from The Tall Book of Make-Believe

Moon Song

Zoon, zoon, cuddle and croon —

Over the crinkling sea,

The moon man flings him a silvered net

Fashioned of moonbeams three.

And some folks say when the net lies long

And the midnight hour is ripe;

The moon man fishes for some old song

That fell form a sailor’s pipe.

And some folks say that he fishes the bars

Down where the dead ships lie,

Looking for lost little baby stars

That slid from the slippery sky.

And the waves roll out and the waves roll in

And the nodding night wind blows,

But why the moon man fishes the sea

Only the moon man knows.

— excerpted from the poem by Mildred Plew Meigs

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Advice from Ishmael

“Look not too long in the face of the fire, O man! Never dream with thy hand on the helm! Turn not thy back to the compass; accept the first hint of the hitching tiller; believe not the artificial fire, when its redness makes all things look ghastly. To-morrow, in the natural sun, the skies will be bright; those who glared like devils in the forking flames, the morn will show in far other, at least gentler, relief; the glorious, golden, glad sun, the only true lamp — all others but liars!”

— from Moby Dick, Chapter 96

(36 chapters to go!)

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“Fear lit by the breadth of such”

 

The City Limits

 

When you consider the radiance, that it does not withhold

itself but pours its abundance without selection into every

nook and cranny not overhung or hidden; when you consider

 

that birds’ bones make no awful noise against the light but

lie low in the light as in a high testimony; when you consider

the radiance, that it will look into the guiltiest

 

swervings of the weaving heart and bear itself upon them,

not flinching into disguise or darkening; when you consider

the abundance of such resource as illuminates the glow-blue

 

bodies and gold-skeined wings of flies swarming the dumped

guts of a natural slaughter or the coil of shit and in no

way winces from its storms of generosity; when you consider

 

that air or vacuum, snow or shale, squid or wolf, rose or lichen,

each is accepted into as much light as it will take, then

the heart moves roomier, the man stands and looks about, the

 

leaf does not increase itself above the grass, and the dark

work of the deepest cells is of a tune with May bushes

and fear lit by the breadth of such calmly turns to praise.

 

— A.R. Ammons

(from the Vintage Anthology of Contemporary American Poetry)

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Safety Book

Here is a little interview/essay I wrote for Rescue Press, my publisher. The prompt was to write about a book that changed you, that you love.

Right now I am loving the book Last Child in the Woods, which is making me pine ever more strongly for our own small acre somewhere. Everything I read lately makes me feel that way — and this event helped that cause, too. Mercy. It pains me even to share it here. Happened in front of our house.

So, yeah, been thinking about safety. Not feeling safe.

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Knox Writers’ House

Late last fall, a few students from Knox College emailed Andy and I to ask if they could record us reading our poems. What? Sure, we said, and then arranged a small gathering of writer-friends, who stuffed themselves into our tiny front room, put themselves in front of a fancy mic, and read their work. It was actually the first time we’d done that, shared our work altogether aloud, and it felt great. More than great, really: it deepened our commitment to creating a reading and writing community for ourselves here. We were aglow.

These lovely-hearted young people recorded and chatted and told us about their adventures. The result of their efforts is The Knox Writers’ House, an incredibly ambitious project which I’m so happy to be a part of. You’ll hear plenty of amazing writers on the site, and interviews, too. Plus, there’s just something cool about a physical map. If you click on New Orleans, you can find us.

Happy listening!

 

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Where to begin

It’s been a while.

Today is a day to myself, a great and lovely gift. I am in my neighborhood cafe. It is sort of like this at my table:

except not as sunny, and today I am reading Wendell Berry instead of Rusty Morrison. Here are some things Berry writes:

“The history of our time has been to a considerable extent the movement of the center of consciousness away from home.”

and

“By means of the machine metaphor we have eliminated any fear or awe or reverence or humility or delight or joy that might have restrained us in our use of the world.”

and

“We must cleanse ourselves of slovenliness, laziness, and waste. We must learn to discipline ourselves, to restrain ourselves, to need less, to care more for the needs of others. We must understand what the health of the earth requires, and we must put that before all other needs.”

(All in Unsettling of America.)

A couple of days ago, on another date with myself (our relationship had really been neglected), I took this photo out the window:

and a guy next to me remarked that I seemed like a character in a detective novel. “I hope you got him!” he said.

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First review

Here it is! 

It fills me with nothing short of awe to imagine a stranger holding my book in their hands & reading it & then thinking about it & then, even, writing about it. Amazing. Thank you.

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And now it’s November

Hi everyone!

Just wanted to put a note here that I’ll be reading from The Lily Will tonight at the Columns Hotel at 7pm. I hope you locals can come on out.

Also, Thermos will have a table at the NOLA bookfair, where I’ll be selling my book as well as the freshly printed and stapled Thermos 7. Photographs by yours truly inside.

Hope you are all well! We are so busy around these parts. . . .

Cheers,

Melissa

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The lily will

Dear friends, lovers, strangers:

My book has come out! Please forgive me this moment of self-promotion, and go check out Rescue Press to get yourself a copy.

Our house smells deliciously sweet.

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Because last night I said more poverty wouldn’t necessarily be so bad.

Listen.

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