the beauty we love

Time You Let Me In

I’ll blame it on my travels, but I’ve still been remiss in not mentioning my first book publication, Naomi Nye’s anthology Time You Let Me In, especially there are a few people who deserve my most hearty thanks for the project. The first is, of course, Naomi herself, who has been the most generous of editors: personal, encouraging, and incredibly patient. Thank goodness there are mentors like her in the world, who take such an interest in young writers.

And the second is my personal Jedi master, the poet Jack Ridl, who has taught nine out of the twenty-six poets selected for this anthology. And anyone who knows Jack can tell you that’s no coincidence. He’s far too modest to tell you so himself, so I’ll just set the record straight. I wouldn’t be the poet or the person I am today without him, and for as long as I’m writing, you will be able to trace any success I have back to Jack in fewer than three steps. You can read his lovely write-up of the book on his website.

So thank you to Naomi, Jack, and to anyone who’s read the book! It’s been an honor to be involved and to share the experience with so many great friends and great poets.

Rolling Injera in Boulder

Now I don’t want to spoil your chance to be mystified and slightly lost when you read this next poem (my work often has that effect, I’m told), but I will give you just a tiny bit of context.

Here in Boulder, I work at a book store that sells more books by Buddhist writer Pema Chodron than we do by John Grisham. I work at an Ethiopian restaurant with two Ethiopian ladies, a guy from Senegal, a woman from Iran, some wonderful Mexicans, me (the Dutch giant) and a whole bunch of wealthy white customers. This poem actually started as a visceral reaction to the amazing texture of Ethiopian flatbread, and with, as is typical for me, a love of throwing interesting words at each other. But as it evolved I began to realize that it also made at least a passing glance at tackling the cultural issues aforementioned. I considered giving it an ironic title like “Appropriation,” making it into a self-aware statement about the ways in which I, as a rich white American, pretend at diversity by assimilating mantras from Eastern religions and dishes from African cuisine into my life. But in the end I decided it was too cowardly to be ironic about it. As much as I enjoy “Stuff White People Like” and taking a good, self-mocking crack at my lifestyle, I can’t deny that I deeply and – dare I say authentically? – love yoga. I love learning the Spanish words for Ethiopian dishes. In short, I may, in fact, be the very model of a modern major indie-loving, left-leaning white kid, but I have to allow for the possibility that some of that experience is sincere and truthful, even if it does raise a thousand questions about the complicated ways we consume culture. And in the end I’ve chosen (I think) to present the poem more or less free of self-referential self-awareness. It feels to me much more like a love poem.

Well that was more context than I planned on giving and probably more than you bargained on hearing – but there you have it. As always, comments are welcome.

Rolling Injera in Boulder

Rolling injera is nothing like punching in dough,
that caturanga dandasana, downward dog
of the soda bread, with its rock and roll, and its boogieman
hands, the twist and shout, the “Ooo oooh in
utkatasana, now squeeze me tight tonight.” Injera

is like spreading jam on a sea bed, sweeping up
after oceanfloor polo, sponge bathing the hooves
of an aquatic horse. Or how I tuck a squid in to sleep
so slowly – letting each slip furl like a flower
on rewind. Fekerte plants it flat in my palm,

open wide, whispers, what kind of tree are you,
my daughter, my midget. My long white bean.
As our mother walks the planks, her legs pull out
stems and stalks by reluctant roots, her mouth is always
full of surprise, this way. We always made it

this way.

Don’t Marry a Drunkard to Reform Him

One of my favorite “oldies,” if you will, a poem I wrote in my college-days, whisky-and-cigarettes phase entitled “Don’t Marry a Drunkard to Reform Him,” just came out in the fall issue of the Boston Literary Magazine. Check it out if you have the time. The magazine is really wonderful to writers and wrote me a fabulously personal response.