The PK
Featured Poet 8 Gary Blankenship
"I workshop nearly 100 percent of what
I write, and am convinced I would not be writing today without
the support and teaching that workshops provide." Gary Blankenship
It would appear that whatever internet list
you join, at some point you will read Gary's mail which is always
supportive and full of helpful comments. Through the Interboard
Poetry Competition he has brought a lot of the lists together in
a spirit of healthy competition and enabled some very good poets
to be more widely read. But you do not become a Featured Poet
because you are a good administrator, you become a Featured Poet
because your poetry is outstanding and deserving of a broader
appreciation, and Gary's poetry is outstanding and at times
daring and challenging as you will see from the selection below.
(Jim Bennett)
Featured
Poet 8 Gary Blankenship
Please briefly outline your
life and career.
I was raised in a small town in the
foothills of the Washington State Cascades, about forty miles
west of Mt. Rainier. Like nearly every other farm boy in the US,
my life was average enough not to bore you with the details, but
contained enough angst and turmoil for more than a few poems.
After high school, I joined the Navy and
landed in Bremerton, WA where I married (twice, widowed once),
raised four children (3 natural, one stepson), and landed a job
at the naval shipyard. During my forty years at the yard, I
finished a shipfitter apprenticeship, moved on to engineering
technician, administrative office, budget officer and chief
financial officer. Along that journey, I was an union official,
completed a BA, and irritated my share of DC brass. In April
1999, I retired and took up writing full time. I live on a one
plus acre plot hid on the edge of the city with my wife, Chris,
who still has four years before she can retire, two very old
dogs, and the ever present evil cat.
How/when did you start writing?
Was there anything that particularly influenced you?
I wrote off and one since school, nothing
today I can remember and most of it lost to water damage. In the
yard, I wrote boring technical stuff. There was very little
poetry in all that. Before I retired, I decided I needed an
avocation to keep the wheels turning during my twilight years. I
started with prose, fantasy and science fiction, but with thanks
to Mary Hazen-Stearns, Ryfkah Horiwtiz, and others, quickly
graduated to poetry.
The first serious workshop I entered was
one of those hard crit places, where I spend some months being
the equivalent of a plebe, but learned enough to improve my
scribbles and to move on to other workshops. I immersed myself in
a few good ones, that is places where they teach and gradually
moved from scribbler to poet.
In the process of working the boards, I
became an editor at the workshop, WDS
Writers Block, managing editor of
the InterBoard Poetry Competition and Poetry Editor at Writer's
Hood. (All of which may only prove
once a paper pusher always a paper pusher.)
Do you have any strong
influences on your writing now?
Web-induced poetry has been a strong
influence; but at the present time, the strongest in fluence
comes from a mixture of minimalist and oriental poetry. The
translations of Kenneth Rexroth (for Chinese and Japanese
poetry), Arthur Cooper (for Chinese classical) and Lucian Stryk
(for Zen poetry) are major influences in my work. With the
addition of R.H. Blyth's essays on Zen, I believe my work has
turned an exciting new corner. (And the thing about new corners
is we do not know what lurks around them.)
In the end, however, the greatest
influences remain my fellow web poets. I workshop nearly 100
percent of what I write, and am convinced I would not be writing
today without the support and teaching that workshops provide.
How do you write? Do you have
any particular method for writing time of day?
I write nearly every day, something even if
a scribbled notes for later. Once I get the germ for a poem, into
it in a few lines, I generally finish the first draft in one
sitting.
When I write, I look for form. Does the
poem have a feel to it that might be enhanced by set line
lengths, set stanzas or some other form? I'm often a fair way
into a work and I will go back and reshape the poem to fit a
stanza form, though I usually make the line length decisions
early.
I write tanka, which I consider the highest
form of poetry, so placing a work into form has become natural to
me. For me, there is great pleasure in finding the look of a
poem,sometimes even more than finding the voice.
In the last few months, I have been
experimenting with threaded forms, poems within poems, where both
are often able to stand on their own, though when I looked back
at some older pieces I found I have been on the edge of threaded
for some time.
Finally, I enjoy writing what I call
"conceits," - little works taken from the very simple
things around me in this plot hid on the edge of the city.
Why do you write poetry?
Let me answer in verse. The poem was in
answer to a challenge to do a poem answering the question in one
of the forums.
- The Unreason of All the Becauses
-
- I see the wind dance with pear
blossoms.
- I hear band tailed pigeons startle
cock pheasant.
- I smell applewood fires in July.
-
- at one
- and two
- and three
- in the morning,
- Sarah Jane
- Aunt Angie
- George
- came to me with their stories
-
- a title -
- a line -
- a suggestion -
- a book -
- a news clipping -
- a breath
-
- and the words
- tumble and pop
- drop and mumble
- and falter
-
- Across the ages,
- Tu Fu drank wine,
- Mumon called Buddha a shit stick,
- Basho saw the Isle of Pines;
- I hear
- the silence of their words.
-
- In the morning, the cat brings dead
birds to the back door.
- In the morning, the sheets smell of
sweat.
- In the morning, rain falls and tulips
open.
-
- I drove along Washington State
Highway 4,
- from Seaside by the coast route,
- five hours to Gates in the dark,
- to the super market.
-
- I walk to pick up the mail.
-
- A fair sister suggested wordplay,
- Mi-sister asked for conversation,
- Ruths sister smiled at my words.
-
- (where is the poem to Ruth,
- my mother,
- Sharon?)
-
- Isaiah cried in the wilderness,
- Buddha saw a flower,
- Paul was misquoted,
- Einstein played dice with the
universe,
- Gandhi is still dead.
-
- I do not want to shave,
- the sink is full of dishes,
- it is Friday,
-
- I can
-
- I must
Is there anything else you
would like to add?
Thank you for the honor of being featured
among the outstanding poets you have included before me and for
the opportunity to show off a bit.
And thank you, readers.
The Poems
Sarah Jane Passed Through
(This is my favorite poem - one of three
written at about the same time (and the oldest here), I consider
among the best I have done. This was penned while I was in the
high crit workshop. I made the mistake of saying I did not like
abuse and suicide poems and was challenged to write one.
Ive done several since; this is the first.)
- When Sarah Jane was three,
- she saw a camel in a cloud and a horse
in a rock;
- and when she told her mother, Mommy
said
- "Dont be silly. Rocks are
rocks and clouds are clouds."
- (and thinking of Emily, went back to
feeding Baby Alice.)
-
- When Sarah Jane was five,
- she went to kindergarten dressed in
her sister Doras dress
- which had been preworn by her sister
Clara
- and Bobby Mills pinched her and made
her cry,
- calling her white trash and saying she
smelled.
- (Only Sarahs socks and underwear
were new.)
-
- When sarah jane was nine,
- Bobby offered her a quarter
- to go under the bleachers and lift her
dress;
- when she said no, he told Tommy she
wanted a dollar;
- and when she told her mommy,
- her daddy belted her for leading the
boys on
- (and saying he was sorry, comforted
her later that night.)
-
- when sarah jane was fourteen,
- bobby asked her to the homecoming
dance;
- but her mother said she was too young
- and her sisters wouldnt let her
wear their old dresses.
- instead bobby took Mary Ann
Witherspoon
- from over at the trailer park.
- (while sarah jane sat on her bed
- and wrote in her special book.)
-
- when sarah jane was eighteen,
- she married bobby mills
- and they moved in with his stepmother,
- next to Mary Anns parents in the
trailer park
- (and her momma cried for her baby
alice
- and losing emily.)
-
- when sarah jane was nearly twenty
- and expecting Little Donnas
sister
- they buried her in a cardboard casket
- bobby smashed her head for asking him
- why he was out all night with mary ann
nelson
- (and alices mother buried the
special book with her)
-
- When Donna was three
-
Dreadlocks Explains His Find
(I believe this is the best poem Ive
written, though technically it is narrative and mostly straight
reporting. In January 1999, I visited New York City to hear my
daughter sing at Carnegie Hall and at this place found the truest
voice Ive ever heard.)
- The reading to start at 3 p.m.
South
- of the projects on the Lower East
Side.
-
- The reading room was a nearly empty
chamber with white
- walls and lit by portable lamps
overhead. Benches and old chairs
- lined the walls. The room was
unheated. The
- outside temperature was about 24
above.
-
- In the back was a long crate used
as a table, lockers,
- stacked chairs and a toilet stall
open to the room.
- Periodically, someone would come
through a side door and pee.
-
- On the side walls were several
displays: Tools, lighters
- and other items found in buildings
squatters used, clothes,
- old newspaper clippings, eviction
and other
- city notices, and drawings
reproaching City authorities.
- Just as you would find in the
Smithsonian, each was protected
- by plexiglas and was explained by a
neatly typed sign.
-
- The display included sheared
dreadlocks and a placenta stain
- on paper, celebrating a birth by a
squatter.
-
- In front was a small stage holding
only a pile of bricks,
- a sign above them stating
"Fuck it. Put another brick
- on the pile." and a two foot
long spike.
-
- In the middle of the room was
another square crate table,
- festooned with graffiti as was most
of the room.
-
- Sam, who was caretaker, sat in the
back. We were making
- light conversation about the
reading, weather and where
- I was from when
"Dreadlocks" came in carrying a bicycle.
- Dressed in a messengers
costume, he had reddish brown locks
- and no upper front teeth.
-
- He was delivering a brass plaque he
had found several years ago
- in a squatters building along
with the material to hang it.
-
- The plaque read "This Animal
is Dangerous." Sam hung it
- high on wall where "it is less
likely to be ripped off."
-
- As Sam worked,
"Dreadlocks" talked.
-
- "When did I find it? Lets
see. She was conceived in 84 or 85.
- No, shes 15, so it had to be
84."
-
- "I found it in garbage I was
cleaning out of the room. It was probably
- wall debris. You know, the stuff left
when walls start to crumple."
-
- "I had a room on the fourth
floor, looking directly
- at the junkies who lived in the
building next door. They never bothered us.
- They used to watch us having sex. My
wife never knew that,
- but I did. I married her a couple of
years after that."
-
- "On the other side of our
building was one we never went in
- unless we were together. You know the
buddy system.
- A man and his son lived there. The
place was locked,
- but they got in through a hole in the
walls of our building.
- It burned down. The junkies
building fell down."
-
- "Our place wasnt locked. A
free building should be free
- to everyone. But just anybody
couldnt get in.
- You had to turn the knob a special way
- and most people couldnt figure
it out."
-
- "Later after I moved out, they
put on a lock, mostly to keep
- DOH from dumping their stuff. I had
been there long enough
- to be considered the building leader.
I wouldnt let them put
- on the lock while I was in
charge."
-
- "Dont stay anyplace too
long, or they will put you in charge.
-
- "I woke up one morning and there
was six inches of snow spread
- across the room. I woke up frozen even
though I slept under several
- blankets. They had told me to
winterize. You know, put Visquine on
- the windows and newspaper the walls;
but I didnt listen."
-
- "Back then, I drank all the
time."
-
- "No one had electricity. Well,
there was a couple living on
- the top floor. He stole electricity,
but he didnt share. He had a cast
- iron cauldron and used electricity to
heat that."
-
- "We light with candles, but you
really have to be careful with candles.
- You know, fire hazard."
-
- "The place was full of cats. We
got some old vegetables from a market and the
- cats were so hungry, they ate the
vegetables."
-
- "Paying rent makes me
crazy."
-
- "Pay rent and do without some of
the things I want. I would just a soon
- do without some things - showers,
cooked food - as pay rent."
-
- "Back then there were real
absentee landlords. Most of them
- disappeared to keep from being hassled
by the City. Now,
- real estate is so valuable, we can
find out who the owner is."
-
- "Im a bicycle messenger.
Friday, I took my gloves off for a few
- minutes and it took all day for them
to get warm again."
-
- "No, Im not reading. I just
came by to give the plague to Sam.
- I gotta go. I got an
appointment."
-
- He left. I never learned his name.
- I helped Sam put out some more
chairs. Four people came in for the reading and Sam left.
At three, there were only six people attending. One said,
"You used to be able to get 100 or more, now
youre lucky to have twelve."
-
- At 3:15, the hosts hadnt
showed up. I also left.
- I walked several blocks to
Lexington to catch a cab. The next night
- the temperature hit a low of 2
degrees.
Overheard at Paradise
(This is the lead-off to my Chapbook,
Autumn Reflections. I come back to the theme of the difficulty in
our search for the answers to is there a God often.)
- Can you see the mountain
- hidden behind folds of mist?
- As the crisp scent of cold damp
- bites the back of your throat,
- you know without setting foot
- on those ice covered mounts,
- if you trek up the peak
- until the low clouds clear,
- the flare of light
- will leave you mindblind
- and you will not return
- to the green gray lands below?
-
- Equipped with the best,
- climb and rope your way
- towards that remote summit.
- The wind yanks and clutches,
- the screech so earsplitting,
- your brain begins to dissolve;
- hoarfrost bites deep
- your stomach curls in on itself,
- fingers,
- toes,
- ears,
- nose going red to black.
-
- Can you see the mountain
- from the bottom of that crevasse,
- your empty pallid suit
- locked in a river of ice
- to be discovered decades later
- among the glaciers flotsam,
- for you dared
- to look into the face of God
- ill equipped?
Weep Not, Willow
(Here as an example of a threaded poem, and
how I look for form.)
- Weep not, willow, bent over the flood.
- Weep not - the waters that lap your
roots
- will recede, clouds and rain will pass
by
- and leave you delighted with new
growth.
-
- Pick her a sprig of quince,
- blooms as lively as her lips,
- lay them gently in her arms
- as she may lie in yours.
-
- Weep not, willow, trailing in the
stream.
- Weep not - frogs that sport among your
roots
- will go; shrew and mousechild will
return
- and leave you elated with their games.
-
- Gather her a bunch of daffodils,
- blossoms sun-bussed as her hair,
- lay them carefully to fill her lap
- as she may overflow yours.
-
- Weep not, willow, hair now river wet.
- Weep not - the driftwood piled on your
roots
- will float; lovers will lie on your
moss
- and leave you pleased with their quiet
talk.
-
- Pluck her bouquets of spring
beauties,
- flowers milky as her skin,
- wrap them in rings around her neck
- as she may drape around yours.
-
- Weep not, willow, winters storms
far off,
- you will forget days of clouds and
rain.
-
- Weave a belt of ivy,
- a pine cone for a buckle,
- sew a skirt of fresh rush
- and jerkin of willow leaves.
-
- Cover her in springs fresh
foliage
- as she may cover you with her hair.
Such Small Comforts
(I really enjoy the tanka form, which I
usually do in 2 3 2 3 3 count. This poem combines the poem with a
journal entry in the manner of Basho.)
There are special places in the world,
places where the land seems to vibrate.
- Starlings cry
- as winter arrives
- on hawk wings.
- I rebuild the fire
- to prepare soba.*
-
- Drive east of Salem into the North
Santiam River canyon, past towns each smaller than the
last, and you will begin to feel that youve arrived
at the center of the universe. You havent, but you
will expect you have.
-
- Apple tree limbs
- crack from heavy snow
- and silver thaw.
- I listen for footsteps
- before I make noodles.
-
- Arrive on a clear day (long odds in
this wet country), take time to get out of your car and
walk along the rivers bank. You feel the energy,
the land teeming with life. Eden must have been like
this.
-
- Even crows
- seek out dry shelter
- from freezing rains.
- Wake to an empty bed,
- dry rice and cold saki.
Be still, hear the rustle of small
animals, the call of birds, glimpse a fox, deer, or if you are
very lucky, elk. Listen carefully for the slap of trout or salmon
beneath the rush of the rivers rapids.
- Afternoon,
- robins greet the sun
- with frigid song.
- I huddle in my quilts
- and cry from worry.
Arrive on a wet and windy day in
November or March. You may not even get out of car.
- Cat whiskers
- wake me with their touch,
- gentle as dew.
- A key rattles the lock,
- I start from the sound..
But with care, you may still feel the
land, accompanied by the river and an occasional crow or jay. If
you do, you will come back.
- Satisfied,
- we watch the snow fall
- into the night.
- Morning may mean cold rice
- but you will have hot tea.
Of course, bored with nature poems, you
may read these words and say what does all of this jabber have to
do with this faux oriental poem. I may answer, "Nothing.
Nothing at all."
*Soba is a buckwheat noodle.
"He isnt an altar boy!"
(Everyone has an agenda, something which
pushes their button. Mine is the shooting of innocents, and the
proliferation of guns in the UStates. Here I give a set of three
on the theme.)
- Another yellow chalk line
- etches New York concrete,
- blue bullet finds another target.
-
- NY City is a candy dish,
- sour lemon drops,
- jelly beans,
- orange slices,
- horehound,
- party mints,
- all day suckers,
- peppermint sticks.
-
- But this one deserved to be shot,
- after all, he "isnt an
altar boy"
- "arrested at 13"
- "his adult life spent
punching"
- (fill in a quote from the mayor)
- Dont expect licorice.
- Oh, you can find red ropes and wipes,
- fancy party kind,
- white on the outside,
- covered with pink sprinkles,
- but not the black.
- They keep getting spilled
- on the sidewalk--
-
- as for chocolate,
- best go to Jersey.
- Listen If You Want to Hear
-
- hear the blow and bluster
- chitter-chatter,
- TV sitcom fiddle-faddle
- programmed mantra of the cult:
-
- the law cant be
- enforced
are we going
- door to door
they want
- to take our guns
so
- the liberal media
when
- the tanks are in
- the streets
what if you
- forget the combination
-
- my right,
- my right,
- my right,
- to protect
- my house
- my property
- my dog
- (against Them)
-
- Hear another mother cry.
- Hear another father clench his teeth.
- Hear this preacher tell us how she
always had a smile for everyone.
- Hear a teacher apologize because she
forgot Sally was no longer in her class.
-
- Hear the heavens cry.
From the Sunday Supplement
- pearl handled
- teflon coated
- chrome plated
- coffins for sale
-
- discounted Saturday night
- automatically delivered
-
- memorial packages extra
To Be Found in the Last Place You Look
(Perhaps, we can end on a bit of fun,
another threaded. This one triolets and almost haiku. The poem
was written for a dialogue I share with 4 other much better poets
and I would be remiss if I did not include at least one in that
conversation, now at number 90 plus.)
- Misplaced like forgotten grains of
sand,
- missing in a desert, where did I go,
- since your salt and tears have left
the band?
- Misplaced like forgotten grains of
sand,
- what do I do with these empty hands,
- my music now sped to less than slow?
- Misplaced like forgotten grains of
sand,
- lost in a desert, where do I go?
-
- flooded bottoms,
- too dry days,
- year round storms,
- a limb dies
-
- Forgotten like faded raven songs,
- echoes in the forest, what was I
- when your sap and sass quit fast the
throng?
- Forgotten like faded raven songs,
- who sets right our unremembered
wrongs,
- my voice now drenched to less than
dry?
- Forgotten like faded raven songs,
- echoes in the forest, what am I?
-
- moss and lichen,
- birds and beetles,
- invaders at home,
- a branch dies
-
- Faded like empty waves on near shores,
- flattened by the sea, can I forget
- when your lust and love locked loose
our doors?
- Faded like empty waves on near shores,
- why continue to dance musty floors,
- steps muffled as if we never met?
- Faded like empty waves on near shores,
- flattened by the sea, did I forget?
-
- upended,
- tap root ripped,
- earth disrupted
- a maple dies
-
- Whether misplaced or simply forgot,
- we let salt, sweat and lusts
illusion
- drown us in sand, wave and wooded lot.
- Whether misplaced or simply forgot
- the times ripe to forget what we
bought,
- when young and full of self-deception.
- Whether misplaced or simply forgot,
- we loved salt, sweat and lusts
illusion.
-
- nurse log,
- fir and cedar
- saplings prosper
- in the new found sun
-
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