Feb 172011

Maureen Doallas, author of the newly published Neruda’s Memoirs: Poems, was kind enough to talk with us about her background, her experience in writing and poetry, and related areas.

Was there a time or event or class (or person) where you knew you had come to love poetry? Was it in college or earlier?

I feel fortunate that I grew up in a house full of books. Though both my mother and father had limited educations, they knew the value of being informed and educated, and instilled in us a love of learning. My mother was and at 83 still is an omnivorous reader. She always allowed me to buy as many books from Scholastic as I wanted; I usually ordered them all. One shelf in our house contained collections of writings by Nobel Prize winners in literature and I read every one. I have the books now. The range of books we had included everything from history to short stories. We had also what I recall were first editions of fiction writers (I read Le Carre’s The Spy Who Came In From the Cold when I was still in grammar school). Not so much poetry, except for volumes common to any library sold door to door in the late ’50s and early ’60s.

I would say that my interest in poetry became most serious when I began to study Spanish in 7th grade and discovered Pablo Neruda and other great Spanish poets. I carried that interest into studies in Spanish and Italian in college.

You spent a long career in writing and editing (and how you find things online is simply amazing). Do you think this has shaped your poetry?

I started out as a reporter for a local newspaper and then did freelancing for a time until I needed to earn a higher and more stable income. I have a background for both government and private institutions in editing political, educational, international health care, and employment law publications. I also wrote many newsletter articles in the job from which I retired.

I think I am skilled at mining for information. Partly that’s because I’m not content to ask the same questions others might and partly because I’m curious. In college I learned how to write book-length manuscripts based on notes taken on 3″x5″ cards, and we were required to use only primary (original) sources. I worked while in college for several professors who depended on my ability to gather information.

I wouldn’t say that what I did for a living shaped my poetry. My breadth of interests and curiosity, however, certainly informed what I read. I was and continue to be drawn to biography, and I like to write or try to write poems that draw on real-life facts.

How has writing shaped you as a person?

There is no period in my life when I haven’t been writing something, so in that respect, writing shaped my life because it’s always been a part of my life as an adult. What’s funny is that when I was in grade school I wanted to be a musician. I even entered a Mattel Corp. essay contest in which I wrote about how much I loved music. I think I was 9 at the time, and my essay earned finalist status. It was then that I realized I my strengths were in writing. Being a poet wasn’t what I had in mind. I wanted to be a war correspondent or at least a great newspaper reporter. After that, I pursued writing and did the requisite stint on my high school newspaper, where I was assistant editor and something of a renegade.

I took up formal study of poetry in college, though then one couldn’t major in a “craft,” as it was called, so my English studies at Vassar necessarily and primarily were in subjects like Chaucer, Shakespeare and medieval narrative. I got to bypass all the required freshman English courses, thanks to writing samples I’d submitted. I took my first poetry class in sophomore year. My instructor was a Sylvia Plath scholar and all the others students were juniors and seniors; I was intimidated but held in there. My senior year work – in poetry, my first manuscript – was with a fabulous and much-loved professor. I continued to write poetry after graduating, sharing my work for a while with my professor. I married in my 30s, in 1984, and had my son in 1988. I wrote and edited all day while at work and when I got home rarely took up my creative writing except for writing poetry for special occasions. In 2007, after retiring, I went back to poetry-writing seriously.

Do you have favorite poets? Do you read mostly contemporary poets or also the poets of the past?

I read broadly and deeply, so it’s difficult to say I favor poets in my reading; I take something from every poet I read. However, if I could take only two with me to a desert island, the two probably would be Pablo Neruda and Mahmoud Darwish, and, for good measure, Rumi. I would have to say I am most drawn to modern and contemporary poets.

Can you recall the first poem you read or had read to you?

I cannot recall the first poem read. I have a lousy memory for that kind of thing.

You have a tremendous love for art. How do you think that has influenced your poetry?

Poetry goes hand in hand with life. I can’t imagine not reading poetry any more than I can imagine living without visual and other forms of art. They are different media for expression but both show and teach a way to see.

Educational and career background?

I was born in Arlington County, Virginia. I’m one of those rare “natives” you hear about in the Washington, D.C., area. I grew up in Fairfax County. I applied to only three colleges/universities: Barnard College in New York City (now part of Columbia), University o f Missouri journalism school, and Vassar College. I was fortunate to have my pick of the three and settled on Vassar because the campus is extraordinarily beautiful and is a short train ride to New York City, because it had and has a magnificent history of educating women of incredible achievement, and it offered me a scholarship. I nixed Barnard because I wanted no part of looking for housing on my own and was not offered a scholarship, and Missouri because I decided I didn’t want to be at a large institution where fraternities and sororities had importance. As it turned out, I went to Vassar at a time when the college was becoming co-ed; I knew two years of what could be described as the “old” Vassar, when there were mostly women on the campus, and two years when the presence of men was creating all kinds of change.

I was a features reporter for a local paper and freelanced after college. I also worked summers at Wolf Trap Farm Park for the Performing Arts. The first year after college I lived with my brother in Virginia. When I saved enough money to get out on my own, I began a long career in editing and writing. I worked first for a group associated with Georgetown University, next for an education-related organization that undertook projects with U.S. colleges and universities, next with an international public health organization for which I edited international health program papers and project reports that went primarily to USAID and the UN, and finally to an employment law publisher where I spent almost 25 years. There was no poetry in the work but I still have friends from those jobs and made a good living applying my writing and editing skills.

Related:

Maureen talks more about the poems and her background at The High Calling.

She also discusses the process of publishing the book at Faith, Fiction, Friends.

Review of Neruda’s Memoirs at TweetSpeak Poetry.

Diane Walker, a friend of Maureen’s, reads the title poem in a video she created for the book.

The Assumption of the Virgin by Randall David Tipton is the art used for the cover of Neruda’s Memoirs. (It’s also available as a limited edition print.)

Posted by Glynn Young Tagged with: , ,
Feb 142011

You know how it can be with expectations. You wait and wait and wait for something, and then when it comes, you feel slightly deflated, because the expectation was bigger than the reality.

That didn’t happen with Neruda’s Memoirs: Poems by Maureen Doallas. In fact, just the opposite happened. The reality exceeded my expectations, and by a wide margin. (If it hadn’t, I wouldn’t be saying this.)

What do you expect from a first collection of poetry? Not this. Not this polish or precision. Not this range of feeling. Not this strong grasp of language, themes, words and range.

This is not a collection of poems by someone new to poetry. This is a collection by someone who knows her way around, someone well read, and yes, well-versed.

The collection, edited by Marcus Goodyear, is comprised of four sections – Enter, Listen, Exit and Remember. Each is introduced by a short essay, and each informs the poems in the specific section. The poems don’t necessarily need the introductory essays, but they become richer as a result. And they help the reader understand that this collection comes from a profound loss for the poet, the death of her brother in 2009.

To see how Doallas chisels words with precision, consider “Gone to Seed:”

Fireweed done producing,
gone to seed,

brilliance cuts a swath
through green’s shallowing shelter.

Agitated Monet yellows
burnished Van Gogh reds:
two nods to nature’s talents.

Lips of leaves
crisp
curl
cascade.

I carry a palette that can’t compete
with summer’s last firing.

If I’m lucky,
my hand will find its way
before the final fall.

The beauty of words matches the images they evoke. Doallas often combines references to nature and art, and here she uses them almost interchangeably to a full effect.

The poems cover, among many other themes and ideas,  faith, reading a children’s story, Mother’s Day, a son turning 22, news events, public tragedies and what might be called “interiors,” the thinking parts of the mind, heart and soul. From “To be Re-enchanted is Uneasy,” one of many favorites in this collection:

To be re-enchanted is uneasy
with an unquiet mind
holding on to daily reminders
of what you’re about to lose
you imagine you’ve lost already

Moment and moment and moment
choking away unaccounted for
as you, sitting as on watch,
join sentinels all praise-worn
and too quick to gather for the left-behind
before the gone are gone

And then there’s that intense sense of loss, the loss of a beloved brother, whose illness and death led Doallas to begin writing the poetry she’d left behind in college. Poetry became more than therapy; it became a way to explicate illness and death. From “Grief’s Lessons:”

I’ve learned to rock my grief
   inside, the way a doctor’s fingers,

all rubber-gloved smoothness, gently massage
   the chest cavity open before reaching in to expose

the raw fist-sized metronome that keeps
   keeping our time perfectly, even after

the skins cracks and the bones, ossified,
   turn porous and hollow, more a sieve

for questions than a sarcophagus for answers…

I read that poem four times, and each time the meaning deepened. This is something common to all the poems in this collection: they become finer with successive readings, and I suspect that when I read this volume again, they will have aged well.

It’s a stunning collection, combining beauty, grace and heart.

Related:

Diane Walker, a friend of Maureen Dallas, reads the title poem from the collection in a video Diane created.

The cover art for the volume, Assumption of the Virgin, was painted bv Randall David Tipton and is available as a limited edition print.

Maureen blogs at Writing Without Paper.

Posted by Glynn Young Tagged with: , ,
Feb 092011

Below are the next six poems from our recent Twitter poetry party.

Of Parasols and Scorpions

By @llbarkat, @doallas, @jejpoet, @mattpriour, @ERBKs, @mdgoodyear and @gyoung9751; a late entry or two by @SandraHeskaKing; a few retweets by @moondustwriter, @Laura_The_Wise, @TinaNguyen, @jesskristie, @CirclesRoundSun, @Julia_Hensley, @GPWriter, @rasmithii, @roseasho, @Sahrazad528 and @PoeticHeart34; two plaintive cries at having missed the jam by @meilbheag and @vnesdoly; and edited by @gyoung9751.

Renoir’s Parasol

Twirling her parasol,
she waited,
miming the manners
of the prettiest girl
in a Renoir painting.
Rub toes
in the sand
twirling, lost
Does Renoir
rub the sand
on his toes?
Does Neptune
twirl a parasol
in the face
of Pluto?
Love, it’s called. Look:
see it all around you;
deny it not.

I don’t deny it;
I love twirling;
I love you.

A Lack of Communication

Love called,
and nobody recorded
the message.
The message was itself
spun once
or twice, made lies.
Love sent an email and
used a new font
for every letter.
Find the font
missing its heart.

Those Wily Giraffes

Pluto’s love is a cave full
of bats and giraffes,
their necks bent low
below stalactites.
Caves I would spelunk,
tides I would ride,
glasses empty,
planets spin
for the love of you.
Tug tides let loose the hold
and look again in my glass.

In my looking glass
I never before saw the giraffe,
Striped and spotted, hiding a giraffe,
that glass, its long neck
so long the stem
so delicate,
a glass striped and spotted,
hiding a giraffe.
Can you hide a giraffe?
Can you hide a love
as delicate
and long as mine?

Tunes, moons, runes

Tunes about moons
and moons spinning to tunes
I find on the tombstone
faint runes
a rune traced against night
a tune braced against might
a rune lost in darkness,
in silence.
Can one tune a rune
that speaks of the ruins
of lives and their revival?

The Frog Princess

A vial waiting to burst with life,
The frog in a dress with a train,
how long she waits
for her sweet prince.
The train in a corset
with a vial of vodka,
once contained
in the ruins of a life.
I wouldn’t wait;
where’s the next/train?
He so green with envy,
croaking, croaking, croaking.

He sat among the ruins,
seeking love, finding envy
spinning stories of love
that were not of she
who denied him.
Green with Venus, red
with Mars, white with moon
and black with denial:
once courtin’,
now marryin’.
Is denial not a kind of ruin,
emptied of life?

An Ivy Train

An ivy train stuck
in the muck of train tracks:
Marry me, I said,
beneath the planets,
marry me on the tracks;
put me on ivy,
take me back.
How the green
contrasts the white,
the pure with the slime,
the colors of love
playing out in a swirl of veils.

The train tracks a vine,
embedded, entangled.
Slime tracks
slime miles,
embedded with memories
that slide away.
Veiled under the shadow
of death: a tangled bed,
trained, married,
the vine a track upon a wall,
veiled in green,
veiled in shadow.

Posted by Glynn Young Tagged with: , ,
Feb 092011

Diane Walker, a friend of poet Maureen Doallas, reads the title poem from Maureen’s recently published Neruda’s Memoirs: Poems. (Diane created the video, too.)

Posted by Glynn Young Tagged with: , ,
Feb 062011

Here is the next group of six poems taken from our recent Twitter poetry party. Somehow the contributions moved from love to an apocalypse of weather to the planets and then to Hamlet’s voicemail. And it makes a kind of odd sense.

Of Parasols and Scorpions 2

By @llbarkat, @doallas, @jejpoet, @mattpriour, @ERBKs, @mdgoodyear and @gyoung9751; a late entry or two by @SandraHeskaKing; a few retweets by @moondustwriter, @Laura_The_Wise, @TinaNguyen, @jesskristie, @CirclesRoundSun, @Julia_Hensley, @GPWriter, @rasmithii, @roseasho, @Sahrazad528 and @PoeticHeart34; two plaintive cries at having missed the jam by @meilbheag and @vnesdoly; and edited by @gyoung9751. (It takes a whole village to write a poem.)

First Things, Love

Make light of love -
it comes
it goes.
In the night there is you,
in the day there is you.
Love spins, a supernova
separating dark from light;
then weaving them
together in vibrant cloth.
Supernova love
makes music,
galaxy,
universe.
Lost, lonely covered
in dew and grass, I found
you at the morning light.

Recounting, Counting Love

Day light, too night
to call the lost;
daylight recounts
what’s past,
the pleasure of a moment.
And there is me
spinning through the hours
and being spun together
with you
in a joyful reel.

Recount stars, count tombs,
the assassins of my love
reeling now
through lost stars,
a galactic phonograph
spinning light and
day and night,
each spin an echo
of a night spent
in your arms.

And we dance and dance,
the grace of glowing stars.
In your arms,
my arms;
in your echo;
my voice,
in your dance,
my hands,
searching faces,
eyes, lips, mouths.

An Aria: Apocalypse of the Grave

In the night there is you,
in the daylight, too,
I search,
I call gravediggers,
I call assassins
I fill the air with arias,
arias of wind
arias of rain
arias of souls
in the funnels of the night
in the center of the hurricane,
me in the center of the tornado,
you, in the center of the aria,
us, spinning out of time.

I call thieves
I call harlots
called, into the dance
clutching hands
whirling round
the motion
the hands
spinning thieves
through galaxies.
All those digging
their own graves and
harvesting souls swirl
around you attempting
to shatter your resolve.
A storm, a tumult,
power beyond any human control
yet orchestrated
by that ancient song of the earth
and the sky.
I call back the motion,
too soon spent.

Drinking the Desert

I forget you in the desert,
I forget you in my arms.
I’m drinking desert and glass.
I drink glass and the sound
of your memory, of your hand
shatters in the silicon of the sand.
It’s the desert, I’m drinking: nothing.
She waited, thirsty for desert,
thirsty for him.
In my glass slipper, she said,
my toes slip, rub sweat against
the smooth sand,
melted clear.

The Planets Misalign

Jupiter shines behind the sun,
a spot of storm on its chin,
but the sun, she
always remembers,
a sun spot always reminds.

Does Mars drink the Mediterranean?
Does Jupiter drink the Seine?
Does Venus drink anything at all?
Twirling her galaxy,
she forgot she was waiting.

Neptune raises the Strait of Gibralter,
raises it straight, in toast.
Mars: his face is red with the heat
of the sun, and too much vodka.
Saturn has a Shirley Temple.

Neptune has his Ariel,
hair long and flowing. She
falls, floating past the shadow
of Pluto’s love, while he spins
ashamed into oblivion.

And for Lady Luna,
some wine and cheese.
The planet X is a comet
of ice and dark with no pull
for moons of its own.

And X is the door
marked with my memories
of you. Does Neptune
twirl a parasol
in the face of Pluto?

The Prince of Denmark is Not Available

And always there is the voicemail.
You have reached Poor Yorick.
Leave a message after the beep, alas.
Press one
to leave a message for the assassins.
Press two
to leave a message on my grave.
Press three
to know him well, Horatio.

Posted by Glynn Young Tagged with: , , , ,
Feb 052011

Today, the Wall Street Journal has an in-depth review of The Poems of Elizabeth Bishop, published Feb. 1 by Farrar, Straus & Giroux. Written by Dana Gioia, former chair of the National Endowment of the Arts and recently appointed professor and public culture at the University of Southern California, the article goes far beyond a simple book review and examines Bishop’s place in American letters.

We had a short article here in December 2009 that included one of the poems from The Complete Poems 1927-1079.

Related: The Library of America edition of Bishop’s work.

Posted by Glynn Young Tagged with:
Feb 022011

Last week, seven of us (and a few lost souls who wandered in and promptly left, determined to stay lost) joined together for our Twitter poetry party. The prompts were all taken from The Voice of Robert Desnos: Selected Poems.

Parasols and scorpions are an odd combination or a title, but, well, you know how poetry is sometimes. It’ll get clearer as we go along. I think. Below are the first three poems and a quartet.

And more is to come.

 

 

Of Parasols and Scorpions

By @llbarkat, @doallas, @jejpoet, @mattpriour, @ERBKs, @mdgoodyear and @gyoung9751; a late entry or two by @SandraHeskaKing; a few retweets by @moondustwriter, @Laura_The_Wise, @TinaNguyen, @jesskristie, @CirclesRoundSun, @Julia_Hensley, @GPWriter, @rasmithii, @roseasho, @Sahrazad528 and @PoeticHeart34; two plaintive cries at having missed the jam by @meilbheag and @vnesdoly; and edited by @gyoung9751. (It takes a whole village to write a poem.)

Love, Falling

She falls for him.
You don’t write forests
with pens,
pistols with stars;
you don’t write love,
just fall
with words etched
in moonlight.

Night and day
the stars sing
murder in white forests
falling.
The phonographs sing
night and day
moon falling
day fallen
murdered love

In Paris, Falling

Songs not of grief
but like rain
falling in Paris.
Etch my heart
with soft rain,
phonograph spinning
Paris memories.

Sweet faces
mime the words
along the Seine.
Night will sing
and day
An old record
of love in Paris.

Eiffel lost
streets lost
faces lost
my wrinkled palms
an old record
crackling
recover memories.

Along the Seine
on the Ile de la Cite
take in the faces
smiling from the ramparts
of Notre Dame
Memories of pistols, voices;
Seine draining to sea,
Seine empty.

Spinning Seed

Begin
where I feel
my beginning
makes claim to hours,
spun together
with the woolen threads
of my end
like a seed falling to the earth
being split asunder
dying.
My woven end
is near the beginning
of hours,
voice empty,
seed unraveled to
time.

A Thunder of New Music: Quartet

1
A thunder of new music
rising, stolen
with kisses,
spread like seed.
I call thunder and music
I call kisses
and seeds split
I call
I call tornadoes and hurricanes
your furies my revenge
and do not answer.

2
Playing out in hours,
empty of your music
and with magic refrains
of the song older than time,
resurrected,
I call to me those lost in the fields,
sprouting like a funnel.

I call
I call
I call
I tornado,
trying to remember
the lost.

3
Playing out time
funnels of history,
magic lost
love lost
songs long forgotten,
I call to me
those lost in the fields.
I collect their stories.
I rewrite their ends.

4
You can have your merely angry wind.
I call volcanoes and earthquakes.
Now the game is on.
The lost fields
the music
the stories woven,
raveled
rewritten.
Tornado spins
and time, nova life,
nova love,
galaxy abandons me.

Posted by Glynn Young Tagged with: , , ,