POETRY TUTORIAL

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

Those of you who are regular readers have no doubt seen me mention that you should never confuse the speaker in the poem with the poet. Just because I write about something in a poem, it doesn't mean it happened to me. Let's consider the two poems I wrote for my children: "Mama Zeus and Katrina Athena" and "Boy" at http://dumpedfirstwife.blogspot.com/2011/12/boy.html ."

Am I the poet? Yes. Did I write these poems for MY children? Yes. Am I the speaker in the poem? No. My daughter did not spring from my head to be born as a fully-grown goddess. My son did not have to fly away from an island on wings made of wax and feathers by his father.

I learned to conduct the critical analysis of literature through the use of New Criticism (not really new -- it started in the 1930s and is coming back into vogue). Try thinking of New Criticism as placing a poem or a short story or a novel in a bell jar and studying the text from all angles. Don't compare it to other poems; don't consider the poet's experiences; don't concern yourself with the time period in which it was written unless it's relevant to the text.

New Criticism = Close Textual Analysis

As for poetry, poetry does not make statements. Poetry suggests; poetry indicates. Although the sound of the poetry achieved through the words I use is important to me, I am more concerned with the images I present by putting the words together. And I don't care if the words rhyme.

I appreciate the many kind comments you have made on my poems, but I want to make sure we're on the same page. When Yeats wrote "Leda and the Swan," I assure you he was not present when Zeus turned himself into a swan to rape Leda, a young woman. I can suggest all sorts of things in poetry, but it doesn't make them true.

Normally, my poetry and my fiction come from a kernel of truth in my life -- but that's all.

Infinities of love,

Lola

BLOCK MOTHERS

Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,

My oldest sister left for The Big Time before the rest of us moved to the bustling metropolis of Topeka, Kansas. Oldest moved to Kansas City.

However, once she was settled in her home, she discovered the strangest form of discrimination. Some people's windows had signs in them that said Black Mother. Oldest was quite shocked.

It wasn't as bad as the klan burning a cross in the yard, but, still, she was appalled. Why would a city point out where black mothers live?

Then one day she put on her glasses.

The sign said Block Mother. A block mother was a person who agreed to help any child in trouble who couldn't get to his parents. Oldest felt quite relieved.

When we made our big move to Topeka, we had a Block Mother across the street from us.

She was not black.

I think the Block Mother program was phased out by about 1972 because moms were in the work force. They couldn't stay at home doing nothing except taking care of the neighborhood brats.

I think it's kind of sad that we don't have Block Parents now, who would at least be available to assist children when they could.

But the people who volunteered would probably be pedophiles.

And that's all the news that is news.

I'm Chevy Chase, and you're not.

Infinities of love,

Lola

WHISTLE WHILE YOU WORK

Gentle Readers . . .  and Maxwell,

At one of the newspapers where I worked, my favorite reporter was Carla. She covered the courts, so at mid-afternoon each weekday she returned to the newsroom to write her articles about what had occurred in the courthouse that day.

When Carla reached her computer, she would make her daily announcement. She might say, It's show tunes today! or Doobie Brothers time! or I'm in the mood for Queen!

Then perched on her chair, she proceeded to whistle while she worked. And everything she whistled was as announced. If she said Doobie Brothers, you were not going to hear the Eagles.


Then later I worked at another paper and one day I mentioned Carla's whistling. The grouchiest reporter in the room, the one who wore dirty clothes every day so her stench filled the newsroom, the one who shouted at anyone she suspected of wearing cologne because she was allergic to it but I don't know how she smelled it over herself, the one who GRITTED her teeth so they made this horrible creaking sound, shouted, That would drive me insane.


I LOVED it, I said. And the next time she gritted her teeth, I yelled, WHAT IN THE HELL IS THAT HORRIBLE NOISE?

I'm sorry. I won't do it again, she said.


Infinities of love,

Lola

THE FEDERAL BLOGGERS' PROJECT

Gentle Readers,

I  just watched a very interesting documentary about the Federal Writers' Project that was part of the WPA during the Great Depression.

I always wonder why that time was the Great Depression and now we're simply having a recession. Shouldn't we at least substitute a word for great and call this some kind of depression? The Crappy Depression. The Lousy Fuckin' Depression.

But, ah, I digress.

For those of you who aren't up on your history or are Canadian or Slovenian, the WPA was part of Franklin Roosevelt's New Deal. It was the Works Progress Administration, and the idea was to give jobs to the unemployed not only because they needed to earn money, but having a job also helped people get their dignity back.  A lot of people -- including me -- don't want charity. They -- including me -- want jobs. While Roosevelt's administration admitted that the WPA cost more than putting people on relief, they knew how important the jobs were for morale. This I totally understand. Not being able to find a job is so disheartening. The program was also good for the country's infrastructure because many of the jobs involved building roads and bridges and even parks.

Of course writers were not earning much during the depression and some were on the verge of starvation. People didn't have money to buy books and magazines and many newspapers laid off writers and editors, so a group of writers got together and demanded they be included in the WPA. The writers included such luminaries as Zora Neale Hurston, the author of the amazingly marvelous Their Eyes Were Watching God.

Thus, the Federal Writers' Project was born. Writers were given jobs writing, and since the point was to provide employment, the writers sometimes included typists or the occasional truck driver who needed work.

But what were the writers to write? Eventually someone came up with the idea that they would write guides to all the states, focusing on places of interest, what the cities and towns were like, folklore. Up to this point, no such guide existed for the U.S.

So where am I going with this story? I bet you know. Since some of us -- including me -- can't find jobs, President Obama needs to create the Federal Bloggers Project to provide jobs for unemployed bloggers! I would continue to stay at home and write my blog, but I'd get a decent salary and benefits.

Wow! Is this a good idea or what?

And I don't even have to be told what to write because you can't shut me up. I always have something to say.

Lots of other people who need jobs could also write blogs, or maybe we need new state guides. And wouldn't it be great if the state guides told the truth? Like "St. Augustine may be the nation's oldest city, but it's a tourist trap." Or "Topeka. Why bother?"

Unemployment problem solved. Tourists well informed.

You're welcome.

Infinities of love,

Lola

TECH NO GEEK

Gentle Readers,

I admit it: I am not exactly a technological genius.

I can do the basics. I blog, text, email, google, jabber on my cell phone, poke people on Facebook, and have a Web site I created.

But currently I am on technological overload.

I had the same cell phone for several years. I loved it, but it was starting to fall apart. So I went to the AT&T store where nice, polite young Rad always helps me. I was due for a free upgrade on my telephone, so I got the same kind of phone Rad has.

The telephone is very nice. I have been told it will even do the laundry -- if only I can find the correct spot to tap tap.

And because of my dissatisfaction with my TV and internet providers, I decided to sign up for a U-Verse package, which was installed two days ago.

I could operate the old remote for my television in the dark, and now I'm learning how to use a new remote and I have to become accustomed to a different channel guide and different ways of setting up my close personal friend DVR.

I now have wireless internet, which I particularly wanted so I could make more use of my laptop. The computer is running well. But my laptop is so old that it can't do much on the internet. Rad says I need a new laptop. He told me to go to Wal-Mart and get an HP. I told Rad that Wal-Mart is Satan and I can't go there. Besides, I can't afford a new laptop.

I have also regressed in the sense that I now have a land line in addition to my cell. So my fax machine is hooked up and Someone I Love can send me the math problems she doesn't know how to do. I shall solve them and fax them back to her.

(The part about doing the math problems is a joke. She's getting her Ph.D. in math. I have no comprehension of what she does, but I'll never admit it to her. I have told her for years that it wouldn't be fair to the other kiddies if I helped her with her math.)

I'm very happy I got the U-Verse package. Everything -- TV, wireless internet, land line, new cell phone -- costs the same as my old cell phone, internet, and TV combined. Plus, the new stuff does so many things the old stuff couldn't do -- if only I can figure out how to use it all.

So, here I sit, head pounding, wishing I had a nice Valium or two. I realize this may sound paranoid, but I think the tech world is out to get me. Its glance at me quickly turns into a look of sheer disdain, kind of like the edge in the voice of the GPS lady as described in  ME 'N MY GEE PEE ESS. I know I'll learn how to do everything eventually. It's just that I want to do everything right now. At first, I couldn't even figure out how to answer a telephone call, and the directions do not include instructions for doing something as simple as answering a call. It turns out all I have to do is pick up the phone and say hello, is it me you're looking for? I don't have to press any buttons to answer.

And some day, some way, I will have a new laptop. But probably not this year because to put the icing on the fuckme cake, the school district has a teacher hiring freeze because of budgetary concerns. The district should hire me to fix their budgetary concerns. I bet they're already paying big bucks to consultants who are supposed to solve the problems. Hire me! Hire me! I can fix it all with three hands and a foot tied behind my back.

I'd start by making the schools more energy efficient. Makes sense, right? When I taught back in March, the AC was so cold that the students wore hooded sweatshirts and jackets to class and covered the registers with the literature text books. Why keep a building that cold? Waste, waste, waste.

Turn off the lights when you're not in a room. Turn off the computers when you don't need them.

Second, I'd cut all sports and offer private concerns the opportunity to rent the school gyms and stadiums and sponsor sports clubs. To participate, the kids would have to be enrolled in school, actually attend school, and have a GPA of at least 2.5.

I know cutting sports would make people insane, but they've already cut band and chorus classes, so cut the damn sports too, or at least insist that parents pay a fee if their kids participate in sports. I had to pay a fee every year for Favorite Young Man to play basketball, so it's not as if paying for playing is unprecedented.

Finally, I would cut transportation to magnet schools. If you want to send your kid to a magnet school, then you need to be responsible for getting your student there safely.

There. I think I just took at least 60 million off the budget.

Ah, well. I don't expect the school district will take me up on my offer to solve their budgetary concerns. I would make it all look very simple, which it is. School administrators prefer to make things seem complicated to justify their salaries, which are so much higher than what teachers earn.

Woe woe woe woe.

Infinities of love and woe,

Lola

I'D GIVE MY QUEENDOM

for a fly swatter, Gentle Readers.

Here I am in the middle of summer and every time someone opens a door, the flies come buzzing in, circling my head, landing on any food left uncovered for longer than a nanosecond, and making my dogs crazy as they chase and snap at the flies, which they never catch, because flies are wily bastards.

Why don't I have a fly swatter?

I can't freaking find one!

I have searched every store in my tiny hamlet to no avail. I even done went to the big city and checked out national chains like Lowe's and Home Depot. Everybody is out of fly swatters. Or at least they claim to be.

I strongly suspect that someone was killed in a freak fly swatting incident and that all fly swatters have been recalled but some fly swatter magnate has managed to cover it up, hoping he can get his instruments of torture back out on the shelves in time for . . . winter?

It seems to me that there used to be commercials for some kind of strip that you were supposed to hang from your ceiling and flies would get stuck to it. Wasn't the slogan that it would kill flies dead?

I never knew anybody who had one of those fly strip thingies, but wouldn't it be gross to gradually watch them fill up with the bodies of nasty little flies?

And when it was full, I guess you would leave it where it was as a warning to other flies that if they came in your house they, too, would be killed dead, because, otherwise, you would actually have to touch the damn thing to take it down and you'd need to wear a bio-hazard suit and multiple pairs of gloves and you'd need one of those nasty decontamination showers afterwards like they make Meryl Streep take in Silkwood when they strip her naked at work and scrub her really hard in the shower and she's screaming and crying.

Just another day at the office for me when that happens.

My flies are in two places: the kitchen, which makes sense, and the master bathroom. Getting to the kitchen is a straight pass from the back door, but how do they find the bathroom? And why do they go in the bathroom? Are the kitchen and the bathroom the two dirtiest places in the house?

I guess so. Food and shit, they go together like flies and . . . butter?

O.K. Now I want to know why something so pretty that is never annoying has fly in its name.

Love,

Lola