Peggy Shumaker
Peggy started the morning talking about declarative sentences. She pointed out the differences between simply saying “I was terrified.” and “I was hoping to grow up to be a teenager,” and how much more the second sentence conveys. Then we discussed a poem by Naomi Shihab Nye: “Flinn on the Bus,” which led us into a discussion both of 9/11 and of how less can be more, and giving overwhelming things a face. Her homework assignment (should we choose to accept it) was to write a declarative sentence that does a lot of work–that develops character, place, time and that emphasizes evocative detail.
David Crouse
David gave us examples of people talking past each other. He read the short stoty, “Viewfinder” by Raymond Carter, and also acted out a conversation where the people were talking past each other–the daughter thinking to persuade her father to give up driving, the father seeing only how much like the aspects he did not like about her mother were coming out in the daughter. No specific homework, but he warned us he’d make up for it tomorrow.
Jeanne Clark
Jeanne recommended a series of books from Graywolf press. I didn’t get the whole list (Help, Jeanne) but they all start with “The art of… She also recommended “Poetry in Person,” edited by Alexander Neubauer and based on tapes of Pearl London’s classes. Another was “Why do we write” in the July-Aug issue of Poets and Writers Magazine. She then returned to catalog poems, pointing out that:
Each line has an image or elaboration
Each line has the same beginning (or at most only a few phrases are used to begin lines)
Catalog poems can be part of a larger work, and they often help a writer to begin working again. The homework assignment was (guess what) continue to work on our category poems.
No afternoon session today, but our three guest writers are reading at 5:30 in the UA Museum Education center. The reading is free and open to the public–just tell them at the desk that you’re here for the reading. At 7:00 there will be a book signing in the lobby of the museum.
Buy Homecoming from iUniverse
'Homecoming' Blog 
Just a quick fyi for now: ‘Poetry in Person’ is edited by Alexander Neubauer, but consists of transcripts of Pearl London and her students in conversation with 23 major poets, in the crucible of their work.
I’m working from handwritten notes, and the less said about my handwriting the better. Thanks for the corrections.
My catalog poem–three different catalogs.
Horses
Sue Ann Bowling
At midnight the horses sleep.
Black
Jet black
Raven black
Summer black
Smoky black
Dappled black
Seal brown
Brown black
At false dawn the horses rouse.
Silver dapple
Chocolate silver
Blue Silver
Brown Silver
Red silver
Yellow silver
Pale silver
As the stars fade the horses stamp their feet on the ground.
Black hooves
Ermine marks
Striped hooves
White coronets
White pasterns
White hooves
Socks
Stockings
Boots
Lightning strikes
At dawn the horses stretch.
Bay
Mahogany Bay
Shaded bay
Blood bay
Cherry bay
Red bay
Bright bay
Sandy bay
Gold bay
Honey bay
Mealy bay
Yellow bay
Wild bay
At sunrise the horses play.
Chestnut
Sorrel
Black chestnut
Liver chestnut
Red chestnut
Golden chestnut
Copper chestnut
Blond sorrel
At mid-morning the horses run.
Paint
Pinto
Tobiano
Frame
Overo
Calico
Skewbald
Piebald
Sabino
Flecked sabino
Spanish Roan
Splashed white
Medicine hat
Parti-colored
At noon the horses stand head to tail, swatting flies.
Squaw tails
Frosty tails
Skunk tails
Rat tails
Flaxen tails
Alazán
Tostado
Ruano
In afternoon the horses graze.
Appaloosa
Mottled
Snowflake
Speckled
Frosted hips
Varnish roan
Marble
Buttermilk Roan
Blanket
Snow cap blanket
Leopard
Few-spot leopard
At sunset the horses turn their faces west.
Plain face
Star
Strip
Snip
Chin spot
Stripe
Race
Blaze
Bald face
Apron face
Paper face
Bonneted
At dusk the horses come to water.
Champagne
Amber champagne
Gold champagne
Ivory champagne
Pale champagne
Grey
Porcelain grey
Dappled grey
Fleabitten grey
Rose grey
Iron grey
Blood-marked grey
As the first star appears the horses nicker.
Palomino
Golden palomino
Linebacked palomino
Sooty palomino
Dappled palomino
Isabelo
Sooty buckskin
Golden buckskin
Silvery buckskin
Smoky cream
Perlino
Cremello
As darkness falls the horses nose each other
Zebra dun
Peanut butter dun
Coyote dun
Golden dun
Silvery dun
Cream dun
Grullo
Mouse dun
Blue dun
Lobo dun
Slate grullo
Olive dun
Silvery grullo
Red dun
Muddy dun
Orange dun
Apricot dun
Claybank dun
At night the horses stand hip-shot.
Blue roan
Blue corn
Purple roan
Purple corn
Red roan
Lilac roan
Strawberry Roan
Honey roan
Frosty roan
Rabicano
At midnight the horses sleep.
Why I Write
by Marie Lundstrom
A dozen reasons answer the “Why do I write?” question. One of them is because I can. I deal in language; I’m comfortable speaking at different levels; I like wit and try to use it. I write poetry, fiction, nonfiction, news items, lists, polemical essays, limericks, letters, e-mails. I’m good at writing ordinary stuff and occasionally create something extraordinary. I like most of what I write.
I write to find out what I think. Putting into words what may be floating around in my head makes it real and concrete, not amorphous and abstract. If I want to crystalize what I know and think about some topic, like branding cattle, tarantulas, family history, or art deco, I write about it. I may need to do research on art deco or tarantulas, but at least I’ll learn what I don’t know and add to what I do know and realize what I think about it all.
To entertain is another reason to write. I entertain myself in the writing, and in poetry readings and a few publications of poems, I hope I entertain listeners and readers. I know that when I choose poems to read aloud in some public venue, I consciously select some poems that I hope will get a laugh. I try for that. I intentionally end most readings of my poems with the poem “Archimedes!” because people snicker or chortle, and I like ending on a light note.
I flat out just like to play with words, sounds, images, language. I like to have fun! I wrote a villanelle called “Lynx.” Finding words to rhyme with “lynx” was a challenge, as writing to meet the restrictions of nearly any exacting poetic form is. I like reading it aloud because not only is it true to lynx behavior, but the sounds work—and are often a surprise to the listener. In my poetry group, Ten Poets, one member gave the prompt “Ars Poetica.” I wrote “Arse Poetica – Lament of a Bottomed-out Poetaster” including as many terms for arse as I could work into seven four-line stanzas. I had a blast writing “Styx River Downs in August,” an account of a horse race, with 13 horse names ranging from Flim-Flam to Ballsy Dame to Bamboozle. Reading it aloud to the Ten Poets as a radio sports announcer was worth everything I put into it.
To create something lasting is a good reason to put words together. In my case, I have under way a poetic memoir entitled “Small Gods Scoot Through the Grass.” I started it after I heard a speaker, artist Garry Kaulitz, say that he was trying to do a painting or art piece for every year of his life. He was then 63, I think. That happened to be on my 71st birthday. I thought it was such a fine notion that I began selecting poems and putting together notes about each year of my life. I have far more poems, well over 100, than years, 73, so far, but it’s at least something of probable interest to my son and daughter. The difficult part is not the poems, but remembering what I did or what happened in any particular year. I’ve found that my Christmas letters have been a fine source. Just writing a couple of prose paragraphs about a specific year is hard when I can’t recall what I did that was memorable then. It goes slowly.
I acknowledge that writing—especially writing well—is ego gratification. I like myself as a writer, creator of word combinations that may be memorable, funny, sorrowful, clever, painful. To the recommendation that each writer should say to herself, “I am a genius! What I write is incredible!” I say, “You betcha!”
Tied up with ego gratification and entertainment is writing for applause. I admit I like it. Yes, I know applause is fleeting, but when it happens, it makes the work of writing—and it sure is work—become satisfying and even fun.
Some of the writing I do is straight-out to inform. That’s when I write news items and notices for my church bulletin, pieces for my quilt group’s newsletter, or e-mails to my kids telling them what’s going on in my life. I do have journalism training, which probably accounts for my “declarative” or straightforward style in both prose and poetry. Informative writing isn’t as much fun as the creative leaps that may come in poetry or fiction or creative nonfiction. Information is data. How exciting is that? But necessary.
Sometimes I write to shock. I wrote a poem called “AfterWord,” which turns the “happily ever after” fairy tale ending upside down, with the prince turning out to be a controlling, S&M-loving rapist. The brutality bothered some of my Ten Poets members, but the ending was more up than down. I do truly see the world with more optimism than the glass-half-empty crowd.
Yes, I write to show off. That’s up there with ego gratification, looking for applause, and entertainment. I like showing what I can do. Not only do I show off for others, but to myself. Sometimes I just like to read and re-read a poem or other piece of writing I’ve done which really appeals to me—my whimsy or sense of justice or love of unusual language or just fun. It’s great to love my own stuff. I revel in it.
To feel honest about calling myself a writer is another reason to keep writing. It has taken me years to be able to say, “I’m a writer.” One of my e-mail signatures—I have 23—includes a photo under which is, Writer, Editor, Quilter, Singer, Poet plus contact information. I am finally comfortable with the writer label, even though I don’t earn my living with writing. I do work part-time as an editor, which involves some writing, but mostly involves knowing language.
Rounding out a dozen reasons for writing is meeting expectations. At times, I hate this one because it involves expectations of me by my family and people I grew up with—neighbors and friends. My parents are long gone, and so are other neighbors and friends of their generation. Nevertheless, the expectations they implanted in me are still there, however muted they may have become through years and conflicting experiences. And I have also assimilated some of those expectations and made them mine. Those are alive and well, unmuted by time. I was smart and capable growing up, so people in the small community where I lived expected me to do great things as an adult. I have accomplished a lot, but I don’t think I could call any of it “great.” What I have done is okay, satisfying, occasionally “really good” or “excellent,” perhaps mostly “good enough,” as with parenting. I like to think I don’t need to become a “great” writer with consequent fame and fortune. I actually fear that because I fear failure. And yet, failure often teaches more vividly than success. It’s a complicated place to be in. I will likely be working my way through it all for the rest of my life.
Ultimately, I write because I like writing. It’s creative, satisfying, and a hell of a lot of fun! It’s an important part of my life, and if I couldn’t do it, I’d be a lesser being. I like being a genius doing incredible work!