Glass-paper work--

The first recorded instance of sandpaper was in 13th century China when crushed shells, seeds, and sand were bonded to parchment using natural gum. Shark skin was also used as a sandpaper. The rough scales of the living fossil Coelacanth are used by the natives of Comoros as sandpaper. Boiled and dried, the rough horsetail is used in Japan as a traditional polishing material, finer than sandpaper. Sandpaper was originally known as glass paper, as it used particles of glass. Glass frit has sharp-edged particles and cuts well; sand grains are smoothed down and did not work well like sandpaper made from glass. --"Sandpaper," Wikipedia

Though called (by those small but terrible singing voices that emerge from the laundry room and car keys and weedy garden beds) to child-ferrying and doing laundry and gardening this morning, I have also been polishing some poems in The Book of the Red King. I have an interested publisher but am not ready to show the whole thing, partly because the poems poured out so quickly and in such numbers that I almost feel that some of them are strangers to me. But the main issue is that I've been so busy for the past year that I have for the most part ignored revising and weeding out poems in favor of writing new pieces.

And after polishing is done--sometimes to smooth, sometimes to roughen--I must figure out the shape that the sequence will make. Right now I plan to use some sort of alchemical structure as an ordering device, but I am afraid that early parts of the sequence will be too dark if I am very strict about that. Is that off-putting? I'm afraid it would be. Perhaps a series of alchemical transformations is better as a framework--a pattern rather than an over-arching plan. Or perhaps something else entirely will emerge, as the poems are governed by character and narrative to a degree unusual in our day.

Marly, recent and elsewhere:

• Thaliad's adventure in verse, with art by artist Clive Hicks-Jenkins (Montreal: Phoenicia, 2012) here and here 
• The Foliate Head's collection of poems with art by Clive Hicks-Jenkins, Stanza Press (UK) here
• A Death at the White Camellia Orphanage (novel) from Mercer University Press (ForeWord 2013 finalist in the general fiction category; The Ferrol Sams Award, 2012) here
• The Throne of Psyche, collection of formal poetry from Mercer, 2011, here
• Samples from my 2011-12 books at Scribd.
• See tabs above for information on individual books, including review clips.

On "the value of art"

Tranquil scene with fish, colored pencil, from the sketchbooks
of Laura Murphy Frankstone at Laurelines

Yesterday I read Michael W. Clune's article, "Bernhard's Way," and have been thinking about his summation of art (in part borrowed from Pierre Bourdieu and his ideas on language as a mechanism of power, reflective of one's position in a social space) as viewed by "the tradition," "the postmodern case," and "the new aesthetic criticism." As presented, the three compose a sort of Gordian knot that needs the simplicity of a sword to solve--at least from a writer's point of view.

Poetry and stories may exhibit what is called "formal relations within the work," and may at times appear to emerge from antagonistic "social relations," but for me these do not determine what critics call the "value" of a work of written art. Surely this "value of art" is deeper and more essential than either antagonistic relations without or formal relations within.

So how do we find the "value of art?"

Whether a piece of writing is stillborn, dies away with the progress of time, or flourishes is a measure of the amount of life captured in a net of words. Creation is alive; sub-creation must also contain life. It's that simple.

But catching such a bright, silvery fish is nigh-impossible. The effort of capturing life in words demands the dedication of the writer's own years, and even then there's no assurance. It's that precarious. It's that strange a goal.

Master Jug and Lady Candlestick

The Blue Jug (2006) by Clive Hicks-Jenkins

from Marly Youmans, The Foliate Head (UK: Stanza Press, 2012),
and also anthologized in The Book of Ystwyth: six poets on the art of Clive Hicks-Jenkins (Wales/US: Grey Mare Press and Carolina Wren Press, 2010)

Master Jug and Lady Candle Stick 

With hands on hips and foliate attire,
The candlestick is all umbrageousness,
A shady lady who has stripped the trees
At upper right to flock her dress with leaves,
A woman apt to give or take offense,
Set resolute beside the one-armed jug.
The wide blue boat of hat upholds a stub
With candlewick to warn his waters off—
She’ll have no wild outpourings of his love,
No boarding of the levees of her skirts.
She doesn’t know that he, entrenched in peace,
Is only musing on the color blue
And how he can by rounding clasp the sea
Until his wheel-turned soul grows chasmal-deep.
Impaled upon a thorn, the little fish
At lower right perceives what she cannot
And dreams cloud-cuckoo lands below the waves—
Will get there just as soon as Master Jug
Can gather all the seas inside himself,
Enspelling blue chimeric revery. 

                            The Blue Jug, 2006

* * *

Marly, recent and elsewhere:

• Thaliad's wild epic adventure in verse, profusely decorated by artist Clive Hicks-Jenkins of Wales (Montreal: Phoenicia Publishing, 2012) here and here 
• The Foliate Head's collection of poems with art by Clive Hicks-Jenkins, Stanza Press (UK) here
• A Death at the White Camellia Orphanage (novel) from Mercer University Press (ForeWord 2013 finalist in the general fiction category; The Ferrol Sams Award, 2012) here
• The Throne of Psyche, collection of formal poetry from Mercer, 2011, here
• Samples from my 2011-12 books at Scribd.
• See tabs above for information on individual books, including review clips.

Dear diary,

One of many collage decorations for Thaliad by Clive Hicks-Jenkins

Being a post for inquisitive souls eager to know the secrets of a writer's Saturday...

Rose up entirely too early in order to let out Susquehanna the dog, who was the mighty source of a river of barks. So I stayed up and made dozens of cookies for the track meet sale.

On the agenda for this bright Saturday: choir practice; singing at a funeral for a sweet lady (lots of hymns, plus John Rutter's Clare College piece, "A Clare Benediction," for an anthem); invitational track meet, and a formidable To Do list. Am hoping for a smidge of writing time somewhere, as I have been writing a good many shortish poems (alas, my life is too crowded at this juncture to start the novel I have in mind, or to write a long poem--and life takes precedence over art, there being no art at all without life), plus maybe a wee but magically-invigorating catnap. Neither Hanna nor my three children appear to have any faith in the power of sleep, at least at the usual hours. Only the cats are on my side in the matter of sleep.

Birds are tweedling, the new leaves are transparent and sparkling with dew in the sunshine, and the sky is a cloudless blue. It's hard to believe in the reign of death and funerals this morning, though easy to believe in song.

Addendum: A funeral mass for someone who has lived a life in service to others is a beautiful thing--then there is no need for false praise but for simple truth. How sweet that is.