| This year is nuts. I have published four books in three different genres. Not to mention two anthologies, one of which I edited. Plus my Childless by Marriage blog and a Substack newsletter called “Can I Do It Alone,” which has gone berserk since I started it on April 1. Too much! At least I can die knowing I have published most of what I had to say. I do have other work brewing, and I’m not planning to die any time soon, but if God says, “Time’s Up,” I can go in peace. If a writer could just bask in the glory while someone else handles publicity, marketing, and schlepping books to the post office, it might be okay. But this is like giving birth to quadruplets. Every one of them needs attention, and if I talk about them too much, it sounds like bragging. Not that I’m complaining. There will never be another year like 2024 (for me or the world), and I am grateful. Here’s the state of publishing here: Out now: * Blue Chip Stamp Guitar (The Poetry Box)—poems about my lifelong love affair with my guitar * Dining Al Fresco with My Dog (MoonPath Press)—poems in which an aging widow and her dog figure out life alone in the woods * Between the Bridges (Blue Hydrangea Productions)–the third novel in my Up Beaver Creek series. PD thinks she finally has her life figured out. Ha! * Thriving (Exsolutas Press), an anthology of prose, poetry and art, which includes two of my poems and will fill you with inspiration. * Poetry for the Dementia Journey (AlzAuthors), which includes three of my poems and for which I did much of the nuts-and-bolts editing Out VERY soon: No Way Out of This: Loving a Partner with Alzheimer’s (She Writes Press). Publication date for the memoir about my Alzheimer’s experience with my late husband is June 25, 2024. You can pre-order it now. I already have copies if you need one before that. This is the biggie. I even have a professional publicist working on it. If you see my ads on Amazon, shoot me a screen shot so I can see what they look like. All of these books are available on Amazon AND at your favorite bookseller. If they don’t have them, they can order them, and the more requests they get, the better. Also suggest your local library order them. After you read the books, consider leaving a review at Amazon, Goodreads, Bookbub or on social media. I am available for readings, talks, or discussions online or in-person. Email me at sufalick@gmail.com. Coming up: * June 13, 6:30 p.m. online MoonPath Press book launch reading for my Dining Al Fresco with My Dog and Carol R. Sunde’s Through Pine Shadows. Register at https://www.moonpathpress.com/ReadingInvitation13Jun24.htm * June 19, 10 a.m. PDT online: The Childless Elderwomen will discuss “Couragageous Conversations” on Zoom. Our group of accomplished women without kids will talk about how we handle those awkward times when people just don’t seem to understand how our lives might be different from theirs. Register at https://gateway-women.com/register-now-fireside-wisdom-with-childless-elderwomen-wed-19th-june-2024-courageous-conversations/ Attendees will be anonymous and off-camera, and the event will be recorded for those need to watch it later. * June 23, 2 to 4 p.m. in person: I will join three other poet-songwriters at the Mid-Valley Poetry Society’s “Poet-Songwriters in Conversation and Performance” at The Dye House at The Willamette Heritage Center, 1313 Mill Street SE in Salem, Oregon. Admission is free. Just come! * June 29, noon PDT, online: Jody Day of Gateway-Women will host a book launch webinar for No Way Out of This. All who register at will receive a link to the recording, so if you can’t make that time, sign up anyway. https://gateway-women.com/register-now-gateway-women-masterclass-webinar-an-interview-book-giveaway-with-author-sue-fagalde-lick/ Recently Recorded events you can listen to:Alzheimers Speaks Interview with Lori LaBey Salem Poetry Project—poetry and music Read and loved: Two books by Michael Finkel, The Stranger in the Woods: The Extraordinary of the Last Hermit, about a guy who lived alone in the woods for 27 years before he was caught sneaking out to steal food, and True Story: Murder, Memoir, Mea Culpa, the story of Christian Longo who murdered his wife and three kids right here in Lincoln County, Oregon Blank by Zibby Owens. A novelist can’t think of anything to write, so she pitches a book with nothing in it, and it goes viral! This book is not blank, and it’s a lot of fun. Binge-watching: I watched all six seasons of “The Resident,” (Netflix) which stars Matt Czuchry. That led me to “The Good Wife,” (Prime) where he was a regular. I had never been interested in “The Good Wife” before, but now I’m into it. If nothing else, watch it for all the guest actors who subsequently became famous. So far, two of the actors from “This is Us” have turned up as defendants in murder cases. That’s more than enough for one newsletter. It’s still raining off and on here on the Oregon coast. I’m still playing music at St. Anthony’s in Waldport. I’m doing physical therapy for my back, and it is working. I’m still missing my dog, Annie, who passed away in September. The hunt for a new dog begins in July. I’m seeking a healthy, mid-sized, middle-aged female with a mellow personality. Happy summer! |
Category: poetry by Sue Fagalde Lick
I Need an Ejector Chair–and Other News
I sit way too much, and my back is paying the price. Where can I buy a desk chair that ejects me after a set amount of time and will not let me sit again until I move around for a while? I don’t want to fly up through the ceiling like the guy in the cartoon. I picture spikes coming up through the seat or the seat suddenly becoming unbearably hot or cold, something that gives me no choice but to get up immediately.
I already use timers to remind me to take a break, but I tend to ignore them. Just this morning, when the timer dinged, I shut it off, and kept working. Then an urgent email caught my attention, and soon I had been sitting way too long. I’m visiting the chiropractor again on Wednesday, but I wouldn’t need him if I’d just MOVE.
Inventors, get busy. Lift chairs already exist for folks who have trouble getting up. I need one for the relatively able-bodied who need to be forced to stand and move around. Ideally, we could set a time, say 30 minutes, and for the next 10 minutes or whatever you cannot sit in that chair. Call it the Timed Office Chair Ejector, TOCE for short.
Meanwhile, things are happening, and I want to bring you up to date.
* Between the Bridges, the third novel in the Beaver Creek series, is out and available right now at the bookstores in Lincoln County, Oregon or from your favorite bookseller wherever you live. Support your local bookstore if you can.
* Blue Chip Stamp Guitar, my poetry chapbook, will be out March 15, which is very soon. Dining Al Fresco with My Dog, my first full-length poetry collection, is coming in April, and No Way Out of This: Loving a Partner with Alzheimer’s will follow in June.
The schedule is getting busy, just way I like it. Here are the book-related events currently set for the next few months.
- Saturday, March 9, 4 p.m.—Zoom—I’m marking my birthday and the launch of Blue Chip Stamp Guitar with an online reading hosted by my publisher, The Poetry Box. To register and receive the zoom link, visit https://thepoetrybox.com/live-03092024.
- Wednesday, March 20, 1 p.m. PDT—Zoom—I will join Jody Day’s Childless Elderwomen chat with several other fabulous “nomo crones.” Our topic this time is “Caring for the Caregiver.” We will discuss our experiences taking care of our spouses and/or parents and our fears about who will take care of us when we need it. Register at https://gateway-women.com/gateway-elderwomen. The session will be recorded, so you can watch it whenever it works for you. If you worry about anonymity, neither your name or your face will be shown on the screen.
- Saturday, March 23, 12-2 p.m.—in-person at the Nye Beach Book House, 727 NW Third Street, Newport, OR. I will be signing copies of Between the Bridges, the new novel in the Up Beaver Creek series, as well as my other books. Come, buy an autographed copy at a local bookstore instead of an online chain. If you are not in the area, the book is available in print and on Kindle wherever books are sold.
- Thursday, April 25, 7 p.m.—Facebook live and in person at Marco Polo, 300 Liberty St. SE, Salem, OR. I will be the featured reader at the Salem Poetry Project, sharing poems from Blue Chip Stamp Guitar and Dining Al Fresco with My Dog. An open mic follows. Watch the Poetry Project Facebook page for information. https://www.facebook.com/SalemPoetryProject/.
- Tuesday, May 14, 6 p.m.—Zoom—I will be one of the featured readers at the bi-monthly Head for the Hills series. An open mic follows. Visit the series’ Facebook page, for details or email dale@champlindesign.com to get on the mailing list.
AT THE BLOGS:
Childlessbymarriage.com: “Obsessing Over Dogs vs. Obsessing Over Children”
Unleashedinoregon.com: “The Strange Valentine’s Day/Ash Wednesday Mashup”
READ AND ENJOYED:
The Squannacook at Dawn by Richard Jordan, The Poetry Box, 2024. As I started reading the first poem in this beautiful chapbook, I felt myself relaxing into something beautiful. I was with the poet on the bank of a river in Massachusetts, breathing fresh air, watching fish ride the current, and listening to blackbirds singing. This winner of the Poetry Box Chapbook Prize is deserving of every accolade. I thought I would not be interested in a book about fishing. I haven’t held a pole since I was a little girl, but it’s about so much more than fish. The language, the unhurried pacing, and the Zen of being out in nature captured me immediately.” I love these lines in “Blackbird Through October Mist”: “It is important/now to lift the paddle, let it rest/across your lap. This is the time to glide.” This whole book feels like a long, easy glide, and I treasure it.
House on Fire by D. Liebhart, 9:25 Books, 2022. I stopped everything to read the last 70 pages of this novel, which begins with a mother asking her grown daughter to kill her father. The father has dementia, and caring for him has become next to impossible, but he made the whole family swear they would never put him in a nursing home. The daughter, Bernadette, an ER nurse, knows all too much about dementia and death, but she can’t kill him. Nor can her Bible-quoting sister. Even without that, she has her hands full. Her son Jax has major behavioral problems and has been kicked out of every school in the area. She barely makes enough money to pay her bills, with no help from her sometimes partner Shayne, who lives and works at a commune up in Topanga Canyon. Things are complicated and about to get more so. This is fiction, but so real I believed every word. Five stars for this one.
WATCHED AND ENJOYED
“True Detective,” Season 4, starring Jody Foster, streaming on MAX. This is one spooky story. They are in a part of Alaska where the sun doesn’t shine at all in the middle of the winter, so it’s always dark. A group of men working at a research station in the middle of nowhere suddenly disappear. Foster is determined to find out what happened. Twists and turns galore.
“The Color Purple,” 2023 version, streaming on Hulu and Amazon Prime. This updated version shares the same heartbreaking story, but it’s a musical. The music is fantastic, and the cast, featuring Fantasia Barrino and Taraji P. Henson, does a fabulous job. If you’re not crying at the end of this, you’re tougher than I am.
The timer says I have three seconds to get away from this chair.
Cheers.
Sue
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Mother Nature Joins Us on Our Walk
Boxing Day Visitors Almost home, we turn the corner and skid to a sudden startled stop. Elk. Seven cows staring at us from the field beside our house. Neighbors reported sightings, we saw black-marble droppings, but here in the coastal forest, we thought we were in charge. The dog frozen, it’s up to me. Advance or retreat, act tough or cajole them like puppies? God, they keep staring at us. Seven hundred pounds times seven– Oh Lord, more leap out of the bushes. I raise my phone to take pictures to share if we get home alive. One of them crosses the road to where the women with cats live. Run Millie, run Frosty! Hey Kathy! A glance. The scout rejoins the herd. It’s December. My bum knee aches. “Come on, Pup.” Timid steps, nervous chatter. They look alike, small heads, thick brown bodies. As we pass the mailboxes, the elk turn as one and whoosh through an opening in the trees and vines. Could they have been afraid of us? --Sue Fagalde Lick, Dec. 26, 2022
Happy New Year, everyone! Thank you for reading Unleashed in Oregon. These elk were quite docile, but if elk feel threatened, they might charge. I used the zoom function on my camera to photograph them. Always give wild animals the right-of-way. https://www.travel-experience-live.com/elk-safety-how-safely-observe-wild-elk/
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Housecleaning Find Marks the Beginnings of a Poet
Little Boy Blue By Mother Goose Little Boy Blue, come blow your horn; The sheep’s in the meadow, the cow’s in the corn. Where’s the boy that looks after the sheep? He’s under the haystack, fast asleep.” Will you wake him? “No, Not I! For if I do, he’s sure to cry.”
How did I become a poet? What made me scribble singsong verse as early as third grade? Cleaning out some drawers I rarely open, I found at least part of the answer. Buried among the hair ornaments I no longer have enough hair to use, I found a stack of books from way back in my childhood. Most are pretty beat up from frequent fondling by children. Among them were:
- A Book of Famous Poems compiled by Marjorie Barrows (Mom’s), published 1931
- One Hundred Best Poems for Boys and Girls, also compiled by Ms. Barrows, published 1930 (mine, a gift from Grandma Rachel Fagalde in 1963)
- The Winkle Twinkle Pup and other stories (Uncle Bob’s), published 1941
- Hickory Dickory Dock and other poems of childhood (mine, a gift from Grandma Rachel Fagalde in 1960)
- Uncle Wiggily and Baby Bunty (Uncle Bob’s),
- Poems for the Very Young Child (Mom’s), published in 1932
I also found a collection of nature books for kids and Writer’s Digest magazines from the 1960s when Grandma Rachel was grooming me to be a writer. A poet herself, she kept feeding me poetry books, among them the poems of Edna St. Vincent Millay, Robert Browning, Marianne Moore and The Viking Book of Poetry of the English-Speaking World. Being the odd teenager that I was, I read them all and wrote poems of my own. Sixty years later, I’m still at it.
Tucked inside One Hundred Best Poems for Boys and Girls, I found a poem of my own. Written in pencil, the words are barely visible. Great art? Lord no, although I might have had a successful career writing greeting cards.
Don’t Forget to Think of Me Summer is coming very fast. Soon it will be here at last. It’s a time to your hobbies pursue, A time to find the real you. A time to let your thoughts go free, A time, I hope, to think of me. Summer is a time of fun. I wish no sadness to anyone, A time to go to brand new places, A time to see old and new faces. I’m wishing now, a lot of fun And joy and peace to everyone. When summer days are gay and free, Don’t forget to think of me.
It’s doggerel, yes, but this is what some of us were reading in the 1950s and early 1960s. We shared Ogden Nash’s humorous verses, Rod McKuen’s sentimental offerings, and the plain-spoken poems of Robert Frost. Poetry progressed from rhyme and rhythm into free verse, rap, and slam poetry. We might roll our eyes as the singsong verse of my childhood, but it got me started.
From One Hundred Best Poems: Barefoot Days By Rachel Field In the morning, very early, That’s the time I love to go Barefoot where the fern grows curly And grass is cool between each toe, On a summer morning-O! On a summer morning! That is when the birds go by Up the sunny slopes of air, And each rose has a butterfly Or a golden bee to wear; And I am glad in every toe– Such a summer morning-O! Such a summer morning!
The stuff I grew up on, that my mother read to my brother and me every night, and Grandma Rachel bestowed for every Christmas and birthday, exposed me to the joys of playing with words and sharing them out loud. It was a valuable gift that resonates today as I sit down to write a new poem on my laptop in Google docs. We no longer use fountain pens or fat pencils, but the goal is still the same: to capture what we see and experience in a compact collection of words using imagery, rhythm, word play, and yes, sometimes rhyme.
When I meet people who don’t read, it saddens me. My brother and I were lucky that our mother read to us, and she took us to the library every two weeks to pick up another stack of books. If parents don’t read to their kids and set an example of reading for pleasure, how will their children pick up the habit? Will they ever be exposed to poems and stories that don’t appear on a screen?
When they hear “hickory dickory dock, the mouse ran up the clock” or “Jack and Jill went up the hill,” will they know the lines that come next or shrug and go back to their phones?
We have an obligation to pass our poems and stories to the next generation. That’s how writers and readers are born. This Christmas, buy a child a book. They’re easy to wrap, easy to mail, and might stay with them all their lives.
PS: You can find my adult poems in my chapbooks Gravel Road Ahead and The Widow at the Piano: Poems by a Distracted Catholic.
PPS: Oregon Poetry Association is hosting a “Holiday/Anti-Holiday” poetry open mic on Zoom on Dec. 13 at 7 p.m. PST. You don’t have to live in Oregon to join in. Click here to register. (Click to December on the calendar, click on the event, and you’ll see the registration screen).
A MEMORIAL DAY MEMORY
MUSTERING OUT When the war ended, we were ready to go home. We heard about troop ships delayed, being prepared, but anything that could float was fine with us. We slept on the decks, didn’t have much food, but that was nothing new. I lost almost sixty pounds in those years in Australia, Manila, New Guinea. Not much chow. Dengue fever. I almost died. No, we’d have jumped in and swam if we could. I’ll never forget our first sight of the Golden Gate. Everybody was out on deck, crying and cheering, hundreds of people waving back at us. Mustering out in San Francisco took forever. Paperwork, medical exams, giving up our uniforms for fear they carried diseases. They probably did. They invited us to stay for a talk about the Army reserves. Hell no, our CO told the guy. He turned to us: “Do you want to get out of this man’s army?” “Sir, yes sir!” we shouted back. I got a ride from a Mexican guy down to San Jose. His family had come to pick him up. We got to the ranch near midnight. I rang the bell, got everybody out of bed, surprised my mom and dad. We were all crying, couldn’t believe I’d made it home. My brother was six feet tall with this big deep voice. Yeah, it was something. I kept looking around. It was all the same, but different, you know? No, I’ll never forget that day. None of us will. --Sue Fagalde Lick Previously published in Rattle Poetry Journal
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Distracted Catholic confesses via poems
Happy new Year! That greeting falls a little flat this week in view of events in the Middle East and the wildfires in Australia. The parties are over, and the weather is wet, windy and dark. Bleh, right? What’s left to look forward to?
I have something: a new book! The Widow at the Piano is another poetry chapbook, following fast on the heels of Gravel Road Ahead, which came out in October. The two are quite different. Gravel Road Ahead follows my Alzheimer’s journey with my late husband. Readers say they have found it comforting and inspiring.
The Widow at the Piano, subtitled Confessions of a Distracted Catholic, is bound to get me in trouble, although early readers have pronounced it smart, sassy, touching and funny. You see, it’s about being Catholic and playing the piano at church. Any time you get into politics, money or religion, folks are bound to get their dander up, and I’m expecting there will be those who don’t love this book.
That scares me, but I don’t think I have ever published anything that is so “me.” In my years in journalism, we could hide behind our allegedly impartial reporting. In my novels, I could say, “That’s not me.” This book is absolutely me, and I’m bound to take criticism personally. Oh well, that’s what happens when you’re a writer.
I know I’m not a perfect Catholic. This book lays it out there for the world to see, how sometimes when I pray, I wonder if anyone is listening; how sometimes when I look like I’m praying, I’m analyzing the flower arrangements or wondering what the priest is wearing under his vestments; how sometimes I’m thinking about what I’m going to have for lunch when I’m supposed to be thinking about the body and blood of Christ. Distracted! That woman at the piano is the same woman who goes into the kitchen to put the kettle on for tea, finds three other things to do and returns to her desk fifteen minutes later without having started the tea.
And yet, it’s a love story, too. God knows, I love doing music at church. As a widow coming to Mass alone, it gives me a place among all those couples and families. The liturgy is magic, and so is the music. I don’t work anymore at the church I wrote about. I’m at another church playing and singing for free and loving it. I’m considerably less distracted. But one of the virtues of the Catholic Church is that the Mass is the same all over the world, so in a way it doesn’t matter which specific parish I’m writing about.
The Widow at the Piano is available for discounted pre-orders now and is scheduled for publication on March 15. If I were you, I’d order a copy just for the gorgeous cover publisher Shawn Aveningo-Sanders of The Poetry Box has selected. It’s piano porn for those of us who love images of musical instruments.
I will be looking for opportunities to do readings and talks as much as possible in the coming months for both the Widow book and Gravel Road Ahead. Contact me at sufalick@gmail.com if you’re interested. I will be at the Author’s Fair being held next Saturday, Jan. 11 from 1 to 4 p.m. at the Newport Public Library.
I started writing poetry as a little girl. I remember carrying around a little spiral notebook that fit in my pocket, writing sing-songy rhymes with a fat pencil with a big eraser. My skills have matured a little since then. Although I have published poetry in various journals and won some prizes, it has taken 60 years for my poems to appear in book form. Suddenly I have two poetry books within six months. So exciting.
I was sitting by my father’s hospital bed when I got the email that Finishing Line Press wanted to publish Gravel Road Ahead. “Dad, they want to publish my book,” I said, my head spinning a little with shock and surprise. Very ill and not a literary guy, he probably said something like “Good” and changed the subject, but it was a big deal for me. Dad is gone now, but I am grateful that in a year of tremendous loss, God sent me these two gifts.
And now I offer them to you. Here’s a teaser from The Widow at the Piano:
IF JESUS CAME TO MY DOOR
I’d say, “Excuse the mess”
He would. He might even
share the couch with the pit bull
and rub her balding belly
as she lies on her back, submissive,
which I probably ought to do, too,
but no, I’d be fixing my hair,
putting my laundry away,
offering Him coffee or tea,
and wondering if He was really He
or if I just let a bad guy in,
someone who would rape, rob, kill
or whip out a Kirby vacuum to sell.
But no, the guard dog’s upside down,
wide open to His blessed hands,
and she knows. She knows.
As we pray for peace and safety, I hope my words can offer some comfort or at least a few minutes of distraction. Just don’t forget the tea kettle.
Gravel Road Ahead pre-pub sales begin
In last week’s post, I talked about how I became a poet, and I told you about my first poetry chapbook, coming out later this year. This week, “pre-sales” for Gravel Road Ahead begin. Some of you will be receiving postcards in the mail very soon.
I have just gotten my first look at a mockup of the cover photo which will appear on the postcards. It may change a little in the final version, but it’s one more step forward. Thank God I don’t hate it. That’s my photo of one of the places Annie and I go walking. Before Annie, I walked it with Fred and Sadie. The gravel road is hard on shoes and the feet inside them, but worth it for where it takes you.
You’d think once you write the book and get it accepted, you could celebrate with a glass of champagne and relax. Nope. Now it’s time to promote and sell the book. Pre-publication sales are critical. In order to guarantee a full press run, I need to sell 55 copies in advance. I’m hoping my friends will help with this. The price, $14.99, seems a little steep, but if you think about it as paying 50 cents a poem, it’s not bad.
Sorry, it’s not available as an ebook. And it will not be available at Amazon.com until the book is published Oct. 11.
After Gravel Road Ahead is published in October, I will be looking for places to do readings, and I will have copies to sell then, but I would love it if you would pre-order a copy.
Order your copy by sending $14.99 plus $2.99 shipping (check or money order made out to “Finishing Line Press”) to Finishing Line Press, P.O. Box 1626, Georgetown, KY 40324. You can also order online at www.finishinglinepress.com. Here is the direct link to the book. Credit card orders will be processed through PayPal. Preordered copies ship Oct. 11, 2019.
How about this? If you preorder a copy, I will buy you lunch for an equivalent price if you can arrange to be here on the central Oregon coast. Ocean view and everything. I’m serious. Aside from writing poetry, going out to lunch is my favorite thing. And when I can do both at the same time, oh boy, life is good.
And if you don’t want to mess with the publisher, just tell me at sufalick@gmail.com how many copies you want and we’ll worry about payment and deliver later.
Here’s the title poem to whet your appetite:
GRAVEL ROAD AHEAD
Where my husband lives now, I don’t.
Each day he forgets more
details from the house we bought
with his VA loan. I don’t. I tend them,
sort his papers, pay his bills,
dust his antique rolltop desk.
I linger in his swivel chair,
wearing his red plaid shirt, staring
at my small hands peeking out
from frayed cuffs with missing buttons,
toying with his ballpoint pen.
I straighten his paper clips, delaying
my drive up the steep winding road
to where my husband lives now
in a numbered room with an ocean view,
where the pavement ends, and I don’t.
***
Family update: I have just returned from another trip to San Jose. My father moved from a skilled nursing facility to Somerset Senior Living, where he stayed for a few months after he broke his leg in 2017. It’s a very nice and very expensive place, located in a former convent. He’s settling in, still hoping to get back on his feet and resume his independent life. His biggest problem right now, besides not being able to stand up without help, is boredom, so if anyone can call or visit, that would be great. Email or Facebook message me for his address and phone number.
Annie spent a lovely week with the Cramer family while I was gone. She went to work with Sandy and played with David and the kids at home. She was still healing from her surgery for a growth on her leg that turned out to be benign, praise God. She’ll have a gnarly scar, but we’re done with the protective collar and she’s running around like nothing happened.
Have a great week. Help an author. Buy a book.
Weird Poetry-Writing Kid Gets Published
Let’s talk about poetry. Wait! Don’t click away. And for God’s sake, don’t start reciting “Roses are red, violets are blue . . .” That’s the response I get from my brother. When I gave my father a homemade collection of my poems for Christmas a few years ago, he smiled at the dog picture on the cover and set it aside. I suspect the other copies met the same fate. (I have a few more, if you want one).
I do not come from poetry-reading people. Except one. My Grandma Rachel Fagalde, technically my step-grandmother, set me on the poetry path. She wrote poetry herself and fed me books of poetry, inscribed to “my dear little Susie” from “Gramma” Rachel. I read Robert Frost, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Marianne Moore, Shakespeare, and obscure poets whose chapbooks she found at rummage sales. Someday my chapbooks may meet the same fate. I hope somebody else’s grandmother will buy a copy.
I was thrilled to receive those poetry books. I sat around reading them out loud, and I started writing my own poetry. The other kids thought I was weird.
I wrote my first poem, a ditty about Thanksgiving, at 7, got published in various school publications, and got paid for a poem that appeared in something called Valley Views when I was in high school. Poetry was my thing, but you can’t make a living writing poetry, so I majored in journalism at San Jose State and went into the newspaper biz, keeping my poetry on the side. When I finally made it through grad school at age 51, I earned a degree in creative nonfiction, not poetry. Now I write both.
Although my early efforts resembled the nursery rhymes I grew up with, all sing-songy and rhyming, today’s poems are much more conversational. I avoid twisted sentences and words like “ere,” “thou” and “o’er.” I rarely rhyme. So what makes it a poem instead of a short essay cut into lines? First, poems are compact. You can tell a whole story in a three-line haiku.
First autumn morning
the mirror I stare into
shows my father’s face.
– Murakami Kijo
Second, they use imagery. Read “My Mother’s Colander” by Dorianne Laux. See what I mean? I have a colander just like that, by the way. But it’s not just about the colander, is it?
I was a poetry-writing kid who became a poetry-writing grownup who is now a poetry-writing senior citizen. In recent years, I have published quite a few poems in literary magazines [see www.suelick.com for samples]. I love to read my poems to live audiences.
I am excited to report that my first poetry book will be coming out later this year from Finishing Line Press. Called Gravel Road Ahead, it is a chapbook, meaning a little book about 30 pages long, that follows the journey my late husband and I took through Alzheimer’s disease. I have published quite a few books of prose, but this is different. I am very excited. And nervous.
(Pre-orders are being taken through Aug. 16. Click here or email me at sufalick@gmail.com to tell me how many copies you want. )
To my amazement, since I drafted this post, another publisher accepted another chapbook. Currently titled The Widow at the Piano: Confessions of a Distracted Catholic, that one will be coming out next year.
Right now I’m focusing on Gravel Road Ahead because the pre-publication sales begin next Monday. I hope to show you the cover then and provide info on how to pre-order a copy.
In addition to the book, my poem, “Mustering out,” channeling my father’s voice, was published at www.rattle.com last month. They even paid me. Another poem, “They’ll Have to Order the Parts,” appeared in the Atticus Review on May 29.
Grandma Rachel used to send me copies of her own poems with her illegible letters. I collected some of them after she died. I suspect the people cleaning out the house threw some poems away, not realizing the precious gifts they were. She didn’t publish much. Instead she trained me to start my career with my first copies of Writer’s Digest and all those poetry books. Well, it took a few years, but I’ve done it.
Will I make money at this? No. Real poets have day jobs.
It’s sad when only poets read poetry. Believe me, it’s not all like the stuff your teachers might have made you read in high school. Give it a try.
A little poem for Christmas Eve
Merry Christmas! Here’s a little Christmas poem for you. Not every bit of it is true. I can’t stop rhyming!
Love you,
Sue
I’LL BE HOME FOR CHRISTMAS
I’ll be home for Christmas,
relaxing with my dog.
Because I’m lactose intolerant,
I won’t drink any nog,
but I will post on my blog.
I’ll be home for Christmas,
alone beside the tree,
unwrapping all the presents
I purchased just for me;
they’ll all fit perfectly.
I’ll be home for Christmas
after midnight Mass at ten
when we’re celebrating Jesus’ birth
and peace on earth to men,
singing “Jesu Bambino” again.
I’ll be home for Christmas.
It will look like I’m alone,
but I’ve got my dog beside me
and my family on the phone,
also fresh blueberry scones.
I’ll be home for Christmas
as the guy says in the song,
but home has many meanings
and not one of them is wrong.
When you sing, I sing along.
I’ll be home for Christmas,
no turkey, ham or roast.
I’m eating enchiladas
with a tall tequila toast
to my most enchanting host.
I’ll be home for Christmas.
You might hear me caroling
in my favorite red pajamas
with feet and everything—
and a little bit of bling.
I’ll be home for Christmas.
Don’t feel sorry for me.
In this house full of lights and food and song
with my twinkling artificial tree.
It’s exactly where I want to be.
I’ll be home for Christmas,
maybe playing my kazoo.
But if you ring my doorbell,
then my Christmas won’t be blue
‘cause you’ll be home for Christmas, too.
Copyright 2012 Sue Fagalde Lick
Post this without attribution and Santa will blow up your house.
Unleashed in Oregon 