Western Washington Poetry Network

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In January I traveled to Book Tree in Kirkland to attend a celebration for the launch of the Western Washington Poetry Network. It’s been around for at least a year or two, but this was the official “big deal” launch. Representatives from almost every writing group and open mike from Vancouver, Washington, to Bellingham to Duvall were there. There were cookies and wine. It was raucous good fun.

I was asked to speak about our poetry group—the only showing (so far) from Mukilteo—and, in part because I’m not sure we want new members, I talked instead about this blog. I told them how many poetry books I read in 2024, and how many book reviews. I invited people to take a look. I promised to promote WWPN.

And, as a result, I was handed several books by local poets. Like I needed more poetry books! (Of course I did.)

One of these was a coil-bound 5×8 collection with a tan cover bearing only the title, Five Oaks, and the poet’s name, all in lower-case: chris dusterhoff. I think chris himself handed me this book, but I’m not sure. I looked him up at the WWPN site, and found his name (again lowercase) associated with the 2024 letterpress anthology, The Examined Life.

Five Oaks was originally published in 1999 by Spankstra Press. This edition, the third printing, is from New Pacific Press, 2023. In the introduction chris explains an old goal to publish a chapbook a year, and that—in the midst of a too-busy year—he chose to unearth poems from earlier in his life. Some are from high school, some about his sister Laura (to whose memory the book is dedicated), some are about youthful traveling, “headlites glowed / & trees wept on the shoulder” (from “in subtle darkness”).

The poems are in lowercase and nearly free of punctuation (even apostrophes for contractions are left out), and occasionally include beatnik spellings (cupajava) or possibly misspellings or typos—who knows!—and even so I enjoyed  reading Five Oaks all the way through. It allowed me to glimpse a young poet testing the wheels on a new vehicle, experimenting with form and language and voice.

Yes, a few of the poems are long and as meandering as the journeys they depict:

into Bismarck over Missouri rvr
revisited
molten rvr of ice
11:45 am              out of Bismarck
through fargo, n.d. on borderline

           w/ the model for modeltrain depot

(from “Starting from Portland – Dec 1991”)

But even in these, in places, the language can turn magical: “leaves dance / a marionette jig… / with VanGogh pulling / the strings” (from “Vacation”). In another: “mystic paleblue morning / lavender / birdsong – what bird? / Portland city gray skycloud” (from “6:30 am September 2 ad 1991”).

So, I enjoyed reading Five Oaks and getting to know the young chris dusterhoff as he, a while back, “walked out / into applecore / days” (from “day of a hundred reckonings”). And if that isn’t a good reason to keep reading and sharing with you, I can’t think of any other.

getting to know the young chris dusterhoff as he, a while back, “walked out / into applecore / days”

 

Thanks for riding along with me. And don’t forget to take a look at WWPN. Maybe your path will cross with someone unexpected.

Bethany

PEACE, PEACE they say

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PEACE, PEACE  they say, poems by Martine van Bijlert, Rainfed Press, 2024 (paper, $15.95).

Every February for the last six or seven years I have taken part in a postcard exchange for peace.

It’s somewhat informal. There’s no cost. A friend of mine runs the sign-up list and gets all our addresses straight. She calls it the Peace Poets Postcard Exchange. Which is exactly what it is. This year there are 5 groups—participants from numerous United States, and several other countries—each of us sending a postcard to 26 or 27 other people in the month of February, each postcard with an original poem about peace.

I think of it as a way to put more peace into the world.

In 2022 a Dutch mixed-media poet, artist, and writer named Martine van Bijlert joined our ranks. She is no ordinary participant, but has worked as an aid worker, researcher, and diplomat, mostly in Afghanistan. PEACE, PEACE they say is the extraordinary result of her three years of postcards. It is dedicated “to the peace makers” and in her introduction she writes:

As I sat down to write about peace, I kept turning to war, wondering whether I would stand out—a sender of dark collages and words that refused to sound upbeat. A poet who kept reaching for memories of aftermath and foreboding. (p. 3)

Having spent “a large part of [her] life surrounded by ripples of war” she found herself groping for the stock images. “Somewhere along the way,” she writes, “I lost the words.” It is a stirring and beautiful introduction, and ends with these words:

So we live. We can’t be overcome by despair and we can’t pretend [war]’s not there. We can’t keep calling peace what isn’t peace, but we also can’t disparage what is, or what could be, however insignificant it might feel. We should speak of it, even if we can’t find the words. Because we need to hear from people who no longer know what to say. (p. 4)

This is the first poem in the book:

and on this first day

I realise I know
how to write
about

riddled bodies
a whole country
in mourning

how to listen to
longing and people
who still dream

how to feel anger how to
watch the young their
eyes still shining but

I don’t know

where I left this
elusive thing

that was given to me
for safe keeping too

—Martine van Bijlert

The poems are sometimes tentative, raising hard questions: “is happiness always built on oblivion / and forgetting // always stacked on the bodies of the tired”; “listening // to a lone bird sing… / I woke to rain // wanting to know where I could  // learn a song / like that”; “can we talk about peace building // about saying bodies / and meaning institutions // saying agreement / and meaning a document.”

Some of the poems are hopeful, as if the poet can’t help herself (and I couldn’t read the following poem without thinking of Dickinson’s abashed bird in “’Hope’ is the thing with feathers”):

while I was away

summer swept in suddenly
rained down sun and coaxed out buds

bursting with impatience

leaves unfolding everywhere
shiny and tiny

and abashed
by their own brightness

—Martine van Bijlert

The 2023 poems are colored by the unexpected and “too early” death of a friend:

my friend died

and I’m not grieving

the books he’ll
never write

         but the hole

burnt in the fabric of time

the rooms that will
never get to greet

his stooped
frame

—Martine van Bijlert

I apologize for putting—in a review!—three entire poems, but they are so short, and I found the cumulative effect of them so moving. In this last one, the words “but the hole” stand alone in the poem, indented, set off by white space on all sides, a hole in the poem. The poet writes “I’m not grieving,” but we don’t believe her. The poem is made of grief.

I hope some of you will find this book for yourself. Her website is a good starting place: https://www.martinevanbijlert.com.

Or you can order the book by following this link: https://bookshop.org/p/books/peace-peace-they-say/5e8d047f184d048a?ean=9789083457406&next=t&.

As I write this I think of Gaza, Afghanistan, and the other 45 countries where the Geneva Convention reports armed conflict. This week marks the three year anniversary of Putin’s unlawful invasion of Ukraine. And there is our own deeply divided United States. As van Bijlert writes, peace belongs to all of us. So does violence. I wish for you the words you need to express all that you feel in this tumultuous year, and, despite the tumult,  I wish you bright moments pocked by peace.

Last Call of the Dark

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My review of Mary Crane’s Last Call of the Dark just went up today, on-line at Raven Chronicles. Follow the link to read the full review!

As a bonus for reading my blog, here’s a poem – about spring, which cannot get here fast enough for me.

Hazel Catkin

I greeted the first spring-like day
with exhaustion, no appreciation
of a small portion of sun
in gray mosaic, and a stiff wind.
I was tired. The retreating season
offered no space for my small needs,
as the world iced over in suspicion
and decent people passed away.

I once fell in love with a hazel catkin –
heads drawn together, breath quickened,
we gazed into its bright red styles
instead of one another’s animated faces.
I don’t need to recreate the love
but the fall – the descent into desire
as the buds swell up, the body warms,
and a blush reawakens into life.

—Mary Eliza Crane

Crane is a western Washington poet who has resided in the hills above the Snoqualmie Valley for nearly four decades. Our paths have crossed at poetry open mics in Kirkland’s Book Tree and at Easy Speak in Wedgewood (Seattle); she is a co-host of her local poetry night in Duvall. To learn more about Last Call of the Dark, see my review (of course), or visit Cirque Press.

And if you are looking for an open mic, you can find it here: Western Washington Poets Network.

Dusk-Voiced, poems by Jayne Marek

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I learned this week of the death, January 9, of my friend the literary scholar and poet Jayne Marek. My friend and my comrade poet. You can read her inspiring obituary here. My review of her new book, Dusk-Voiced (Tebot Bach, 2024), is waiting to be posted at Escape into Life (apparently there is a problem with distribution of Tebot Bach’s books). You can hear Jayne talk about and read from Dusk-Voiced at the Meter-Cute substack.

Jayne and I met at a writer’s conference. Because she lived in Port Townsend and I live in Edmonds, we did not often see each other. Neither of us were crazy about long phone calls. We did not become the sort of friends who hang out on Zooms together, or share poems vis email, though we did share publication in Triple No. 10 from Ravenna Press.

Every November, for the last 7 or so years, both Jayne and I were invited to the Glen Cove Writers’ Retreat on Hood Canal, and every year (with the exception of 2020), we went. At Glen Cove we took long walks together and bird-watched. Jayne was an avid naturalist, and she took amazing photographs of mushrooms and bugs. Evenings, we drank wine and read each other poems.

Recently, when we were asked to share a poem with our Glen Cove hosts, this is the poem that Jayne offered.

Friday Morning

I slice cucumbers and tomatoes in sunlight
that swaths the kitchen counter with heat.
I think of my friends who have passed
who also chopped vegetables for their families,
friends and visitors, themselves. All of us
feeling solitary (though their spirits are at my shoulder),
our hands warmed, our minds intent on the task
and its goodwill of sharing and feeding.

Out the window, ducks swim and dive.
They surface with fragments of eelgrass
in their bills, ruffle their wings
to throw off water—their medium,
their home, but only one of their worlds.
I suppose they see my shape on the other side
of this glass, moving, my human actions
mysterious but understandable: these things I do,
they do theirs, our spheres visible to one another.

There seems no way to cross over, to explain to the ducks
how I prepare food, to ask how birds learn to forage.
Sunlight probes the water a few inches deep,
shines through the windowpane and in the woods,
farther than any of us can see. I think of friends’ names
and what they liked to cook—more, how they would think,
surely, as I do now, of time and eternity, the divider
of death, the ways water and sunshine touch,
whether any of us may learn to understand.

—Jayne Marek (1954-2025)

Glen Cove, Nov. 2024