My first official review–by Mary Ellen Miller

Mary Ellen Miller’s review of Seeking the Other Side shows up in today’s Daily News. I am so grateful to her for the thorough and beautiful review and thank her especially for closing with her own memory of our son, Casey. Thank you, Mary Ellen!

Here it is, both copied and the link.

Poet Olmsted is a genius

“seeking the other side,” by Jane Olmsted. Louisville: Fleur-de-Lis Press, 2015. 101 pages, $16.

Well, here is “God’s plenty” (as John Dryden supposedly said of Chaucer) indeed. How well this assessment applies to Jane Olmsted’s “seeking the other side.”

The riveting cover design comes from Yvonne Petkus’ “Braced” and partially echoes the book’s motifs.

There is so much here. An introduction by poet and Western Kentucky University graduate Maureen Morehead is sensitive, thought-provoking and thought-assuaging. She writes (for one tiny taste of this elegant essay): “And it becomes a language that Jane Olmsted assumes for her private journey toward light, as these are ultimately sacred poems and those of us who enter them walk with the poet on sacred ground.”

And then there is Olmsted’s own prologue, as arresting as a poem. “I think of the ‘other side’ not just as what’s across the line between life and death, between myself and my son (the murder of Olmsted’s son is the crucial catalyst behind this book) but as what’s across any other real or illusory line that stifles access to the fullness of life.”

The son these lines refer to is Olmsted’s third son, who was shot to death when he was 20 years old.

In this prologue, Olmsted explains the structure of the book. Part I (“Ways of Touching”) has poems that are not specifically about Casey, Jane and Ken Casey’s son, but “touch may be physical, of the hand or eye or ear – any of the senses – but it can also express a spiritual longing, loneliness as well as joy and humor.”

The first poem in this section, “A Body of Poetry,” ends with:

Beneath the aching rib a shadow beckons.

“Aching rib” is so rich in denotation and connotation that it does not need any explication from me.

“Naming the Flowers” is almost unearthly in its beauty – a kind of brilliant but frightening nightmare, more like a vision. Read it very slowly. Actually, all the poems should be read very slowly. Finally, they go down smoothly, but they may require some serious reflection for full understanding.

“Artist at Five” is about Casey as a child. Other poems touch on subjects from his short life. There is yearning. There is longing. Olmsted has an almost uncanny ear for rich and unusual metaphor. Here is “Whisper,” the last poem in this section:

————-, I am in no hurry
And am learning to listen underneath
When someone says
it doesn’t matter and all is well.

“Listen underneath”? I think it is part of this poet’s unique gift to express the metaphysical in physical terms.

Now, we come to Part II (“tree forms”) and poems that come from the author’s 2011 chapbook. There are 16 of them. Some were begun before Casey’s death when the author camped in the Rockies, seeking even then a closer connection to the natural, especially trees. All of the poems can be read without knowledge of Casey’s death or any other specific loss. The poems seek meaning. “Aspen Hieroglyph” strikes me as especially beautiful. Quoting, even a whole stanza, will fracture its meaning. Read it slowly, savor its meaning and you will see what I am talking about. Olmsted’s attention to nature is poetically scientific. This poet is a genius.

The final section (“the casey poems”) includes 15 masterful poems, all shaven and shorn of the slightest hint of self-pity or sentimentality. My hope is that Olmsted will eventually have these printed separately with her introduction. There is no way I can do justice to poems like “Memento Mori,” “The Weight of a Human Heart” – this poem began its life as an essay – and the closing poem, “Requiem of the Bristlecone: Pine at Lake Haiyaha.” This last poem closes:

We gave and took, you and I, and evermore.
I fill my hands and lift them to you.
Drink. Then let us go.

Olmsted treads lightly nowhere. There is no corner of grief too dark for her to enter. Her courage reminds me of a line from Robert Frost’s “Mowing:” “Anything but the truth would have seemed too weak.” I am made happier and enriched and consoled by her honesty and by the brilliance of her talent.

Please forgive a personal note: I knew Casey. I loved Casey. How vividly I remember him bringing his new baby girl down to the Women’s Study House to present her to Trish Jaggers and me. I always kidded Casey about looking like a Greek god, told him he should become a model. Now he tenderly lifted his baby from her pretty, little pinkified nest and moved toward the window for better light. How lovely she was! And Casey was even more handsome, as if his face was lit from within by his love and pride. Ah, god. Jesus and Buddha. Casey honored them both.

Great show on the poems, Jane. Great show on your son, Ken and Jane.

Shine on, Casey.

— Reviewed by Mary Ellen Miller, Western Kentucky University English department.

Editor’s note: The author will speak in WKU Libraries’ Kentucky Live Series at 7 p.m. Thursday in the Western Room of the Kentucky Building. A book signing will follow.

Self-promotion, blech….

In preparation for my September 17 reading at WKU, where I would prefer not to make an ass of myself, I have been designing some publicity–bookmarks, an invitation–and now must look towards a flyer that entices libraries to want me to come and read poetry for them.

Doing this requires an element of “I’m wonderful” and “listening to me is really what you need” and along with that, little voices that go “this would be clever, that profound, this will ring true, and that sounds so be here now.” I squirm. I duck my head. I laugh then hear the chuckle come to a pinched downturn and a little exhalation of air, “ugh.”

On the heels comes the combative side: “who does she think she is?” “Just wait till she does all this work and then no one responds.” Then we’ll be like, “She’s a failure” and “listening to her is better than Fox News, but so is having my toenails removed.” On and on the selves argue.

It would make sense maybe if I was a twenty-something emerging poet blazing a path for a new poetics, but I’m not. My publishing path looks more like one of those forced-air inflatable characters that rise up along the side of the road, usually in front of a local car sales lot, then fall to the ground, limp and formless until they arise again, arms shooting in the air, John Travolta (the Saturday Night Live JT) as cartoon. Publications, both laudable and so-so, usually come after months of my asking, “you like?” and hearing, “This is no reflection on the quality of your work,” but, no, they no-like-ee.

Virgina Woolf writes in A Room of One’s Own, “Think of Tennyson; think–but I need hardly multiply the instances of the undeniable, if very, unfortunate, fact that it is the nature of the artist to mind excessively what is said about him [or her]. Literature is strewn with the wreckage of men [women] who have minded beyond reason the opinion of others.” Doesn’t matter if you’re 20 or 60, though I would like to think–I DO think–that with age comes wisdom, balance, perspective. My career no longer hangs on my publishing anything. Strike that pressure off the list. I do occasionally wonder what I’m leaving my children and their children, if they’ll ever read my poems and say, “My grandmother wrote that.” Or will it be more like, “that’s cute.”

Anyway, enough, I must promote my book. I do it for Casey, for myself, for the joy of sharing ideas, a beautiful image or two, some profound thought that lifts someone else, as it lifted me, and still does. So here’s the invitation. Let the flapping in the breeze begin.

Invitation for September 17

Invitation for September 17

Trees, Ram Dass, and “The Story They Tell”

Browsing Fb this morning, I saw the following meme posted by my friend Betsy. I thought, “Yes!” and then “Tree Forms”! And then decided to share this poem, in praise of the story trees tell, and in appreciation for Ram Dass’s good decision to see everyone as a tree…..Here’s the meme, then the reading. Thanks!
RamDassQuoteHere’s the reading of “The Story They Tell Is Our Story.” I appreciate the excuse to read it and at the same time to share this so-true quotation of Ram Dass.

First two readings!

My first reading from Seeking was part of the Spalding MFA’s Festival of Writers. I read with two other poets and a pair of composers who have a new musical out. May I just say that it was fantastic!? What a great audience. And reading at the beautiful Brown Hotel overlooking the cityscape of Louisville, my old hometown, made it seem as if we were at the top of the world. in fact, I might have been walking on air afterwards.

My next reading, if anyone in BG wants to join me and Tom Hunley, is Tuesday, June 2, 8pm, at at Cloud 9 Hookah on Broadway in Bowling Green. From elegant to funky, from figurative cloud 9 to one where I imagine smoke swirling to the ceiling.

I am very grateful to Sena Naslund, who is the editor of Fleur-de-lis Press, Ellyn Lichvar, the assistant managing editor, who took such meticulous care of the poems, Jonathan who designed the cover, Maureen Morehead who wrote the introduction, Yvonne Petkus, whose painting “Braced” is now the cover of Seeking. My blurbers, Frank Steele, George Ella Lyon, Tom Hunley, Lisa Williams, and Sena Naslund, make the work sound so enticing.

Such a brilliant collective effort. Thank you!

And, I just found out that Barnes & Noble has Seeking available online, so Amazon is not the only carrier. Now I need to pull in any favors I might have lingering out there and get my kindhearted friends to write me some reviews for people who stumble onto it!

Here’s amazon….And here’s Barnes & Noble….

This is not a mother’s day poem

Although two mothers appear in this poem, it is not a mother’s day poem. And though a son is featured, it is not a poem about sons, per se. It is more of a poem about exuberance–that unbridled, lusty energy that characterizes a child, around age 5. I wrote it a long time ago about my son’s habit of leaping into my lap, all knees and elbows and pressing his face to mine, even while I (still remember) am peering around his shoulder at something else going on. He liked to make me laugh, and remaining aloof or sad or hurt or bored never got him the satisfaction that eliminating the distance between us would bring.

So on this day after Mother’s Day, I wanted to remember that capacity for joy that our children bring to us. Too often we get busy or are so tired that we can’t appreciate them. And then, who among us, hasn’t been so beaten down by work or relations that we snap or lash out at the one more thing invading our space?

Mother’s Day is full of notes of appreciation, on Facebook (these I like) and broadcast across the aisles at Kroger’s–these I can’t stand. Some male or female voice asserting, “I wouldn’t be where I am without her,” anonymous, easily said, with no ownership of what they did while she was busy making them into someone.

I’d rather see us live the appreciation on a daily basis. I’d rather see our society spend less on cards and flowers that were imported on the backs of poor mothers in Columbia, where the flower industry certainly doesn’t give a damn. I’d rather see us get reduce the soft focus, increase the numbers of brown babies in brown mothers’ arms we see on the walls in doctors’ offices (and give them some soft focus). I’d rather see my society truly understand how difficult it is to be poor or abused or ignorant and a mother. Free contraception! Free childcare! Save the easy judgment for a less-easy target.

But, as I said, this is not a poem about motherhood. It is about exuberance, don’t you think? How we need to make room for it, even when we’re tired?

Bird Colonies in My Attic

Last week, we covered a gable vent with wire mesh, our attempt to keep another family of birds from nesting in our attic crawl space. This is at the front of the house. I see from the upstairs bathroom window at the back of the house that another avian family has put down roots in the eaves, where an opening between two pieces of siding offers up a kind of private doorway. Bits of twig poke through and when the parents arrive with a flutter of braking tail feathers, the otherwise timid scrabbling sound goes wild. Within a week, the sweet little peeps are hearty shouts. “You’re back! Finally! Me first! Where’s mine?!”

So, it seems like a good occasion to share a reading of one of the poems in Seeking, called “Someone Else’s Offspring.” I hope you enjoy it.

They’re here!

The first shipment is in. Even though I can’t touch them and can only see them in this photograph, I know they’re real. I will hold one someday . . . soon (if not soon enough). Oh would that the USPS had drones up and flying!

First View

First View

Thou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain,
. . .
I washed thy face, but more defects I saw,
And rubbing off a spot still made a flaw.
I stretched thy joints to make thee even feet,
. . .
If for thy father asked, say thou hadst none;
And for thy mother, she alas is poor,
Which caused her thus to send thee out of door.

How bold to quote Anne Bradstreet’s “The Author to Her Book”!

And yet, so many of these poems come from me a mother. I care about them, the what and who they tell of, the who and what they have become.

Like my living, breathing children, I hold them up—have to restrain myself from talking-reading them till people roll their eyes—secretly, I want to brag on their successes, shift the focus from others’ poem-children to my own.

Like my living, breathing children, they wear me out, even as I scold them and tell them No, that’s not the way we do things.

They are packaged now, so beautiful, like my living, breathing children who show up on graduation day, their tassels flying, their smiles broad, their backs straight and arms open wide, ready for the life before them