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generic ambien 10mgzolpidem 10 mgopens and closes with transmuting images of fire; first starward: “small flames lift from her candles/like fireflies toward stars” then earthward by the last line: “and the rain sticking to the grass / like fire.” Can you talk about the fire imagery as well as the image of the lamplighter?

As with all of my poems, when I first began composing “The Courtyard” I had no idea where the language would take me. All I had was the initial image and the rhythm of the first few lines which occurred to me while I really was sipping a beer at a monastery in Prague. A man carrying a lantern crossed the grassy expanse on the other side of the fence and it reminded me of a black light theater performance I had just seen called “Aspects of Alice” that was based on Lewis Carol’s Alice in Wonderland. The show uses black light to create optical illusions and in one scene the character of Alice carries a candelabra when the small flames lift from their candles and begin floating around the stage. In the act, Alice continues to chase after the floating lights until she’s caught them all and placed them back on their wicks.

I think for me, as the writer, when setting out to write the poem, this initial image functioned in several ways. First, I identified with the idea of a woman swept up in the feeling of a dream, chasing something that kept pulling away. At the time I had been separated from my husband for two years and kept coming back to the increasingly urgent desire for a true end. I wanted to file for a divorce yet the exotic setting was swaying me into creating the romantic fantasy of calling him and convincing him to fly in so we can work things out. I found myself inventing narratives and scenarios in Prague I wouldn’t have otherwise. I was also nearing my thirty-second birthday and becoming highly aware that I was nowhere near a situation that would permit me to have children and if I wanted children, which I thought I might, I needed to work toward healing and opening my heart again to love’s possibilities.

Second, the image of the lamplighter created within me the feel and sense of a formal ritual; the lighting of candles often marks the beginning of a ceremony and works in many religions and social practices to clear a mental, physical, and spiritual space. It was the type of space I needed it turns out to discover, capture, and confront the emotional turbulence I was experiencing at the time.

In regard to the final image, well, in the first version of the poem there were actually two additional stanzas. Then when I cut the last two stanzas, the poem ended with the line: “and the rain sticking to the grass like stars,” which I felt at the time brought the poem full circle. Stars are both fire and ice, a contrast I liked—two opposites bound into one form. I also liked how “stars” lent the idea of brilliance, but impermanence to the poem. Then one afternoon when I was still working on my dissertation in Kalamazoo I met the poet Nancy Eimers at a local coffee shop and brought along the poem. And it was Nancy that actually suggested changing “stars” to “fire.” She was spot on that “fire” is the right word. The sound is better—it lingers in a more forceful way; the mouth never closes.

With “stars,” the mouth has to work to form the sound and then close on the “s”, but “fire” sounds more like a sigh, a gasp, a roar. It is a more emotionally charged word, it is archetypal, and I can imagine it being one of the first sounds humans ever uttered. Fire transforms. It is a root element and simple the way sex and reproduction are simple; they are basic components of life on earth. Fire is used to describe love and passion as burning, as well as life and inspiration as sparks. It is also figuratively used to describe anger. Fire destroys. Fire creates. It is necessary for life, as in the case of Redwoods and Bishop Pines, fertile soil, land that form from lava. And yet fire can cause death. And erase death, as in the burning of a funeral pyre. The image of the raindrops becoming like fire at the end of the poem still echoes back to the fireflies and the stars in the beginning though in a more subtle way, and I believe “fire” provides for the reader a complexity that can be read back into the poem’s interpretation in many ways. Many more than I have even articulated here.

The poem also probes a key psychological arc that one must traverse in a love relationship when considering bringing children into the equation. Can you talk about mining the mother/son relationship (male psyche) in your writing? And how the specter of children-to-be alters the landscape of a love relationship?

To be honest, the possibility of having children was much more a personal, internal dialogue with my self than with my ex-husband. It was a topic I explored in my poetry privately from many perspectives and the psychological shift from being an endeavoring individual to desiring to be a mother is one that I experienced alone. It is only recently in my current relationship that the conversation has become a shared one, central to our future, and I am very thankful for this, as until now I found my desires and longing for children to be sadly isolating.

Early on, my ex-husband had voiced that he never wanted children, but as many young, contemporary, American women think, I thought I could change him. And I did, as he did me, as everyone in relationships grow and change with each other. We never spoke in detail of having a family. One day he just disclosed that his love for me had changed his mind and he could now imagine being a father. But we never discussed it any further. Nor did we discuss the conflict I was experiencing silently.

I spent all of my twenties grappling with the fact that my body didn’t want children while my analytical, critical mind knew how much a role being a mother plays in a woman’s identity and how central young children are in family functions and solidarity. Obviously you need people to make a family, and I could just never imagine being an adult, a wife, a middle-aged daughter or sister without children. Still, I was lucky I think to not be under any pressure to start a family, to have the opportunity to explore so deeply the desire for children within my self and wait until I actually physically desired children to begin exploring the possibility.

Although I didn’t discuss this inner conflict with my partner when I was in my twenties, these concerns are a constant concern in my life today in my mid-thirties. In the past I think women became pregnant without hesitation. Before standardized birth control, increased birth survival, fertility treatments, higher education being normal for women, before careers and property ownership and easy, affordable, quick transportation to travel globally, women didn’t have as many reasons to temper pregnancy or prevent it. In fact, it was essential to her worth in family and society. When most of the American population lived off their own land, children were also necessary for survival.

The thought we put into our relationships in regard to reproduction is very different now than it has ever been. Pregnancy and marriage have become territories requiring very conscious choices. In European countries the population is declining. This is new terrain. And it is quite different from what my own mother experienced, as she was done having children before she turned thirty. The latest National Geographic contains a one-page chart showing that now almost 20% of children born in the United States are born to mothers over 35. If this phenomenon continues I’m positive it will continue to change life for not only women but for our entire social, economic, and familial infrastructure. I find it exciting and fascinating to think about. It is certainly something central to my life and a topic I hope to explore further in my own writing.

As for mining the mother/son relationship in my writing, well, my poetry was
concerned with exploring my own place in the history of motherhood and female identity, and I suppose my partner’s mother/son relationship was a natural extension of this. The examination of his relationship with his mother played a larger role I think in my personal life than it did in my writing. My ex-husband and his two siblings were all adopted from different birth mothers. He had no desire to ever meet his biological mother and he sheltered resentment toward his adoptive mom I never quite understood. I knew that these two elements played a role in his deeper psyche, but even now it feels invasive to enter that land, of which I feel I know little. All I know and understand of his individual male psyche—all I have to work with—are the shadows cast outward which came in the form of his dreams and a few remarks. We had been together for five years and these dreams didn’t occur until after we were married. But once they started coming they kept coming. I think my poetry examines my own psyche in the context of these shadows. I think “The Courtyard” fights to admit things to myself in a way I couldn’t articulate before.

In contrast, today my partner and I are actively working toward starting a family, which hasn’t necessarily changed the landscape of our relationship as much as it has affected what we talk about and how we plan. For us, what “the specter of children-to-be” does mean—and I’m sure it’s different for every couple—is negotiating our age difference in a way that ensures him time to finish graduate school while still being considerate of my body’s soon-to-be-diminishing fertility. The situation was always at the back of my mind but now it is at the forefront. We need to take the prospect of children a bit more seriously rather than merely coasting. I find myself working harder to be consistent, steady, and reliable for him, to practice patience and positive-thinking, to keep active and healthy, but these are things for which I have always strived. I also make sure I am providing him with whatever emotional support or space he needs and being sure I ask for what I need from him, but again, these are basic communication skills and ones I am always trying to be better at. When I look at him I feel more love each day. I see his mother and father and their wonderful qualities in him; I see the faces of our children. In previous relationships this was not the case. I think people should listen to such visions and intuitions.

Also, talking so openly about reproduction is very different from what I’ve experienced in the past. When you’re younger I think you imagine the experience of parenthood and its process in an idealistic and abstract way. For me I always thought getting pregnant and starting a family would just happen with no conscious thought on my end. When you’re younger it seems like it just happens, like that symbolic stork simply shows up on our doorstep. But as you age and see more and learn more from friends and experience more, the vision of family is much different. I find myself preparing in ways now that I wouldn’t have in my early twenties such as endeavoring to stay in shape, learning to cope calmly with stress and the unknown, thinking about how my family heritage will be passed; I do this not only for me, but for someone else.

I even consider brushing up on my Spanish and Polish so as to raise a multi-lingual child. My partner Rob works in the public school system and so we pay attention to local educational issues. We are conscious of the chemicals in products we buy—or don’t buy. I speak openly and much more frequently about my physical desire for children. It’s challenging to wait, as I am anxious and ready to start a family. But I want both of us, for the benefit of our whole lives, to be completely ready, to feel we have adequately arrived at a place where we feel comfortable opening a new door in our life. For us, the greatest part of the relationship that has changed I think is our conscious devotion to each other, our families, and our future as a team. The landscape that changed is in each of our consciousnesses, living as Henry David Thoreau said, “deliberately.”

The poem also grapples with questions of tolerance and the female psyche (on part of a female lover–empathizing/witnessing the charged past of her partner) and how the past translates into the present. Can you talk about the experience and process of entering that field to write about it? Have you come across this subject in other poetry or writing?

If you think “The Courtyard” is charged with a partner’s past, you should read some of my other poems! I am sure this is not a universal experience, but for me, the past of my previous partners left permanent marks on their psyches that manifested themselves our relationships.

With my ex-husband, I knew that the time he spent living overseas as a child affected him; he repeatedly told a story about how isolated he was. Over the years his struggles with this trauma intensified. I have also experienced other forms of trauma with another of my ex-boyfriends whose charged past included an adolescent suicide attempt and heavy drug use. I didn’t know how easy it would be for him to slip back into a life of addiction and anger. I was naïve.

Looking back, I was so innocent and optimistic, trusting the human power to recover from the past and a person to be restored to a whole after something so dramatic. This refers not only to him, but to me as well. I did not give myself enough time to re-form after my separation. In both relationships, as stress increased, my partners’ traumas triggered characteristics in their personalities that further harmed our ability to communicate rationally and the conversations would take drastic turns into replaying old psychodramas from which they never healed. While I was in these relationships I sympathized, empathized, and held faith in my partners’ goodness, but with time I have different sentiments toward the situations now. When you’re in love with someone you see things differently—and sometimes blindly, as the cliché goes. You may not realize how harmful and negative of a situation you’re in until you’re removed from it and gain some distance. Sometimes empathy and encouragement can lead to therapy and healing, but other times the situation from your end is helpless and you need to get out. That can be a hard lesson to learn.

When they are young, I think that girls are nurtured to exhibit empathetic attitudes toward others. I used to work in pre-school and at one point all of the five-year-old girls wanted to be either a veterinarian or a nurse when they grew up. This idea of caring for others is essential to the cohesion of humanity, but is often placed too much so on the shoulders of women. It is unfair for all genders. Young women are expected to be good listeners, to give people the benefit of the doubt. It used to be that women, especially mothers, were expected to put everyone’s needs before their own. And in many ways this remains true and is in some regard necessary.

But for the past few centuries this sacrificial way of thinking has been questioned by many, including feminist thinkers. And for good reason. Women in abusive relationships suffer from this way of thinking. Prostitution and pornography feed off this psychological state. The Virgin Mary, though certainly a symbol of admirable strength and devotion, is also a woman who was involuntarily impregnated, forced to marry, and whose son was then murdered by the state. I don’t think we do a sufficient enough job teaching young girls that the stereotypical traits associated with the empathetic woman can be destructive.

Women need to be able to draw their own identities from things other than the needs of their family and lovers. Young girls need to be capable of thinking of themselves in healthy, empowering ways. This others-before-me mentality even manifests itself in the bedroom. I think young women often place the sexual needs of their partners not only before their own, but instead of their own. I remember one of my friends when we were in our early twenties telling me how she would never end a sexual encounter until she orgasmed. The idea was so radical to me! I had never heard of such a thing. But why should that idea should be so foreign?

Writing about my own female identity and relationships in my poems is a way for me to connect to the longer history of what it means to be a woman. When entering a field in which I explore a partner’s actions, whether based in my own life and experience or in the imagined experience of another, I try to focus on the physical objective details and let images create the poem while allowing the poem’s speaker to enter and frame the content. Often readers of poetry assume that everything in my poems is autobiographical, but this is rarely the case. There are ways to own, express, and explore feelings through images and actions that are not true to one’s factual life.

In fact, most of my poetry is closer to fiction in that regard; no matter what genre you write, however, the deeper truths remain and imaginative experience can be as real as factual experience. I have on several occasions had to inform people that I’ve never had an abortion, never been pregnant, do not have children, and am not physically abused. These are simply imaginative vehicles allowing me to explore and create an experience of a poem for others while allowing me a form in which I can get closer at the truth of human experience.

In some ways I think that all female writers exhibit some aspect of this empathetic quality in their writing about relationships, whether they are romantic relationships or familial ones. Sharon Olds and Mary Karr have both built their writing careers upon exploring the complicated relationships they had with their fathers. Sharon Olds’ poetry is confessional and full of striking imagery and statements. She is known for her fierce honesty. If anyone is seeking women to read I’d recommend Olds for poetry, Karr for memoir, as well as the poetry and prose of Muriel Ruykeyser; Adrienne Rich; Tess Gallagher; Marie Howe; Ann Marie Macari; Daneen Wardrop; Nancy Eimers; Liz Knapp; and Dorianne Laux. In her poem “Kathë Kollwitz” Ruykeyser wrote that if one woman ever spoke the truth about her life “the whole world would split open.” For me
these women writers get at these truths.

Can you talk about writing “To The Unfertilized Eggs in My Ovaries?”

When I was twenty-five I was experiencing extremely painful periods and exhibiting symptoms that led doctors to believe I had endometriosis. This happened at a time when I was not sure if I wanted to have children, but the fact that I could potentially lose the ability to ever conceive was frightening. I ended up having a laparoscopy that showed no signs of endometriosis, and that instead, to everyone’s surprise, uncovered an inexplicable infection in my intestine. The whole episode was long and involved several miserable experiments with birth control pills, multiple doctors—one who I filed a complaint against—medical bills, and many, many hours in waiting rooms. Then, a couple of years ago I had a pap smear come back abnormal, which led to concern about cervical cancer and it was recommended that I have a biopsy performed.

When I wrote “To the Unfertilized Eggs in My Ovaries” I was a point where I was waiting to have the biopsy scheduled and was visiting the doctor’s office again on a regular basis. I run several times a week and I noticed that I was running four, five miles and thinking about nothing other than this situation. My heart would be pounding, my adrenaline soaring, and my legs just kept me moving around the track in circles, getting physically and metaphorically nowhere. At home even baking cookies contained some essence of the situation; I was upset once again by the possibilities. And it was ironic because I wasn’t trying to conceive; I’d never tried to conceive. Yet, twice I had been treated by gynecologists and surgeons whose main concern had been my fertility.

I began to feel really encroached upon and controlled. I felt like I was being forced onto a stereotypical path for females to become mothers but I wasn’t even sure I wanted to become one. And, I mean, obviously I knew these doctors were helping me. And I am thankful—so so thankful—to have had the wonderful doctors I have had and grateful for all of the people in the doctors offices who supported me emotionally. When I left Washington State, where I lived when I had the laparoscopy performed, the receptionists and nurses at my doctor’s office insisted I pose with them for a picture that they hung on their wall. I brought them a huge pot of hydrangeas the day before I moved. I mean, that is how much time I spent in the doctor’s office! It was as if I was one of their daughters. And now, with the biopsy, it was happening again.

I wrote “Eggs” quickly, propelled by frustration and what seemed a necessary address I needed to make to the potential life forms waiting inside me, the things that were really at the center of everyone’s concern. By addressing the eggs directly I was able to enter an intimate space I hadn’t before. Using intimate, physical and baby-like words and images like “Little eggs” and “tiny houses” brings the fact of the eggs and cells existence into the conscience. The eggs become real, present, and alive, which is what I think I needed to do, make them a part of the here and now rather than an abstract idea in the future. The poet Tom Lux once called my poems “fearless,” and in this poem I felt fear confronting the issue so directly. “Eggs” was therapeutic for me to write.

In Kalamazoo, Rob and me and a couple of our wonderful, close writing friends used to get together every Sunday to share and workshop our poems and the night I read that poem out loud for the first time my voice was shaking. There is so much desperation shielded by sarcasm and irony. You feel helpless facing possible cancer or disease. As I imagine one might feel helpless when having difficulties conceiving. We make decisions everyday based on faith and hope and fear. In fact, most of the time the decisions and actions we make and take are performed with no guarantee of the result, though most of the time we do not feel helpless.

But when you’re in pain physically or emotionally and you don’t know what’s wrong or you can’t find a way to heal yourself, depending on doctors, therapists, and other professionals and the “system” can make you feel helpless even though they are supposed to help. You want it over and fixed, but instead you end up having to go through this slow process of deduction and experimenting with ineffectual remedies and navigating a complex system of health care and insurance. It can be frustrating and quite stressful. I think “Eggs” is a proverbial Ginsberg howl from the roof of these feelings that women experience.

Do you have other writing projects underway?

For years I have been composing poems about different aspects of the Lewis and Clark Corp of Discovery and their expedition. Most recently there’s a series of poems about Sacagawea and the origin of her name, her kidnapping and her childhood. There’s so much imaginative soil in these stories and characters, and I am captivated by the story and their individual lives and experiences. Campbell McGrath recently published a book-length poem called Shannon, about one of the Corp’s member who disappeared for almost a week. The poem’s written in his voice. My poems incorporate both first and third-person perspectives and focus on themes of wilderness, feminism, and the creation of the American identity.

In addition to this project I am hoping to compose a series of poems and photographs about a country road I drive to and from work. I spent ten hours a week driving this past fall and am inspired by the lives and properties and farms. I have all of these images like puzzle pieces I’ve collected and I’m hoping to spend time with them.

Lately most of my imaginative attention and time has been invested in teaching and I am very much looking forward to summer when I will a large block of time to devote to writing. I’d like to write some non-fiction, probably in essay form, about my childhood, relationships, the craft of writing, and the environment, as well as social criticism. Especially with non-fiction I need a good amount of space and time to not just type but to think. In the case of content that is emotional, I need more time to work through the material both on the page and in my body.

Finally, Rob and I maintain a food blog on blogspot.com called “Two to Taste,” where we review restaurants, post recipes and photographs, and catalogue our cooking adventures. I’d like to get some new reviews up there with some new recipes. It’s nice to have the blog as a constant outlet for writing, food, and photography. The poet Bill Heyen used to advise us to get involved in large projects, and I always try to have something to fall back on.

How do you maintain and nurture your connection to your writing?

I write best when I write every day. It’s like going to the gym or training for anything. You need upkeep and practice, to be ready and “have the line in the water” as William Stafford says. When I don’t write I feel unfocused, anxious, and unfulfilled. Since poems are distilled language in moments of clarity, for me writing them is a type of meditation. As I’ve become busier with teaching I’ve had less time to write and I’m currently renegotiating my writing habits. For me, writing is like breathing. Sometimes it’s difficult for people to understand how vital writing regularly can be for writers. Robert Frost called being a poet a “condition” rather than a profession; it’s a way of life. I’ve heard someone say that writers are a certain breed of person. I feel that. I need to write like a Greyhound needs to run. Writing feels that much in me.

At all times, busy or not, reading is probably the best way to write. I read widely and diversely. Poetry, fiction, non-fiction, environmental journalism, as well as cultural and social and political criticism. I subscribe to National Geographic and numerous political magazines. I love listening to NPR not only for the politics, but for the shows that tell stories and deeply investigate topics. As a writer I want to know, well, everything from every perspective. One must become what John Keats called a “chameleon poet,” able to attain a “negative capability.” I’m fiercely curious. A friend of mine once called me a sponge.

By reading I expose myself to new ideas and questions and really, whenever I’m reading or listening what I’m really doing is mining for material whether consciously or not. For the same reasons, museums and galleries nurture my imagination. And documentaries can provide informative and inspiration too. Really though, it’s all about observing and listening. Slowing down, noticing details. Tuning into the world’s physical, material, concrete intricacies is a way of writing. Then all that’s left is to bring that sense of wonder to the page.

I’m a firm believer that my writing reflects 100% of what I’ve been exposed to mentally, physically, emotionally, and spiritually. I try not to watch television too often. I am also very particular of how I spend my time online. I care about what language and images and sounds I expose myself to because you never know how they will resurface in your writing through the unconscious. It doesn’t happen immediately; sometimes it takes years. So I try to avoid certain types of entertainment and activities that don’t challenge my creative or critical thinking skills or are done in poor taste.

Most importantly, I maintain a direct, sensual relationship to the world by disconnecting electronically from society and immersing myself in wilderness as often as possible. I need direct contact with primal forces to feel whole and tune in. I need silence. William Wordsworth defined poetry as a “spontaneous overflow of feelings” that “takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility” and it is when I am in the natural world that I achieve the tranquility necessary to recollect. Rob and I hike whenever we can. I breathe best at 10,000 feet above sea level. It’s true. On top of mountains is about the only place I feel completely relaxed and clear-minded, senses fully awakened. For Thoreau it was morning that awakened him, for me it’s hiking. The more I can keep my senses awake, the more I experience; the more I experience, the more I can write.

Any mentors you’d like to share with us?

Oh, so many. I consider anyone I have ever worked with to be a mentor in some way. Books bridge time and I believe it totally justified to claim Walt Whitman, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and Henry David Thoreau as mentors. Fellow students in my graduate programs, professors, friends—everyone has a part in the patchwork that is my writing and my person. For years my partner Rob Evory and the poets Melanie Crow and Lauralee Middleton have been part of my writing support group in Kalamazoo. Lauralee and Melanie taught me how it’s possible to be practicing writers with lives that are busy with demanding jobs and children. All three of them have continually shared their generous insights with me about my poems and poetry in general. Rob has this ability to see language in a more flexible way than I sometimes do, so I am lucky to always have his eyes and ears for my work.

I also feel especially grateful to William Heyen, who I studied with in Brockport and who was my first poetry mentor. He taught me about the art of books and it was through him that I first found my voice and discovered the contemporary world of literature. Thirteen years ago, my ex Tom Holmes’ passion and enthusiasm for literature was very contagious and gave me courage to follow my own. He and I and the poet Mike Dockins published a journal together for some time and the three of us used to be good guides to each other at one time. Dockins and I are still close.

I am also indebted to Stan Rubin and Judith Kitchen. Especially to Stan who was the first person to see me as a potential literary scholar. I could never be where I am without his and Judith’s encouragement and well of knowledge about graduate programs and teaching. Then there are the poets Marie Howe, Jonathan Johnson, and Christopher Howell. Jonathan has been a mentor in not only writing, but in teaching, and in being a plain old good person and a great friend. And in Michigan I worked with Nancy Eimers, Bill Olsen, and Mary Ruefle. And Tom Lux and Ann Marie Macari in Prague. All of them have been so supportive and important in one way or another; I hear all of their voices when I’m writing and look to them when I have questions about academia. They have taught me not only how to write better, but how to live better. Rob always says you can learn something everyday from each person you meet if you’re open and paying attention. And I’m lucky and grateful to have been surrounded by so many opportunities to do so.

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