So this blog is kind of a weird thing for me. Yesterday, for reasons I can't figure out, this blog had 112 hits or pageviews. I have no idea why, unless my namesake in fiction, the other Carol Berg, had some news and people were confused. I had visitors from China, France, the Ukraine, Brazil and South Korea stop by. Normally, I get like maybe 7-12 visitors unless I'm writing about someone else's poetry, like Amorak Huey, and then I might get 60 or so. Which is nice, since this blog is all about promoting poetry and writing in general, but still. So, anyway, just wanted to say thanks for stopping by! (And hey, feel free to buy a book or two of mine while you're here. They make great presents! And if mine don't work for you, visit the presses and browse around. You're sure to find something for someone!)
And I'm officially on break from my other job for about a month, which is nice. But my boss has retired and yesterday was our last day working together which made me enormously sad. I love my boss and try and learn as much from her as I can. I know not a lot of people can say that which is why I also love my job. And it's so hard to have someone that has been in your life for almost 15 years suddenly not be in your life so much. Or hardly at all. I know people come in and out of our lives all the time and it can be such a jolt. It's been also very emotional for me and now I think I'm sick. With a cold. Or just a huge emotional hangover. Last night I was in bed by eight reading my book, State of Wonder, by Ann Patchett. It's a good read so far.
So here's a beautiful poem from the gorgeous DMQ Review that you should read from beginning poem to last poem. Nothing like an ode to a punctuation mark to get you rolling.
Not lips but the opening of lips, the kiss that fits
a mouth, moistens a tongue with a lungful
of mimosa. Two dots offer aromas of oleander,
pine, sweet plum. They numb the funk of the manuscript
locked in a trunk. Two dots open to mercy
in Minneapolis or the middle of Muscatine,
two eyes watching swaths of brush tumble
in the wind. After a colon, you can wake up as a reptile
or a gilt chandelier in France or ants in a manse
passing on the left carrying crumbs from the kitchen
while the pastor pens a sermon on olive blossoms
then fingers his earring. Not a period, a colon
is an open church: Muslims, Jews, dragonflies
dampened by fog. The rivers of day and night return
in currents of fish. They swim through two dots
to open the floodgates of silence and sound:
for the mist frozen in its moment, for the green
alone in its moss, for the bee buzzing above
the pond scum, for the baby laughing
in her bassinet while the ground shakes.