(In case you were wondering, though the poem-writing has been scant, I have been reading. Many many books have I been reading. So many. My next post will attempt to detail it all for you, and you will see I haven’t been altogether lazy.)

• Connotation Press: An Online Artifact is one of the most interesting and varied online journals around, and their cast of poetry editors is stellar. They were kind enough to publish some of my poems in their October issue. You can read them here.
• Cave Wall, which the world knows I love, included me in its summer/fall 2011 issue. Other contributors include Keetje Kuipers, Sally Rosen Kindred, Rodney Jones, Amy M. Clark, and Charles Harper Webb.
• The Common, a beautiful new print journal out of Amherst College, published a poem in their second issue, which debuted this fall. Other contributors include Susan Kinsolving, Major Jackson, Daniel Tobin, Nathaniel Perry, and Tom Sleigh.
• Salamander, which chose the first poem I wrote after my mom’s death for its winter 2011/2012 issue, is out now. Other contributors include Frannie Lindsay, Roland Pease, Jeanne Marie Beaumont, Sarah Chace, and Andrea Scarpino.
• The new issue of Crab Creek Review, with my poem, “Dispatch from the Sick-House,” arrived at my door just today. Other contributors include Kathleen Kirk, Nin Andrews, Joseph O. Legaspi, Anne Barngrover, and Karina Borowicz. I had a time getting it away from Aidan, who was fascinated by the gorgeous cover art!
• And lastly, but by no means least, Susan Jo Russell’s review of my chapbook, Hunger All Inside, is the featured review for the next two weeks over at the Fiddler Crab Review! The fact of the review was itself a lovely surprise, but even more wonderful is what she has to say. Many thanks to Susan Jo and Fiddler Crab Review.

Aidan at work on his magnum opus.

My children are ever so much more productively writing than I am. Vincent’s discovering the discoveries and challenges of reading and writing, and Aidan is doggedly working on his own mysterious pages.

I, on the other hand, have written exactly two poems since my mother died. That Salamander will be publishing one of them in their next issue is some consolation, but I’m feeling the pull and tug of the writing bug.

After Aidan was born, I buckled down and wrote a poem a week, and kept at it consistently, for a long time. Not all were worth keeping or working on, but the regularity of effort kept my mind chugging.

But now, sometimes, a lot of times, I just feel stymied. What to say that’s not about my mother and how intensely I miss her? (Which is responsible for the silences here as well.)

I’ve reached that stage where I’m weary of talking about my grief. I miss her. It hurts. Nothing helps, nothing will help, because she’s not coming back. Emotionally I accept that, but I’m just bored with myself.

I’m not unaware of my life’s many blessings, not least of which is a plenitude of love, my dear family, this unexpected gift of a new child in the spring.

I’m also grateful that I live a life saturated in literature: Tupelo Press, the Collected Poets Series, the support and love of poet friends — it’s a financially precarious life, but I love it and am thankful for it.

Which is to say, I love my life. To paraphrase the film, “Super 8,” (which I also loved), bad things happen, but I can go on. I can live, and can live happily.

I guess I’m just trying to find a way to write about this abiding sadness that doesn’t feel maudlin or self-indulgent or tedious. It’s one thing to bore myself; it’s unforgivable to bore others.

(Evidently, food poisoning = dehydration + electrolyte imbalance = massive cramping + spotting.)

I am grateful beyond reckoning to be on the other side of it, and for my dear friends who helped me through those days.

The baby’s heartbeat, its speedy little whir, is the most reassuring sound in the universe.

RAINMAKER / by Larissa Szporluk

Victory has to be rare.
It is the unicorn of all endeavor.

I call your name, rain,
and I fail. I fail and I fail and I fail.

Words come down from wordless places,
rain from rainless air,

mirage from solid paradise,
my salary for failure.

I see muscles in the burning grass,
precipice where thought was,

a far-off purple veil–
and one raised brow, so chalked with loss

that is could be the bastard
of an answered prayer.

–from Traffic with Macbeth (Tupelo Press, 2011)

I’ve visited the ER many times as a mom, but never for myself. It’s unsettling how drained and wasted and weak I still feel.

However, for all that, there was a consolation prize, in the form of an early ultrasound to check on the baby during this internal warfare. Wriggles, heartbeats, and kicks, oh my!

He refuses your good counsel. He listens to no one but himself. After all this time, he should have his shit together.

Yes. You’re right. But self-sabotage, self-absorption, plain old selfishness — does it really matter? Because he’s out there alone.

Simple mistakes can be compounded by other, unrelated, random events — a small misstep can become an irrevocable terrible…something. Something beyond recovery.

Remember your mother. Remember how your father said, I love all my children equally. But some need more help than others.

Some need more help than others. Remember your mother.

This is not going to be a “Woe is me” petulant post, if you’re worried — but damn.

So, just when you think you just can’t catch a break, life upsets the apple cart, reminding you that you don’t know the first thing about anything. Because, what do you know, I’m pregnant again.

There are things you’re grateful for in and of themselves, but are painful nonetheless. But I’ll leave that for now.

Because today, I heard the new baby’s heartbeat. Which is never less than miraculous. I’m ten weeks along, due May 1, 2012.

I turn 40 on Thursday, which is stunning in itself.

If I was the sort of person comfortable swearing in public, there’d be a whole series of curses throughout this post.

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This is lovely, and aching, and I don’t really feel like adding anything to that right now.

We are thankful for no loss of life. Our home was undamaged, though we were forced to evacuate for the night due to flooding fears — the river ran wild! I’ve never seen anything like it. Lots of hilltown roads closed and impassable. We’ll be learning new routes hither and yon for some time to come.

Hope you all made it through unscathed. Best to you, friends.

I’ve always been fascinated by the Beaufort Scale. It could be because the concept of measurement itself is intrinsically interesting, but how the Beaufort Scale grapples with wind is a sort of poetry. Its language is simple and elegant, metaphorical. And it’s served as a point of inspiration for:

• a book, Defining the Wind,
• this very cool art/poetry piece,
• a Poets Scale,
• and at least one poem (“Nocturne,” by Sarah Gridley, from Weather Eye Open), though I’m sure there are others.

Also in the realm of good news, two poems were accepted by a journal I’d given up on hearing from, it’d been so long. Nice to break up those rejections here and there, yes?