On approaching another new year....

In Los Angeles
Sometimes I forget about poetry.

I forget that it exists even still, though I've ceased to believe in it that day--
that beauty of the mind made manifest.

But still, I reason, not carnal, 
not incarnated; not flesh.

Instead, I quest ahead to live in my flesh in Los Angeles
and bask in the tangible sunlight there.

Wholly in my body, my mind is finally free to flutter away 
at last.

So then, I wonder
how on Earth might I have misplaced poetry?

Music Monday - Sophie Ramsay - The Glassy Mountain

Of all the creative processes I've witnessed, or seen up close, or felt a part of in peripheral ways, watching Sophie, hearing her stories, having soul-chats, and being her friend while she was writing this album, I count among my greatest life honors. Now you can be a part of it too! (And I hope you will.)

This is a really special album from someone who sees the world in a very special way. Describes it in a vibrant style. And conveys it with vulnerability and such a seeking spirit. I miss Sophie and Scotland and thinking about the world the way she does every day. I hope you can contribute to this. I've never heard anyone articulate grief like Sophie. 

Give a look at her indigogo and hear some tracks from the album here. 
(For the record, I'd encourage you to go in for a donation level where you get some of Kate Aspinall's gorgeous gorgeous artwork. Sigh.)

The album is a powerful personal exploration of grief. The songs vary in their style from intimate, folk songs that feel a bit European, to moments of visceral lamenting, to gently upbeat pop songs. It was produced by Jim Sutherland, and features performances from some of the best musicians in Scotland in the realms of folk and jazz: Euan Burton, Steven Christie, Pete Clark, Fraser Fifield, David Hart, Chris Peacock, Matheu Watson and also brilliant Jim Rattigan from London. Most of these musicians will play at the Edinburgh launch at Scottish Storytelling Centre on the 2nd November. 

Replug into Poetry Friday Links

Hands down, this was the busiest week I've had since choosing to go to work for myself. There seems to be some kind of strange axiom of the universe that everything happens, is due, requires your attention all in the same window of time. 

I'd always rather be busy than bored, but ooh boy, this week was timed within an inch of its life. It even cut into my leisurely breakfast time and Griffith Park time-- aka-- my favorite parts of living. On the up side, so many exciting projects going on though and I'm so honored and inspired to be a part of them. 

Luckily, I was also able to squeeze in a trip to a poetry potluck on Wednesday night. When I'm away from communities like the one I had at St. Andrews, I feel like I'm leading an alternate life. I feel like I have many alternate lives. Like an undercover agent or something. But then I plug back into one of those other sides of myself and I'm reawakened. 

Hearing everyone's poems on Wednesday was so needed. I even read one of my own. And it was nice to be open to more American poets. I've definitely been largely unplugged from them the past few years. And yet. American poets make me long for British poets. Who are the soul of my soul. Leaving the potluck, all I wanted to do was listen to Simon Armitage read Mist. And so I promptly took a moment to myself and did. 

If you need a moment in the chaos, I recommend you do so as well. 
Here are your links. 

- Kate Walsh on succeeding after 35. 
- I sent this to Torcuil. My most favorite primitive hunter-mystic.
- Speaking of Scottish men.
- Anne Carson.
- Cool NYC art project!
- Innnnnteresting. 
- More on creative people! Like seriously, what's wrong with us?
- Happy 67th Birthday, John Waters! Here' 67 quotes.
- Stop saying the wrong thing.
- Cool Forbes write up of my homey Mark Fisher's Fitness Empire. 
- More Claire Vaye Watkins!
- This list is a travesty. Jon Snow only the 17th hottest man on GoT? LIES. 
- RIP George Jones. 

This. 

New, Rare John Keats Portrait Discovered

A previously unknown miniature of a young, chubby John Keats has been found by Bonham's... in America no less. Little is known of this history of this particular miniature, but those at Bonham's are working to uncover it prior to the piece going up for auction in London later this summer. 

If I had a spare 10-15,000 pounds, I'd sure try to scoop this up. Sigh.

Sunday Scribbles - Untitled

my love is nimble

quick on its feet

for hide and go seek;

a child of science

shrinks down smiling

hides in cabinets

springs forth with soft laughter

to take up all the space in the room

solid

or melts to liquid, seeping into cracks

rises up gaseous

settles in a dew all around

takes on life again but

curls up in your lap to sleep and 

asks for nothing save the sound of us talking

requires no consistent shape

known only for the phosphorescent tail that trails behind it

unless otherwise noted, all poetry copyright Ryann Ferguson

Save The Byre

A St Andrews cultural hub is closing its doors today, but hopefully not for good. Though the Byre Theatre is home to St Andrews' annual poetry festival, StAnza, and many sold out theatrical performances, piano nights, and bar hang outs, it has faced financial difficulties for some time now. As of today, I'm told, the theatre will shut its doors to cut costs with a hoped-for reopening later in the year. 

I've seen so many wonderful things at the Byre. It is a beautiful space. My lone straight play was performed there in 2010 during the scary era of 10 X 10.

In the meantime, local patrons and devoted St Andreans are doing their best to spread awareness and activism on the issue. Even if you don't know the Byre and just love theatre, or the idea that there should be venues to host cultural events and dialogues, please consider signing this petition. There's also a facebook page devoted to keeping the space open, along with sustaining the jobs it provides students and locals. 

First Annual Ferguson Burns Night, USA

The First Annual Ferguson Burns Night Supper USA turned out not too shabby. I had my doubts leading up to the event with its ever-changing roster of guests. But as the food prep began, I started to feel better because everything was tasting pretty good. There’s something sort of counterintuitive about the idea of vegetarian haggis. But as I started to add in all the ingredients, I consoled myself that, at least in this situation, taste was more important than authenticity. (After all, real haggis is illegal in the USA.)

Not that I was comfortable with authenticity being sacrificed. At one point, I almost cried when everyone seemed reluctant to participate in reading and keeping with the traditional order of events. (They were warned!) But then again, it is nerve-wracking. I’ll admit that I was nervous doing Address to the Haggis. Whisky fixed that. I practiced a couple of times because even though no one else would know if I was pronouncing the Scots wrong, I would know.

There’s great slang in Scots. Sonsie, Scunner, Skinking. I think I’d like to try to find a way to incorporate more of it into American daily life. And more of these recipes. 

I substituted half red lentils and half quinoa in this recipe for vegetarian haggis, and ricotta + whipping cream for double cream on the cranachan. In addition to Talisker (Isle of Skye-- holla!) for toasting, I had ingredients for refreshing, jazzed with candied ginger Presbyterians.


Man, it made me miss Scotland. But thanks to my friends for helping to celebrate the cultural richness of the place I love most.

Happy Birthday Burns Friday Links

Tonight, I am having a Burns Night Supper at my house. In the grand tradition of almost all my parties, almost no one is coming. (At least I can always count on McC!) At least the weather is obligingly Scottish.  Nevertheless, I am making vegetarian haggis, neeps & tatties and cranachan. Sophie has even offered to skype in to sing us some "Auld Lang Syne" at midnight (8 AM Scottish time) but to be honest, I doubt we'll make it that long. 

In any case, I love this holiday. It's also my dad's birthday, Rob Shafer's birthday, and Kate Floyd's birthday. All lifetime favorites. 

Here are your links. 

- One of my favorite articles (from the D. Patz) on Burns
- Tartan picks for a stylish Burns Night. 
- I. Love. This. Song. I wish all bands sang with Scottish inflection. 
- My next read, Elena Ferrante's My Brilliant Friend. 
- 25 greatest unscripted movie scenes.
- Facts about the new Mad Men series. Oooh, so soon!
- This is hilarious!
- I always loved you, Jimmy Carter. 
- There's a part of me that agrees with this.
- But then, I do also love Andrew Sullivan. 
- Salon's guide to memoir writing
- Oooh, new Stephen Poliakoff film project
- Rice is going to have a CLASS ON DOWNTOWN ABBEY next semester!

Try the Lamb

One of my favorite popular novelists is the lovely Wally Lamb. She's Come Undone, I Know This Much is True, and The Hour I First Believed remain some of the most emotionally affecting works I've ever read. 

On top of all that, Wally Lamb has always just seemed like the nicest man ever. Kind of a cross between Tom Hanks and Toby Ziegler in a way that makes you wish he was your father in law. As it happens, he's got three sons. 

Two of those sons live in New Orleans and one, Justin Lamb,  is a spoken word or performance poet. (I can't bring myself to use the term slam poetry, as it is no longer the nineties.) He does a lot of spots for The Saints. If professional football held any power over me, I'm sure I'd find these very moving. They seem to have the gravitas and high production quality that resonates with sports fans.

My second favorite Justin Lamb moment is this little rumination on his home state of Connecticut. I don't really think of Connecticut as what you'd call 'gangsta,' but I'm glad Justin does. Or is at least willing to wink at us. Continually for three minutes. 

My FAVORITE Justin Lamb moment is his "New York."

He also says one day he'd like to be 'snack laureate.' Snack being one of my favorite words, I'd like to say to Justin, let's just get married. I know Crush Week isn't until February around here, but I just couldn't wait. 

For more Justin, check out here & here. 

Pale & Pastel & Melancholy - The Albert Bridge

One day this past week, when I went to pick my young charge, Vincent Macleod, up from his school, he had forgotten his oyster card. So we walked from Battersea through the park and over the Albert Bridge. There's something pale and melancholy about the Albert. It's like something out Never Let Me Go. An abandoned boardwalk carnival in Brighton or Coney Island. 


Or maybe there's just a sense that it's a bridge, not over the Thames, but over another time. A time where troops still marched over bridges and the last remaining toll booths still stand. The only ones in London. 


Apparently, there are glaring structural weaknesses, but man is it pretty. Pensive and pastel by day and lit up by 4,000 bulbs at night. These things we build, repaint, repurpose, and barely use. 

The Self-Illuminated Links

Rain has returned to London and looks to stay for the next week or so. Meanwhile, I am trying to spend as much time with all the people who mean the most to me here in the UK before my departure. During each interaction, I think about opportunity costs a lot. I always have since the day my senior year economics professor, Mr. Swallow, introduced them onto my radar. I remember listening to him and nodding involuntarily. Yes. That was the moment I knew my enemy had a name. 


Because I sometimes have a slightly ridiculous tendency to think the rules don't apply to me, I've spent a lot of time in my life trying to circumvent these opportunity costs: rarely accepting my own limitations and ability to be in more than one place at one time. Not just in my own life, but for those I care about too. The best circumvention I've ever seen is skype. It gives me hope to keep trying to hedge these opportunity costs. I feel better when I try. 


Have a great weekend. Here are your links. 


- PS, I love that on the wiki page for Opp Costs, See Also: Have One's Cake and Eat it Too
- (And then it's equivalent in each culture/language. Excellent.)
- Here's a pre-skype way to access NYC from London. A telescope!
- American kids are spoiled. You don't say. 
- I hate quitting! Ugh! What if I pick that old phd up here?-- I mean, it's an actual job there. 


- Gordon and I are seeing Democracy tonight at the Old Vic. Is there a new Jimmy Carter of ex boyfriends in the house?


-  I will not leave Europe without going to see where Keats died in Rome. Who wants to go with me in a whirlwind like 48 hour journey? Let's stay up all night and dance, lit up, through the streets of Rome. I'll get your ticket. I got sky miles. 


- I'm gonna miss this guy. I hope wherever I land, there's lots of poetry, still. 

- When I imagine what my new life is going to be like back in the US, it sounds like this. Please, please listen to this whole album. Thank you. 

Simon Armitage's Stanza Stone Trail

Simon Armitage is like a walking hug. I love everything about him. The lumbering way he stands, the way his hair flops around, the only Yorkshire accent I've ever heard so soothing. 


When he read "Mist" at Poetry Parnassus on Friday, and talked about his Stanza Stone Trail project through the hills of West Yorkshire, my mind just kept repeating, thank you thank you thank you, and wishing I could carry him around in my pocket. Somewhere near Oxenhope, this is carved on a large series of stones. Beautiful. 

Mist

Who does it mourn?

What does it mean- such nearness?

Gathering here on high ground 

while your back was turned

drawing its net curtains around

featureless silver screen

mist is water in its ghost state

all inwardness

holding its milky breath

veiling the pulsing machines 

of great cities under your feet

walling you into these moments 

into this anti-garden of gritstone and peat

given time, the edge of your being

will seep into its fibreless fur

you are lost

adrift in hung water and blurred air

but you are here

Listen to Simon read it here.
For a guide to the Stanza Stone project, check out here.
Photo by Paul Wolfgang Webster

How Can Lightness Insist?

Let's just say I'm still unpacking my experience of seeing Kay Ryan and Seamus Heaney and Simon Armitage and Wole Soyinka last night. I'm still unpacking it in light of all that's going on in my life right now. How unbelievably funny and serious it was, all at once. How just their presence on stage; the feeling that they knew what we were going through, made both Sarah and me cry. 


But for now, I'd like to leave you with these lines and her thoughts on lightness. Flipping the heavy into the light is a Buddhist karmic idea that I've long been drawn to. I'm glad Kay feels the same.

If a fairy makes a fist

who's impressed?

How can lightness insist?

Years ago I wrote a poem that went on too long but started well; it began, "If a fairy makes a fist/ who's impressed?/ How can lightness insist?" And that is what I would still like to know: how can lightness insist? In The Unbearable Lightness of Being Milan Kundera writes wistfully of the eponymous substance, describing how Beethoven once converted a perfectly inconsequential joke into a "serious quartet." Kundera contemplates how much more remarkable it would have been if Beethoven had achieved the reverse, making "heavy go light."

I don't know why lightness isn't more talked about, more valued, more pursued in poetry. I suspect it is out of the fear that one will be"taken lightly." But I ask, is there a sensation more exquisite than the feeling of having the burden of oneself borne off by a poem? The burden only, note; not the self. One's atoms are mysteriously distanced from one another. That is to say, one still has all one's own atoms, but for the moment they are not the trouble they were.

I think it bears repeating. "Is there a sensation more exquisite than the feeling of having the burden of oneself borne off by a poem?" No, no there is not. One still has all one's own atoms, but for the moment, they are not the trouble they were.  Yes.

Drunk Texts From Famous (hermit) Writers

Basically, I can relate to this. You went out? Check out all of the funnies from Jessie Gaynor via The Paris Review. 


What can I say about these days? That I am both listless and restless. That I am losing an ongoing argument with the unfocused disquiet of my mind. I pace. I run. I do cardio. I am fighting it out to the tune of extremely emotional, mathematically formulaic pop music. It's a shadow box. I cannot burn off the energy I have and I cannot focus it into anything productive for longer than... say, 15 minutes?  


Are our only choices burn out or boredom? Why is balance so elusive? Years of practicing Buddhism and still the slightest nudge can knock it all off the shelf. All of my usual tricks are getting a system override. I don't want to do any of them. My own inner life is lacking inspiration. And momentum. I want to be in it. I want to send my energy in a direction away from myself. And preferably, without any digital or electronic aid. 


I think Emily would agree. And I'd like to think that if Emily Dickinson were alive today, she'd probably also get real crazy at  Broadway Bares. Let's live in our bodies and not our obnoxious minds. At the very least, I think she'd agree my pal Rachel Potter sang her face off on "We Found Love." 

Poetry Parnassus at the South Bank Centre

Last night I was mercifully invited out from the cave of my own making to the poetry library at the South Bank Centre for an event kicking off this Poetry Parnassus deal they're having all summer long. Obvs, I love poetry, and the South Bank, but mostly, I was happy to have the excuse of hanging out with my new pal Maria, who's amazing and works for the Arts Council.


In a way, there were signs it was going to be bad. There were no buses out of Dalston for ages, and when I finally did get one, a weird sick lady wedged in beside me, even though there were masses of empty seats, and coughed all over me. She kept crowding me on the way down the stairs from the double decker, making me panicky. (Remember that time I was drugged, mugged, & slugged? Yeah, I don't like people coming up too close behind me.) Then then bus driver slammed on the breaks at Waterloo and even though I was holding onto the rail, I flew forward and fell ALL the way down the stairs hurting my knee pretty badly as I slammed into various stairs and the eventually the floor at the bottom where a (very) handsome man helped me to make sure I was ok. I was too embarrassed and trying not to cry at the time to realize just how hot he was in the moment, but as I walked towards the water, tears welling, I realized I should have tried to compose myself. The city is hard, ya'll. 


It was about to get harder. So listen. I love poetry and I try not to participate in schadenfreude-esque situations whenever possible, but sometimes.... I mean... so you either have to have a wicked-cool new idea (in which case you can chill on the fancy language) or you can talk about all the same stuff (love, the city, RACE [ugh] , your anger [double ugh]) in a way that DAZZLES me with your mastery of language. PREFERABLY, both your idea AND your language will dazzle me. But in the absence of one, I'll take a skew on the other. Those are the terms. If you come at me with anything else, I will be angry with you. So after a few too many about the "flame of creativity" and the magic that is London, Maria and snuck out to talk. We also felt we deserved a beer. 


In a way, stuff like that is good for me to see at times like this. Someone is publishing these people. And awarding them prizes. My turn is coming. And I am genuinely excited about the rest of this Poetry Parnassus international event in honor of the Olympics with over 100 free events and 204 poets. Check it out! And thanks to Maria for being awesome and reminding me about community.

Discoveries - A Hoxton Walk

Something about London feels actually infinite. In a way that no other city I've lived in-- not New York, not even Tokyo-- could even approach. Even your neighborhood, even the neighborhoods around you wind and weave in and out with side streets and alley ways and more tucked away than you could ever hope to inventory in any kind of comprehensive way. 


Even a trip to the NHS, two days in row--- they do make you wait-- can prove an adventure in walking and discovering how much is packed in the space between you and the next two overground stops. Dalston Junction to Haggerston to Hoxton. Once home to moated manor houses and the ambassador to Portugal with his own private Catholic Chapel. Once home to London's madhouses. It's easy to look at each repurposed warehouse In Hoxton and imagine a many-storied past.  Urban decay alongside Urban renewal. There's a lot to appreciate. But isn't there always? If you're paying attention? Hope you're having a lovely Sunday. Hope wherever you are, you're paying attention.

A Change of World - Adrienne Rich

With everything going on lately, I forgot to talk about the loss of amazing poet and feminist essayist, Adrienne Rich. I can scarcely think of any artist, let alone a female artist who stuck to her guns the way Adrienne Rich did. Sometimes, in the quest for readers, the quest for success, it's easy to feel like you have no boundaries. That you'd accept any recognition. But not Adrienne. She turned down more National honors and Awards than most people could ever hope to be considered for in a life time. 


We circle silently about the wreck
we dive into the hold. ...
We are, I am, you are
by cowardice or courage
the one who find our way
back to the scene
carrying a knife, a camera
a book of myths
in which
our names do not appear.


There are certainly costs to sticking to your principles, but Adrienne was always asking us to consider the cost of not doing so. Dive into the Wreck, indeed, Adrienne. You'll be missed. Today, I fly. See you on the other side of the world.

Tate Modern - A Year Later

In early February of 2011, my pal Adam and I went to the Tate Modern. He said I had to see the turbine room. Exactly one year later, I was meandering through on a snowy Sunday with my NYC pal Emily. I've never been the biggest appreciator of modern art. It is slowly growing on me though. And some stuff I still only enjoy from a child's amusement perspective.  The Sleep & Poetry stuff was wild and weird. Japanese pop art always always makes me happy. Venus & the pile of laundry got a laugh. 


One exhibition, though, really got to me. It took the full year-- seeing it in 2011 and then seeing it reduced in 2012-- for it to really resonate. Ai Weiwei's Sunflower Seeds exhibit. It started in the turbine room, a sheer feat of massive spectacle (all of the sunflower seeds were handmade and a little bit bigger than real seeds).


When I returned, the exhibit had been reduced to one small room, a half-hearted pile. 


And maybe it's just the melodramatic side of me, but I was struck by, well, mortality. It was really beautiful and sad. Everything with its time and place. A time to be a headliner. And a time to be relegated to the sideshow. 

John Burnside, On a Roll - TS Eliot Prize

Add this TS Eliot Prize to his Forward Prize just a few months ago, and I'm wondering if Burnsy might almost be too cool for me anymore. Of course, I'm kidding. JB is one of the most casual, supportive people I know. And even when others have not been on board with my writing plans, JB has always unabashedly had my back. 


So in these bleak winter days of boredom and attempted productivity, the news of his win is a real gift. Congrats and Thanks for the inspiration, JB! Bless you and your creative switch-hitting, and your ability to multi-task to the infinite. Please send a little bit of that magic my way as I prepare a bit of plate-spinning myself.


And finally, RE: the "controversy" surrounding the current state of the TS Eliot Prize. I agree wholeheartedly with Gillian Clarke. The arts most flourished when artists had the freedom and security to create that came from wealthy patron families. The Medicis, for example, were into all kinds of shit. A lot of it was dirty. But they understood that their responsibility was the use their money to enrich the world in some way-- not just hoard it all as profit. When corporations fund the arts, to me, that's just scale balancing. That's what they SHOULD be doing with all that money. Funding something soul-enriching. 


Buy Black Cat Bone here. And further reading. 

Autumn & Tim- Wedding!

Mostly, I'm trying to contain tears today at not being at the wedding of one of the brightest lights in the world. (They're partying it up right now, NYC time.) While I have a casting director to thank for Autumn's presence in my life (well, that and my constant love of redheads) I feel like destiny would have found some other way to put us together had it not been for the first industry reading of VOTE!


Once Steven and I got to know her, we knew she just had to be Alix in Nicholas & Alexandra. And the first time I ever heard her rehearse "In Your Name," I knew something really special was happening. I talk about those moments a lot-- where the right song aligns with the right singer. This was definitely one of those times. You can tell that everyone in the room is floored and I almost dropped the camera because my hand was shaking. 


Professional interests being the least important element here, Autumn is an emotionally giving friend in a way that I have rarely encountered. In the kind of way that someone like me both yearns for/recognizes, and is also skeptical of in others. I can be pretty guarded of my heart. I don't like asking for things. I am wary of being taken care of.  I tend to be skeptical of people who just freely share and shower me with love and friendship. But Autumn just does that and once I learned to soak it up, I've been relishing in one of the better female friendships ever. 


It meant a lot to be able to share her struggles and be present as she and Tim fell in love. I remember when they had their first date, when she was excited about him and we looked him up on facebook so I could vet him. I remember loaning her a shirt on their first serious date (his house. He was cooking.) Tim & Autumn helped me move to Scotland. They even took over my apt. In a way, I like living vicariously through my friends better than living my own life. Seeing the people I love happy is better than anything I could do myself. 


Autumn's bachelorette party in NYC this summer was one of the funnest nights. Bittersweet too, when I think of what I miss everyday not living there anymore. But at least I got to partake in some of the wedding festivities. And even though the really annoying fact that I am (still!) not rich (or famous) is preventing me from being there today, as she marries Tim so good in a bookstore (cutest bitch ever) in one of the prettiest dresses I have ever ever seen (can I borrow?)... I am there in spirit. And I have spies. 


Autumn & Tim-- so much love to you both! Here's a Scottish wedding poem from Thomas Campbell (they love these rhyming ballads!)

Freedom and Love

How delicious is the winning 

Of a kiss at Love's beginning, 

When two mutual hearts are sighing 

For the knot there's no untying!

Yet remember, 'midst your wooing, 

Love has bliss, but Love has ruing; 

Other smiles may make you fickle, 

Tears for other charms may trickle.

Love he comes, and Love he tarries, 

Just as fate or fancy carries; 

Longest stays when sorest chidden, 

Laughs and flies when press'd and bidden.

Bind the sea to slumber stilly, 

Bind its odour to the lily, 

Bind the aspen ne'er to quiver, 

Then bind Love to last for ever.

Love's a fire that needs renewal 

Of fresh beauty for its fuel; 

Love's wing moults when caged and captured, 

Only free he soars enraptured.

Can you keep the bee from ranging, 

Or the ringdove's neck from changing? 

No! nor fetter'd Love from dying 

In the knot there's no untying.