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I take a bath. I watch TV with pleasure and without guilt. I will throw my poem in couplets, then tercets, or a ghazal. Advice: Trust your imagination. Be on your own timetable. Ask yourself what you want out of this first-book process. Demand and determine your desires.

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Control your own narrative. Redefine what success means to you. Read or reread first books from your favorite poets. Write your own introduction to your collection. Ask a friend for their marketing questionnaire and fill it out. Trace your literary ancestry. Remember the last poem in your book is the entire book I learned this from Nancy Reddy.

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Be kind to yourself and others. Keep submitting. Finding time to write: Due to teaching full-time and traveling for readings, I try to make the erratic and irregular nature of my schedule work for and not against me. The major trick, for me, is to not only chase the impulse when it strikes, but to follow up on those notes whenever I can. My writing happens in a lot of intense bursts, so if an idea comes to me in the middle of a movie or during a conversation, I must stop and write it down. I allow a new poem to take over my day, my weekend, all through the night when possible.

I remind myself that paying intense attention to the world is also writing. Revising is writing.

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Resting is writing. Loving myself through my failures is a way into writing. Defining my own relationship to writing is writing. Putting the book together : It took me about a year to organize the collection.

Instantly, I knew wanted to organize the manuscript as a triptych from the title:. This triad structure helped to define the themes and movements of each section and to guide the flow of the book. From there, I decided to shape each section into its own thematic collection like three mini chapbooks. I wanted to bookend the collection with two poems that dealt with a racial epithet being hurled at the speaker. You think of killing her. Chase seems to be suggesting that we all have these thoughts,whether about a language poetry reading or something else, but the admission of such dark thoughts is what binds us together as human beings.

Each takes on the theme of loss in some way, exploring and depicting the theme through telling details. Chase is never heavy-handed, maudlin or self-pitying. She is more bold and forceful than ever. The reader is plunged into a mysterious, often ugly world, then lifted for a rest at just the right moments. Midway through the poem we remember, as if in a dream, that. There is enough light left in the sky to see shapes of grape clusters in the vineyard. There is sugar in the sky. It is difficult to ever wake completely from this extraordinary book of poems, nor does one want to. The images Chase creates etch themselves into our emotional landscape in lasting ways.

It shows that people still feel a need for the intellectual stimulation and life-enrichment yielded by living with a book over several days or maybe weeks and getting together with others to hash over what they got out of it, what they thought of it. Before its budget was axed, the National Endowment for the Humanities funded state foundations which made grants to local libraries to host book discussion groups. Those I recall were quite popular, well worth the few hundred dollars each one cost.

Alliteration Definition

If the intent of the program was to spur citizens to do it themselves, the strategy seems to have worked. Now there are informal DIY book groups all over the place. If others feel their group spends too much time gossiping, they can organize like-minded intellects for more serious discussions.

Obviously, something has to give. Some people are like that.

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Love angers him, torments him, excites his destructive spite. Milton had a penetrating understanding of human pride. The person who has matured in years without maturing in reasonable understanding of the relationship of the self to others becomes either an arrogant tyrant or a servile doormat. Our former rector used to say that a saint is somebody married to a martyr. Emotional tyrants cannot bear any curb on their will, any slight to their pride. As Milton shows, bilious anxiety for the self solves nothing, only creates misery. Self is the obsession of the 20th century, as much of its art and literature attests.

This obsession has driven individuals farther and farther away from community into solitary anxiety, away from connecting with anything or anybody outside of themselves, and into inaccessible thickets of private fantasy and symbol unintelligible to others. The Bookstore in Lenox may already have copies. These poems too seem concerned about this modern obsession with the self, and the connections between the pride of self and evil e.

Her poems, as she warns, are not for the squeamish — few pretty odes to Berkshire wildflowers or moonlit snowscapes here. Sure and powerful stuff. VENISON Paul set the bags down, told how they had split the deer apart, the ease of peeling it simpler than skinning a fruit, how the buck lay on the worktable, how they sawed an anklebone off, the smell not rank.

The sun slipped into night. Where are you I wondered as I grubbed through cupboards for noodles at least. Excited, we cooked the meat.

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Later, I dreamt against your human chest, you cloaked me in your large arms, then went for me the way you squander food sometimes. By then, I was eating limbs in my sleep, somewhere in the snow alone, survivor of a downed plane, picking at the freshly dead. Whistles of a far off flute — legs, gristle, juice. I cracked an elbow against a rock, awoke. Throughout the night, we consumed and consumed.

Ladies dressed in largesized brassieres cheered Yablo as he poured himself into a glass. In formation, ducklings waddled around him, belching. Wave to the slaves, You've nothing better to do. Give me your mouth, I've something to show you: Strobing images flow to form a sea of subtly, veracious emotion; The black and white chequered tile floor, In a baby's pupil, iris and more.

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We are the greatest threats to the fabric of society: Terrorists, drug dealers, hackers and poets. The drones of humanity tremble at the mention of our true profession. Are they alive or merely undead? The difference struggles to comprehend. Paper bullets fly through the air like locusts as a torrent of words enfolds upon us. There is only an idea.

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Ideas are bulletproof. Tammy M Darby Aug Chasing the Dragon. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws Section c 3 of the U. Copyright Act, 17 U. S c 3 , Tammy M Darby.