Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category

Exotic Locales: Pankey, Parry, & Marberry

Thursday, January 29th, 2015

Write what you know. It’s easy to tire of the adage, to bristle as the tweedy, bespectacled creative-writing-instructor-within brandishes his red pen at the slightest intimation of the unknown: dark matter, psychic surgery, monkey robot vampires from Planet Zed. When we asked 11.1 contributors Eric Pankey, Lesley Parry, and Michael Marberry to discuss their process, a shared theme emerged: exotic locales. Pankey writes about the lavender fields near Senanque Abbey in Provence; Parry about a state park built around sulfur springs outside Orlando, Florida; and Marberry about that strangest, yet most familiar of foreign places: the womb. Read on to discover how Pankey, Parry, and Marberry negotiate these and other realms.

Eric Pankey: Both these poems were drafted in Provence in the summer of 2013, when I had the luxury of a month-long fellowship and residency at the Dora Maar House. Both poems are located in the same place, Senanque Abbey, a lovely medieval Cistercian abbey, founded in 1148, and well-known for its lavender fields, which were in bloom when I visited, walked the property, and attended Vespers. The moments attended to in the poems continued to lengthen then foreshorten in memory, and the poems attempt to capture the stillness, the mutability of those moments.

Lesley Parry: While I was a resident at the Jack Kerouac House in Orlando, a woman named Kim suggested I visit a state park nearby. She told me there was a restaurant on the grounds where you could cook pancakes right at your table. (Pancakes! I was sold!) But when I arrived at De Leon Springs, I was struck not only by its extraordinary beauty, but by its history, until then unknown to me. Years ago it had been a resort (featuring, yes, a water-skiing elephant) and before that the site of settlements, plantations, and wars. I spent the day there, watching for birds, walking the silent trails. Around this same time I’d been thinking about my sister, who worked as a singer on a cruise-ship. It’s a strange psychological terrain you enter when you live and work in the same confined space with the same group of people for months on end—the shorthand, the melodrama, the déjà vu. I’d been thinking about what that kind of intimacy and monotony does to your sense of self—to your notions of autonomy, complicity, and duty. So as I wandered the paths around the park, fueled by pancakes, imagining what had passed before, those two terrains overlapped to form the bedrock of this story. (And wherever you are, Kim, thank you.)

Michael Marberry: The first of these two poems published in 11.1 (“second son”) enacts the speaker’s failed attempt to accurately describe a recurring dream in which he is, simultaneously, a) being conceived; b) a fetus in the womb; and c) already an adult. The boat piercing the water’s surface is overt sex; the firework imagery is both literal and figurative, so to speak. There is a failure in language to capture the dream to the speaker’s liking. But starting over again doesn’t help: The feelings of being accidental and unwanted seem passed on from the nameless, faceless father—a sort of perverse (genetic?) inheritance, a lineage of shameful bastards.

The second of these two poems (“future son”) enacts the speaker’s failed attempt to provide clarity and foresight. The speaker of this poem is a possibility and not, necessarily, a certainty—someone from one potential future among many. Even then, we would like some answers to our questions, which he is happy to provide. But absent the questions themselves, the answers are only modestly insightful. There’s some Don Rumsfeld (of all people!) thrown in for “good” measure—i.e., what we know we know, what we know we don’t know, what we don’t know we know, and what we don’t know we don’t know. Like “second son,” it’s a bit about loss and being sad, even at losing what we don’t know we’re losing.

Back-Issue Giveaway!

Monday, January 26th, 2015

Our new issue is wheeling its way toward us, and our storage room is packed tighter than a clown car. Gotta make room, readers, so if you’ve been pining for a particular back issue or three or four, now’s your chance to load up on some of the best stories, poems, essays, and reviews of the past decade. The issues are FREE. We ask that you pay only for postage. Because we ship everything media mail, you can get a lot of lit for your buck.

Here’s what to do: Check our archives and note which issues you want. Each one weighs about 13 ounces. Consult the price chart below and tally up your total. Call us up and place your order (we take most credit cards). We’ll charge you for postage and ship out your issues in a pretty little box. We’ll even toss in some paperclips. THAT’S how generous we’re feeling. Our number is 513.556.3954, and the office is open most of every day. The storage room is not. We’re afraid to go in there.

NOTE: Our earliest issues are no longer available: 1.1, 1.2, 2.1, 2.2, 3.1, 3.2, 4.1.

MEDIA MAIL RATES

not over 1 lb: $2.69

not over 2 lb: $3.17

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Long Forms: Time Limit

Friday, January 23rd, 2015

Long forms, we have come to appreciate anew your grand-scale grace, your unhurried pace, the way you are willing, like a guest at an Indian wedding, to dance in the street for days. Our overstuffed winter issue will hit the mail trucks next week, and we just filled our spring/summer number, which promises to be still more . . . hippoesque. NEA funding stretches only so far, however, so though we will continue to read—with an eye toward publication—the long forms submitted in recent weeks, we must close the category at the end of this month. Writers of amplitudinous poetry and prose: You still have one week left (12 a.m. EST January 31) to stagger us with your sumo-sized submissions. Bring them on!

Testing Limits: Duhamel & Wade, Rafferty, Robbins, Williams

Thursday, January 22nd, 2015

As those of you following along know by now, last Friday here at UC Mary Szybist read from her National Book Award–winning collection Incarnadine. What you might not know is that during said reading Szybist shared an ekphrastic poem (a poem responding to a piece of visual art), an abecedarian (a poem in which each line begins with A, B, C, D, . . . Z), an erasure (a poem made by crossing out words of an existing text), and a cento (a collage-poem made from lines of other poet’s work, or, in Szybist’s case, lines from The Starr Report and Nabokov’s Lolita). It will come as no surprise to writers that giving oneself a set of constraints, or forcing oneself to try a new form or device, can produce surprising and lovely results. Find out below how 11.1 contributors Denise Duhamel, Julie Marie Wade, Charles Rafferty, Richard Robbins, and P. J. Williams used constraints to generate their imaginative new work:

Denise Duhamel & Julie Marie Wade: “Pink” and “Red” are from a series of lyric essays we wrote by email, one section at a time, limiting ourselves to 250 words per section. We riffed off each other, knowing we would also limit ourselves to ten sections. We used color as a point of departure, and it helped that one of us (Julie) has synesthesia. We each came to the project with our past and our passions, our associations with blushing and fire, gender conformity and the need to bust out. Each section is like a photograph or painting, a block of color and the shadows it casts.

Charles Rafferty (on his prose poem “Quarry”): For a few years now, I’ve been interested in the possibility of the prose poem—to see what can happen when I abandon the strictures of line. It’s oddly freeing. The poems feel fat, gluttonous, like anything can be brought into them and digested. In this case, I started with a whim: How could I make a poem that could contain “virginity” and “metamorphic,” “penny” and “dynamite.” Somehow, being allowed to proceed without the idea of line reining me in made the poem a little wilder, a little more expansive, a little more able to take these words and find a suitable place for them—together but not touching—like hand-me-down furniture that ends up seeming like part of a set. It has nothing to do with the fabric or the style. You just need a big enough living room.

Richard Robbins (on “Secret Father Rollover” and “Secret Father, Beginnings”): I’ve been attracted lately to writing sequences with independent poetic parts. It allows me to confront an idea or image, like mountains, over time and across disparate pieces. The idea may certainly have autobiographical resonance, but in any case it conjures real or contemplated situations that, through language, I find myself navigating on the page. The Secret Father poems are evocative for me in this way. Each involves a different problem for a different Secret Father, even though all of these fathers share a core concern about being hidden or disconnected. In the two pieces CR published, there are, coincidentally, contrary movements: One poem enacts the father’s methodical disappearance from lives he has been connected to, and the other reconstructs a connection after a dramatic auto accident. I’m sure there are deeper reasons these poems get written—I hope there are—but these are the triggers.

P. J. Williams: I wrote “Myth” at a time when everything coming out of my head was in iambs. I’d wake up in the morning, pour a cup of coffee, and begin: da DAH da DAH da DAH da DAH da DAH. Perhaps it traces back to listening to a bunch of blues, which I always think of in terms of structure, of familiarity, of little variations on tradition. I was also in the middle of wrestling with old memories and family histories and stories–some I’d asked my father about, others I remember vividly on my own, and the ever-shifting misremembered bits and pieces. “Myth” addresses that tenuous nature of memory, and how its instability becomes a topic itself, even when remembering something exactly and carefully feels like the most important thing. I chose the sonnet because of the form’s two-fold fit for “Myth”: first, it is a nod to tradition and the musical nature of storytelling; and second, the sonnet has a volta just as memory might suddenly turn on us. The form acts out my misremembering of the fish, the gravel road, the shrunken mountains. The only memory in the poem I can confidently say is true is that I faked crying at my grandfather’s funeral. But, then again, I wonder–and hope–that I’ve misremembered that, too, and that in my nine-year-old desire to cry–in my panic of wondering why I couldn’t cry–I’d actually wiped away my tears before they had a chance to reach the surface.

2015 Elliston Poet-in-Residence: Mary Szybist

Wednesday, January 21st, 2015

Mary Szybist is UC’s 2015 George Elliston Poet-in-Residence. Last Tuesday, January 13, Szybist held a Master Class titled “The Concessional Structure” on the multifarious ways in which poems turn. The following day she led a session for students enrolled in the graduate poetry workshop, offering praise, helpful suggestions, and thoughtful critiques of student work. On Friday, January 16, Szybist read poetry from Incarnadine, which won the 2013 National Book Award for Poetry, stunning the packed Elliston Poetry Room with an elegy for Donald Justice, a former Elliston Poet-in-Residence, as well as her imaginative reinterpretations of the annunciation myth.

Explaining her workshop strategy, Szybist says: “I usually make the first day of my workshops a sort of quick ‘lightning’ round; rather than delving into extended discussions of poems, I try to have everyone’s voice included in the first day with much of the focus on trust-building. Everyone reads a poem, everyone has a poem considered; I ask for descriptions, interpretations, compliments, etc.—no criticism, no suggestions. I want everyone to trust that we’re trying to see what each poet is up to before we venture into revision ideas.”

Szybist will return to Cincinnati on February 27 to work with graduate students one on one, lead another workshop, and deliver a second Master Class titled “Repetition and Resonance,” the latter at 4:00 p.m. in the Elliston Poetry Room, 646 Langsam Library. This lecture will be free and open to the public.

Mary Szybist is most recently the author of Incarnadine, winner of the 2013 National Book Award for Poetry. She is the recipient of fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation, the National Endowment for the Arts, the Rona Jaffe Foundation, the Witter Bynner Foundation in conjunction with the Library of Congress, and the Rockefeller Foundation’s Bellagio Center. Her work has appeared in such publications as Best American PoetryKenyon Review, Poetry, Ploughshares, and two Pushcart Prize anthologies. Her first book, Granted, won the 2004 GLCA New Writers Award and was a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award. A native of Williamsport, Pennsylvania, she now lives in Portland, Oregon, where she teaches at Lewis & Clark College.

The Mailing of Magnitude

Thursday, January 15th, 2015

We’ve heard from the printer that our Winter 2015 issue will ship on Jan 20—which means it’ll be hitting subscribers’ mailboxes right at the end of this month. If you’ve been keeping up with the blog, you know that 11.2 is a special long-forms issue (with a phat phalanx of extra pages) that comes with a killer companion piece—our long-awaited, full-color, 64-page graphic play, MOTH.

11.2 also offers another of our fab translation features—this time out focusing on the wildly popular (in China) poet Hsiu Yü—a soulful art-song (score by Ellen Ruth Harrison; poems by Jakob Stein), and the delightfully provocative woodcuts of Renegade Printmaker Sean StarWars.

While this is the culmination of our 10th-anniversary initiative, we’ve got lots more celebratin’ planned. Another long-forms issue awaits the intrepid readers of our mag. Start going to the gym, people, so you can lift 12.1. It’s going to be a whopper!

Contributor Close-Up: Steve De Jarnatt

Monday, January 12th, 2015

We just got wind of this extraordinary interview on Popdose with CR contributor Steve De Jarnatt, whose story “Mulligan” (8.2) was selected for 2012’s New Stories from the Midwest. The interview begins:

Not every creative professional can claim to have badgered Ringo Starr on network television, ushered the popular SCTV characters Bob & Doug McKenzie onto the big screen, and directed a nail-biting cult classic of ’80s cinema before having his first published short story, “Rubiaux Rising,” chosen by The Lovely Bones author Alice Sebold for inclusion in The Best American Short Stories 2009. But as Steve De Jarnatt writes in “Mulligan,” another one of his acclaimed stories, “You can’t change your mind so easy if you keep yourself in motion.”

Click here to read the interview in full. And look for another of Steve’s signature stories, “Harmony Arm” (lavish with his special brand of lunacy), in issue 12.1—due out in June. A teaser:

Impressed with Earl’s creative thinking, Ma let him in on some oddball Gunderson history. In the nineteenth century, half the clan had briefly given themselves over to an offshoot of the Charles Fourier Phalanx and run off to Utopia, Ohio. This collectivist movement believed that if humans could live together in peace for sixteen generations, a new appendage would evolve, a human tail called a Harmony Arm.  It would be as powerful as an alligator’s, but supple as a cat’s. A sort of prehensile hand flexing at the tip—a huge thumb and two fingerish knobs with the retractable talons of an eagle. This reenvisioned noble ape in touch with his true nature would flourish, wielding the tail-arm as a labor aid, weapon, and even a source of sensual pleasure. Naturally, it was a failure of a dream.

Earl was never sure if Ma was joshing when she claimed that, as testament to those early Gundersons and their stalwart believings, one in three of the extended family had been born with a vestigial piglet tail, some as long as seven inches, still glistening with tawny lanugo. Doc Grandey always snipped them quick, before the newborn’s first bawling. Some of the witchy aunts supposedly kept a specimen jar with dozens for use in ancient harvest rituals.

Ma would never say if this was true of him, but young Earl sometimes wished himself a tail so bad he couldn’t sleep. He was sure he could feel the scar back there atop his heinie, and scratched his coccyx madly in hopes of making it grow. Of all life’s iniquitous fates, to have been robbed of this seemed the worst.

Claudia Emerson, 1957–2014

Thursday, December 4th, 2014

from PINION, “Sister’s Dream of the Empty Wing”

Through room after room

I follow the mockingbird, mocking

no other, calling out with original

voice the generation that speaks also

in me, in this wing that leaves the house

behind it forgotten—where I will

not wake, the cage of my ribs swept clean.

NEA Fellowships for CR Contributors

Wednesday, December 3rd, 2014

We’re thrilled to announce that poets and contributors Jessica Greenbaum (4.2, 6.1); Shara Lessley (6.1, 10.2); and Eliot Khalil Wilson (1.2) have been awarded Creative Writing Fellowships in Poetry from the National Endowment of the Arts. We hoist our glasses, beat our drums, raise the roof, and kick up our collective heels to Jessica, Shara, and Eliot on this much-coveted and well-deserved honor.

Jessica Greenbaum’s first book, Inventing Difficulty (Silverfish Review Press, 1998), won the Gerald Cable Prize. Her second book, The Two Yvonnes (2012), was chosen by Paul Muldoon for Princeton’s Series of Contemporary Poets. She is the poetry editor for upstreet and lives in Brooklyn.

Shara Lessley is a poet and teacher. The author of Two-Headed Nightingale (New Issues Poetry & Prose, 2012), she is a former Wallace Stegner Fellow in Poetry at Stanford University. Shara’s awards include an Artist Fellowship from the State of North Carolina, the Diane Middlebrook Poetry Fellowship from the Wisconsin Institute for Creative Writing, an Olive B. O’Connor Fellowship from Colgate University, the Reginald S. Tickner Fellowship from the Gilman School, and a “Discovery” The Nation prize. She is the 2014 Mary Wood Fellow at Washington College.

Eliot Khalil Wilson is the author of The Saint of Letting Small Fish Go (Cleveland State Poetry Press, 2003). He has received a Pushcart Prize, a Bush Foundation Fellowship, the Hill-Kohn Prize from the Academy of American Poets, and the Robert Winner Prize from the Poetry Society of America.

Pas de Deux: Parry & Leegant

Monday, December 1st, 2014

Welcome to the adagio movement of our Pas de Deux between fiction writers and 11.1 contributors Leslie Parry and Joan Leegant. Read on to witness these virtuosos pirouetting around such topics as adapting fairy tale motifs in contemporary literature, the advantages of dramatic action in short fiction, and (a nod to Black Friday) the dangers of what Leegant accurately classifies “the manic annual bridal dress sale at Boston’s Filene’s Basement.” We’ve all been there, and we were terrified.

Leslie Parry: For the short time they’re reunited, Patricia acts as the parent to her own ailing mother. She buys her ice cream, improvises a spoon from a set of earrings(!), lifts her like a child when she’s too weak to stand. I was moved by her patience and pragmatism, her utter lack of self-pity. Even though both women are prone to violent outbursts (Patricia punching a stranger over a wedding dress, her mother wounding her father with a thrown glass), they can’t fully articulate their sadness or disappointment—or even their love. Their conversations are very practical; they ask only the immediate, necessary questions: What kind of dress? Do you want toast? As Patricia explains, “I had her last name and her bone structure and her lack of interest in staring down the barrel of the past.” And yet in the process of telling this story, she is exploring the past, and elliptically revealing her own fears and desires. What were the challenges to creating Patricia’s unique narrative voice, and to developing such a complicated relationship, especially in only a few thousand words?

Joan Leegant: I’d have to say that I didn’t so much create this narrative voice as receive it. I know that sounds kind of woo-woo, writer-as-vessel, but the voice in this case—actually, in all my stories, at least those that work—was there from the start. I like how T. C. Boyle put it (in the Introduction to his excellent anthology Doubletakes): In all of his fiction, he’s begun with “a voice and tone revealed to me in the first line [my emphasis] and pursued the unfolding of the story from there.” Or Maile Meloy (in Fiction Writer’s Review): “The stories don’t go unless I have the voice. It’s like getting into a car with a tricky clutch, and you can either get it in gear or you can’t.” So I got lucky here. A voice revealed itself, and I was in gear.

How did that voice arrive? A mystery, of course. But I remember where I started this story, which perhaps made it possible for that voice to emerge. I was teaching an all-day workshop for adult (that is, not college-age) writers, encouraging people to bear down on their sentences and write with urgency, to push past the tentative and polite. It was a lot of permission-granting, which is often necessary to get people, especially polite adults, to unplug. I wrote alongside everyone else, and the first line that emerged was the first line of “The Basement”: “The woman looked at me as if througha gunsight.” Immediately I knew where I was: the manic annual bridal dress sale at Boston’s Filene’s Basement in the 1960s. It was legendary. I’m not a native Bostonian, but I’ve lived there off and on for the last forty years, and within another few sentences, I knew exactly who these characters were: tough South Boston types, no-nonsense, heavy on the accent (pahk ya cah in Hahvahd Yahd). This attachment to the locale and characters carried me through the story and enabled me to quickly discover the mother-daughter relationship.

What also helped in the writing was the emergence of a number of fairy tale references. Nasty Aunt Ro looks like she could sail off on a broomstick; the muffins at the Pewter Pot are like those in the folk tale in which the dough rises so much it fills the house; the wedding dresses are, themselves, “a fraction of retail for the start of the fairy tale.” These were not consciously placed in the story; they appeared in the sentences, and I noticed them and kept them. I hoped they would carry some of the mother-daughter thread, the fantasy—the storybook wedding with a beautiful dress and beaming mother—as well as the dark underside. I also liked the whimsical tone they gave to what could otherwise be a somewhat grim (pardon the pun) story.

LP: The structure of this story is masterful. It opens with a singular incident, a frustrated act of violence: We see the protagonist at her breaking point. Rather than slowly building to this climactic moment, the story begins with it—Patricia, fighting over a wedding dress at Filene’s, knocks out a woman’s teeth. Then the narrative goes back in time—to earlier in the day, to the night before, all the way back to her mother’s own wedding—to answer the question why? Did you begin with the idea of the fight, and then set out to explore the well of emotions behind it? Or did the story originate elsewhere? And how much did you play with structure before the story found its form?

JL: Thank you for your kind assessment. Like the voice, the structure was there from the outset. Which is starting to make the writing of this story sound ridiculously (and embarrassingly!) easy. And, as I think about it, the story was one of those rare and lucky gifts: The voice was there, the characters, the setting, and, yes, the structure. Which I think has to do with the environment in which I began writing it—that workshop. I guess I was giving myself permission, too, allowing myself to cut through the tentative. So the fight happened at the opening. I should add that there was never an idea for a fight; it’s not something I ran through my head. I can’t work that way. I just write the sentences and see what they tell me. Once the narrator punched the lady in the jaw, I was off and running.

What appealed to me about the punch was starting off with such an assertive and vivid and, above all, physical action. Around that time, I’d been tiring of subtle, restrained stories—hence the exhortation for urgency in the workshop—and wanted to paint in broader, bolder strokes: maybe allow a few stereotypes (the Boston cop named Murphy), have some bossy people with strong feelings run the show, retain the fairy tale motifs.

As for playing with the structure, I had to be careful to keep the sequence clear since the story loops around in time: it starts out with the punch, and much later, the reader gets to the moment right before that punch.

LP: I won’t spoil it, but the ending made me gasp. There’s one particular sentence that floored me: Patricia describing her mother’s last action in a frank, almost perfunctory manner. It’s so hard to pull off an ending like this, and yet it’s absolutely stunning—not just the action itself, but the way Patricia presents it. She doesn’t dwell on it or try to explain it. She doesn’t report on her grief. Instead the story ends with her own strange act of honor and defiance. Were you always writing toward that conclusion? Or did you make that decision as you got deeper into the story and the lives of these characters?

JL: The conclusion only appeared as I approached the end of the draft. As you can probably tell, I’m not one of these writers who can think through a story and have it work. I have to grope my way. So the ending—both the mother’s ending and the story’s ending—were only known to me when I wrote them. The challenge for me in writing this way is to hew closely enough to the unfolding narrative, without being yanked away by intentions or external ideas, to get to those seemingly inevitable and true endings.

But in terms of the daughter’s description of her mother’s last action, and her own act of honor and defiance (thank you for that apt way of describing it), I was helped enormously by these characters’ very distinct ways of being in the world. This daughter has been taking care of herself for a long time; she’s had a mother, of sorts, so she wants no part of a surrogate (like her mother-in-law) or a stepmother (like her witchy Aunt Ro). And she’s not going to—as you say—dwell on the bad stuff, because that’s not going to accomplish anything. She’s matter-of-fact—she’s had to be that way to survive—but she also has feelings. Which, in keeping perhaps with the fairy tale motif that snuck in, are best expressed not by the character but by the dress. Which has, I suppose, become a character in its own right.