerpt from 'Hunger strike':

I take needle and thread
pick a blanket stitch
sew my lips shut

the needle curves
into a hook for me
I push it in easily

first the verticals
then the horizontals
there's little blood

it blackens as it dries
punctuates each hole
in stitched ellipsis

I had a breakthrough! I've moved past the functional, serviceable poems of the last few days [jetlag-tinged, sleep-deprived] to ones I like. I'm feeling so blessed, so lucky at the moment.

Another thing I'm discovering while I'm here is that I can work on a lot of poems at the same time. Before, it's been 'plod one, plod two, plod three'. Now, it's 'okay, check over the poem from the previous night this morning, write a new one in the afternoon, think up lines and percolate overnight...' And of course, the process could just get speeded up as the days go on. This is just so darn exciting!

I went to the composers' presentation last night at the library, which was my first visit. Books! Poetry books! So I'll be in there checking it out. Two copies of my chapbook are there—tee-hee! All those important tomes and there I am with mine. You have to laugh.

By the way, the music from the composers was enjoyable. Though I don't think I'll ever get opera...

Today is cold, bright and clear.

Inspiration is wonderful when it happens, but the writer must develop an approach for the rest of the time... The wait is simply too long.
—Leonard Bernstein

If you'd like to order a copy of my chapbook what's wrong, please leave your email in the comments. I'm only in the States for less than a month.

I'm also going to try and entice a local bookshop here to stock copies of it. That'd be cool if they say yes.

There's a presentation tonight in the library from two composers—that should be interesting.

Oh, my so-called muse kept nudging me awake during the night, making me write lines in my sleep. That must be why I'm feeling woozy this morning...

I saw tracks across the snow this morning. I wonder what animal it was that made them?

Later: The Toadstool Bookshop said they'd take some copies when I go see them on Sunday. Huzzah!

Banks Studio is where I'm staying. It's a live-in studio about an 8-10 minute walk from Colony Hall [an important hub for breakfast, dinner, internet and meeting fellow Fellows]. My studio is in the lower floor, behind those arched french windows. The window next to the front door [towards the side, next to that tree] is my sleeping quarters. It feels very spacious to me, and a very welcome sight when walking through the woods at night.

I don't think anybody else is staying in the other rooms, although there have been odd creakings at night. Hmm, maybe I've just imagined it.

This is where I've set up Command Headquarters, otherwise known as my desk. I managed to knock out a poem through the hallucinatory haze of jetlag, but who knows what it's like today. It's a very airy room, perfect for ballroom dancing for two or three couples, I think. I took some time arranging everything, reading a bit, looking out the window and getting my bearings.

There's a fireplace in the room, too. It's huge and, impressively, has a pair of sconces, with mostly melted candle wax dripping off it. All around are the tombstones, wooden plaques inscribed by previous Fellows who'd stayed in that studio, and worked on their art during that time.

Around midday, my lunch basket manifested outside my door, resting above the woodpile. Inside, it contained a yummy soup, quite tart on the tongue, sliced carrots and radishes, lettuce with some vinegary dressing, and I think some patty-like things made with dark, wild rice, chopped capsicum [a.k.a. bell peppers] and more— I think they were calzones? Whatever they were, it was delish. Plus, an orange and a thermos of iced tea.

I made a valiant attempt at writing something, but I admitted defeat around 2.30pm, by which time, I'd decided to be at Colony Hall for a lift into town to get some stamps, and post off chapbooks and postcards. Peterborough has a lovely village feel about it, and Blake, who delivers the lunch, does lots of other things for the Colony, and has lived in the area for 25 years, told stories as he drove Kit [who works in film] and I in the van.

I'd overheard people talking about seeing coyote tracks. I'd left dinner early [spaghetti with parmesan, lots of salad], as that heavy jetlag feeling had come over me. I didn't even stay for dessert but took away some bananas, in case I needed a sugar rush. Coupled with an overactive imagination, the walk was slightly more adrenaline-pumped than if it had taken place in the daytime. My little torch cast scary shadows. I hoped I wouldn't fall, and then freeze, and get eaten by a coyote, or a cougar, or some other four-legged furry beast with sharp teeth.

But I made it safe and sound, and mighty glad to get to my room for a long, deep sleep.

Snow had come in overnight, and it was still snowing on my walk in to breakfast. I've never seen this kind of settling snow, which drifts and piles around, and collects in the corners of my clothes. It's like Christmas or something, and instead of looking at the postcard, I'm in the postcard, and the snow is melting on my skin.

Well, I'm at MacDowell, and it's pretty darn cold! But the snow is so beautiful and otherworldly, and not a little bit scary when walking through the woods. I'm in the Banks studio, about 10 minutes walk away from the Colony. Mavis Cheek stayed in my room! Wahey!

I can smell coffee perking in the kitchen. I'm a bit early for breakfast but I wanted some quiet time to write before anybody got here. I was up at 4am and couldn't get back to sleep.

Apart from the other residents chatting to me as I ate a quick dinner, another wonderful greeting manifested when I arrived—the mail I've received requesting my chapbook! Didn't I feel popular? Yes, I did. I'll be posting a batch this afternoon, as soon as I figure out how to get to the post office.

This entry sounds scattered. Blame it on the jetlag.

The immigration guy asked me what I was doing in the US for a month. 'Holiday.'

'Month seems an awfully long time for a holiday.'

'Well, I'm actually here on a writing residency. I'll be writing poems for a month.'

'Well, that's a first.'

After some fingerprinting and picture-taking, and as he was finishing up, he said, 'I don't mean to sound facetious, but you're going up there to write poetry for a month?'

'Yes.'

'Alright...' he said, almost distrustfully. He stamped my passport and waved me through.

Leaving
on a jet plane...

Here I go!

This seems the nature of all writing: an awkward fumbling after grace, an interruption of everyday life in which we try to redeem something from that mostly graceless endeavour. Like fly-fishing, writing is an elaborate conspiracy to make lyrical an activity that is inherently a business of barbs and worms.
—Wayne Fields

I've been preoccupied with the business of readying myself, preparing to live a month in the States. This is just going to be so cool! From next week onwards, New Hampshire will be my new home.

I really haven't had much mind left in me to write anything. Still, that could be a good thing. I might just be storing it all up, ready to be unleashed once I get there.

Another thing I'm excited about is this second manuscript. I'd recently mailed off an application for some funding to write it next year, and boy, I made it sound so good, I can't wait to see it done! This is so unlike the first one, containing separate gears, parts and narratives. And ambitious! I hope I pull it off.

I like Nick Carbó's poem.

Thank you to Alberto Romero Bermo of Sea-Camel for mentioning my chap. So strange to see that picture in a different context, i.e. on the page of someone else's blog.

And for those interested in ordering a copy of what's wrong while I'm in the States, please leave your email in the comments and I'll get in touch.

Later: Now Eduardo C. Corral of Asleep Inside an Old Guitar has a huge one up, too. Tee-hee!

Excerpt from 'there's only ever been two':

a mushroom soaks in honey
the room whitens like a bone
exposed and we stand like posts
a thin string nailed between us
our eyes feel the heat shimmer
as something evaporates

Nudging an editor this week, I wrote:

I recall that you wanted to get in touch around this time, and thought I should drop you a note, because I'm leaving for a residency soon. I'd really like to know more about the anthology you'd mentioned, which sounds very exciting.

She wrote back soon after:

Hello Ivy,
I'll be getting back to you this week about your poems.

Apart from that little exchange, there's been nought but the sound of my brain hurting from putting together one more application before I go.

I have nothing to say and I am saying it and that is poetry.
—John Cage

Three nights of fever and chills, but I'm on the mend. I'm packing up soon to go to New Hampshire! Yay, poetry! One million poetry thoughts a day helps keep the stupid flu-bug-cold away.

Hm, maybe I'm still delirious.

More chapbooks are being printed as we speak. Excellent news.

Thanks again to Michael Wells of Stick Poet Super Hero for mentioning my chap.

I'd like to draw your attention to this Poetry Fundraiser for Tsunami Victims.

spider's canopy
makes a fragile chandelier
of scattered raindrops

Excerpt from 'fossil':

the day of her arrival is a fossil.
exposed, it erodes
it crumbles apart
grain by grain

Warm thanks to Steve Laidlaw of riley dog..half-baked cookies in the oven..fruitcakes on the street.. for mentioning my chap. Yay!

Another close one:

Thank you for sending your contribution. [...] We liked these poems very much. There's some lovely writing here, gentle, subtle, thought-provoking. The poems have a real sense of poise, and integration. Of these, I think 'gen' and 'length' are best—they really do reach out and touch the reader. Two poems, however, isn't good enough for me—I almost always publish at least 3 (depending on length) by any one poet. The others, good though they are, I feel are rather self-absorbed, and don't make that contact with the reader, which is why I'm not taking them—this after much deliberation. Sorry to disappoint you. [...]

Do try us again. This was a near miss! By all means resubmit the poems mentioned above—or any of the others if you decide to revise them. Mention in your covering letter that you've been invited to do this—we get a huge number of submissions in, and I'm not good with names!

Dagnabbit! I'm into my third year of trying to get into this journal, though this is the first time they've asked me to resend particular poems.

Still. I can see how carefully she's read my work. That's cool. [Woohoo, 'poise' and 'integration'!] And I do feel a sense of rapport with this editor—I know where she's coming from—which is part of the reason I keep trying. I mean, look at how many em dashes [—] she uses! Plus, the journal she edits is ace. So. I shall perservere.

And once I get in, I'll write a tell-all about this saga, I think. This could be the year!

You're Special Agent Dale Cooper. You're often too
brilliant for people to really follow, but your
infectious enthusiasm makes up for the fact
that you're frequently incomprehensible. You
are smart, intuitive, clear-headed,
compassionate, and cute as hell -- about your
only flaw is your insane coffee consumption.


Which Twin Peaks character are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

[via Radish King]

Write a wise saying and your name will live forever.
—Anonymous

Just one sweet line today:

I'm sorry, but we won't be taking any of these poems for publication.

Notes on Suzanne Frischkorn's Red Paper Flower:

I'm overwhelmed by the cumulative effect of Red Paper Flower's mood on me. Like being hit by a velvet hammer, one is left wondering, what had just happened?

Red Paper Flower is an apt title for this collection, I think: these are poems fragile and full of fire. All the dark longing in it made me want to beat my head. With grief? I don't know. I have more questions than answers... and that's a good thing. It's not often that I am stunned and puzzled at the same time.

Furthermore, the husband poems tickle the underbelly of my sense of humour—I don't know why. Suzanne, you've given me plenty to think about.

Thanks to Mike Snider and his Formal Blog and Sonnetarium for mentioning my chap.

A poem is like a radio that can broadcast continuously for thousands of years.
—Allen Ginsberg

Procrastinating once more on another application, which really needs to be done before I leave for the States. Really, though, who can remember one's results from high school and university? Ah, these necessary weevils.

There's also two poetry competitions I'd like to enter, not to mention the future purchase of my beloved springback binder.

Oh, and I must remember to prod that publisher who hasn't yet responded to a query I sent over a year ago. Now, where's that stick?

I've had amazing responses to what's wrong—it's really quite heady. A second print-run is happening this week, circumstances willing.

Publication Activity Report
for October 1-December 31

Publishers queried re manuscript: 1
Queries returned: 2
Publishers requesting the full ms: 1
Publishers sent the full ms: 3
Publishers who returned the full ms: 1

Poetry ms competitions entered: 1
Poems entered in competitions: 5
Place-getter: 1 [woohoo!]

Poems contributed: 79
Poems returned: 54
Poems accepted: 5

Bursaries applied for: 1
Fellowships awarded: 1 [yay!]

Chapbooks published: 1 [double-yay!]

Excerpt from 'beast':

this is where I fall most often:
a glance like the lion gives
an antelope—intent gaze
that does not break—even as it singes
grass underfoot

For those in the US or Canada who'd like to request a copy of my chapbook what's wrong, I'll be in New Hampshire at the end of the month, bearing many copies, so you can get yours promptly, compared with waiting a week for it to arrive from the UK.

Luckily, the man at MacDowell Colony has given me the thumbs-up to receive mail care of their address during my poetry residency there. Yay! Let's talk chaps.

I envision using the money to buy thick woollen socks, and thermal underwear. So there. Help keep a poet warm this winter.

Thanks to Michael Wells of Stick Poet Super Hero and Suzanne Frischkorn of litwindowpane for mentioning my chap.

what's wrong
a chapbook of ten poems

• One year • Everdearest Ann • Rituals • Something for you • Nothing more to say • what's wrong • Last night • limbo • The Ballad of Ann and Bill • as I stand •

Cover image: 'Looking Away'
by poet and artist Christine Hamm

"...gave me chills the first time I read it"
—Maureen Thorson, author of Novelty Act

"Dark, lyrical and lush."
—Suzanne Frischkorn, author of Red Paper Flower

Click on the link on the sidebar [under Ivy's chapbooks] for more details.

From my small notebook:

The idea of leaving? She's thought about it, but a certain blankness entered the thought, like peering over into vertigo, the cliff's edge yawning, bored and casual.

You must tell me how it happened. Why.

Why?

So I can be prepared.

I jump on a meme. [via Eduardo of Asleep Inside an Old Guitar]

Poetry is beyond poets.
— Alberto Romero Bermo

I've just flown back into Wales from Australia and boy, are my arms tired!

I am also happy because I have been pawing through all the mail I've accumulated while I've been away in Australia. I love mail, even when it contains returns from two publishers ['We're sorry to say that we don't feel we would be the right publisher for your work...'] and a journal:

Thanks for sending your poems. We have read and considered them — 'Sweet' most closely — but regret that on this occasion, we feel we cannot offer publication. Good luck with them elsewhere.

Also in the mail, a poem on a postcard from Brianna of Wonderblossom, who was in Nicaragua at the time, and my subscriptions from The Rialto, Poetry Ireland Review, and THE SHOp. Yay, poetry!

And a very intriguing discussion on editing a poetry journal takes place in the comments of C Dale Young's Avoiding the Muse.

I saw dolphins for the first time in Australia. And echidnas—three of them!

While I was away, a return letter came in the mail:

Dear Poet

Apologies for the delay in responding to your work. This has happened partly because I insist on reading everything that comes in and partly because there is so much poetry arriving for the journal nowadays.

I usually respond personally to all submissions but in an attempt to move through the piles of poems more quickly, I'm sending this letter instead.

Please be assured that your poems have been read, with interest and enjoyment or concern and sympathy. I'm excited that so much good poetry is being written at the moment.

Do send more of your work in a month or so. [...]

That bit was typed. This bit was written:

I read these with interest: happy to read others.

Yay! Double yay!

Every poem is a momentary mainstay against the confusion of the world.
—Robert Frost

I'm so pleased because Collected Works bookshop in Melbourne has stocked a small number of copies of my chapbook! Now isn't that a good start to 2005?

I also managed to put together a batch to another Australian journal. Happy New Year!