One of 3 featured poets

I’m so pleased to have learned of Snowflakes in a Blizzard (Separating authors from the herd and giving them one-on-one time with readers), a blog hosted by Darrell Laurant, who contacted me a couple of months ago. I’m grateful for the kind surprises in life. Here’s the site. And here’s what Darrell says (excerpt):

I hope you enjoy it. And if you’d like to be included, contact me at writersbridge AT


Darrell Laurant

Note: I am a 40-year veteran of journalism who retired two years to do freelancing full time. My first novel, “The Kudzu Kid,” was published last October, and lots of people are not buying it. A more recent book, “Inspiration Street,” is doing considerably better. Maybe I’m learning something.

When “the holidays” come

I had occasion the other day when someone said, “the holidays are usually the hardest,” to respond, “For most people, yes, but it doesn’t bother me.” I have reflected on my glibness and wondered if that’s why, ever since, he has placed himself so center, as if to say, “Really? You’re not troubled just a little?” Here we all are (most of us), preparing to gather with family and friends, to celebrate according to our traditions. It’s a time when we try to include everyone. Sometimes we run ourselves ragged, catching a few hours with this family member, fighting traffic and avoiding holiday accidents (drunk revelers), just so we can give a hug and laugh a little.

And that’s good. Laughter is. But then we notice a tinny quality in our own voice and that’s when the missing person’s absence pushes us against the wall, even years later. We’ve had no choice but to accommodate, but we’re not “over it” and the trite “closure” they keep talking about is more to satisfy a narrative than to describe reality. The wound doesn’t close, though we may go months with the seeping so subtle we don’t notice until all of the sudden the pool is full and flooding behind our eyes.

That is one way we fool ourselves, the glib wave of the hand–but it should be a warning, anytime our answer comes so fast and easy: get ready for big dose of humbling.

More reflective now, I am missing being able to see and touch two sons. In the next 10 days, I will love (and touch and laugh with) my oldest and our two granddaughters and my family. But I will honor the sadness that comes when we’re supposed to gather all the ones we love into our wide embrace and can’t. I will stop saying, it doesn’t bother me.

So this poem is for that. It’s a modified ghazal, “Ghazal by a Thread.” If you’re listening, given them a hug.

Minor Chord

I wrote this poem to mark the way we continue to see a beloved who has died–in other people, in the way someone walks or the shape of a jaw. It’s been seven years and I still turn back, just to be sure, when someone has caught my eye for some little thing that reminds me of him. In that moment the possibility of him rushes back. In “Minor Chord,” I wanted to start with the idea of “if” (if only) to try to express the longing that comes whenever we see someone who shares that little piece of him–that gesture–and how this merging of stranger with beloved is like the merging of song and painting.

Inspired by my students

Recently, my students in SRSC 525 Place and the Problem of Healing, submitted their self-portraits, designed as woodcuts using black and white paper, most of them. They then photographed their design and shared it using Voice Thread (my class is online, so this gave us the opportunity to step off the page for awhile and listen to others’ narratives). They were all so wonderful I wish I could share them here. Two of them featured trees and roots as part of the design, and they reminded me of my own “tree forms” poems, so I told them I wanted to share one of them, the one recorded below, “When I Fall.” I haven’t read or thought of this poem for awhile, so it pleased me that other elements of my students’ self-portraits came up–stars, for instance, and mountains, and stepping stones, or in this case a path that was once the tree.

Since I haven’t posted on my blog for awhile (which makes it seem as if I don’t care about poetry anymore). . . . sad face . . . I am back, if briefly, with this:

Nominated for a Pushcart :o

In the world of poetry, time trips along in a wholly whimsical way, rushing along then stopping to gaze around, at the stars, the changing leaves–who knows?–only that Time, my old friend and sometime antagonist, has tugged me on my shirt to say, “That poem you wrote, the one about nanoseconds and the cosmos, the one you haven’t thought about in weeks, well, someone’s been reading it.” What? And then I slow down and look around and think, thank you thank you (for the stars and leaves and for poetry and people who love it and even more the ones who like mine).

It’s been nominated for a Pushcart, that poem called “Hydrostatic Shock,” by my publisher, Fleur-de-lis Press and The Louisville Review. Isn’t that a nice present for a beautiful rainy November day?

So here it is, if you want to take a listen (ignore any background noise, as I’m in Wetherby Administration Bldg, waiting for a committee meeting, at which, I might add, there will be no poetry read).

And thank you so much, Ellyn Lichvar and the rest of the (clearly talented and awesomely perceptive) folks at Fleur-de-Lis and The Louisville Review.

Erin Keane’s review in The Louisville Review

Erin Keane has written a review of Seeking the Other Side, published in The Louisville Review, Vol. 77, pp. 168-170.
(Fleur-de-Lis Press, 2015, 101 pp.)
by Jane Olmsted
In her introduction to Seeking the Other Side, scholar and Western Kentucky University professor Jane Olmsted writes that she put the writing of poems aside for many years to focus on other work, but returned in the wake of the tragedy—the murder of her twenty-year-old son Casey—that shapes her remarkable full-length debut collection. Exquisitely balanced between poems that rip out your heart with “a fist, gnarled with rage, hungry for love” and poems that guide the reader through the transformations sparked by grief and loss, Seeking the Other Side is at turns violent, surreal, elegiac and above all, staunchly alive.

Although the entire collection is an effort to come to terms with his death, the final third of the book—The Casey Poems reckons most directly with the poet’s son’s life and violent end. Th e poet weaves the facts of his death through tender elegies like “Blessed By the Dalai Lama,” which is anchored by the image of a consecrated “pretty silver T on a red string” that did not protect him from the fatal gunshot, and the imploring “Imperative,” in which “don’t forget about me,” spelled out in beads on a child’s church craft necklace, forms a haunting refrain that ricochets through the poem like a bullet off a rib. Olmsted mines startling beauty from the forensic details of the young man’s autopsy (“Th e Weight of a Human Heart”), the sonic pleasures of “where mucosa falls like drapery in longitudinal folds” almost shocking in such a clinical scene, and from the ballistics report (“Hydrostatic Shock”), in which the speaker learns that “A .40 caliber lopes along / and flattens a little, when meeting something hard, like bone.” Every death is, in its final moments, a mystery to those left alive, but these poems transform hard facts into higher truth: “how a nanosecond can hold a swirling cosmos of befores and durings / and afters; and how their ballistics got one thing right: there is a cavity / involved.”

At times, Olmsted’s poems move into liminal, dream-like spaces where waking life and its rules are suspended. In the darkly playful “Naming the Flowers,” the speaker slips naked into the night wearing only a crown she’s woven of “dorothies’ leaves and barbara’s breath / delicate as china,” escaping a home surrounded by baying dogs and “eyes cold as shaved glass / in a frozen cocktail.” In “Whisper,” she offers a more concrete vision: two of her sons fi ghting, until the dream abruptly

They disappear, the boys—
it’s the alone that tells you
no one is coming—
walls and ceiling receding fast.

That wistful moment of the dream blowing apart becomes a metaphorfor the confl icted state of the grief-stricken survivor, one foot in her lifeand the other in his death. The act of transformation—from dreaming to awake, from whole to fractured, from before to after—is reenacted throughout the book. In “Roadside Encounter,” nature and machine mangle the form of a
roadkill deer into a grotesque resting shape, cars and elements slowly destroying the carcass until “she’s fi nally gone, delivered into the dump truck.” In “Cicada,” a memory of her boys marveling at an insect emerging from its husk turns to the speaker imagining herself in metamorphosis, sprouting wings and shedding her former self, “so I can leap into that
startling void.” Olmsted contemplates again the moment of giving in to death in “Camping on Greys River, Bridger Tetons,” when the sound of a bear outside her tent leaves the speaker almost welcoming the moment to “expose my belly // surrender, my self / to the other self.” This moment of dark anticipation echoes in “Imperative,” as the speaker, anguished,
imagines the young man approaching his fate:

What were you thinking, the night you died,
driving to a place so clearly marked
by fear and degradation and rushing
toward the lowest circles of hell?

The power of Seeking the Other Side will compel readers to mourn a young man they likely never met, and yet these poems also transcend one mother’s grief. “Blessed, it is said, are those who mourn,” opens “Requiem of the Bristlecone Pine at Lake Haiyaha,” the book’s final elegy, which later offers, “Blessed, it is said, are the dead.” The sentiments of these prayers are as old as humanity, and as enduring—grief and loss will transform us all at some point, until we ourselves are lost, and our own deaths transform those left behind. In the meantime, Olmsted suggests, we fumble toward making peace with this certainty and with our limited lives, reaching always “for the root of things / and for the merest hint of light.”
–Erin Kean