Yes, another one

This is Andrew Ross Perschal, the third child of my youngest sister, Joanna. He was born on the 23rd.

Now each of my four younger sisters has three children. I hope they won't have any more--it's become rather expensive to be The Aunt Without Kids.

Current Issues

Poems appear in the current issues of Aufgabe, Poetry Ireland Review, The Reader, The Warwick Review, and other journals, while others are forthcoming in The Liberal, The New Republic (US), Poetry Review, Sentence: A Journal of Prose Poetics (US), Shearsman, and Stand (including the first publication of one of the "birthmother's catechisms" from Imagined Sons).

My review of Maurice Riordan's The Holy Land and Padraig Rooney's The Escape Artist appears in the current Warwick Review; reviews in progress include Chris Greenhalgh's The Invention of Zero (for TLS) and Tony Curtis's and Matthew Sweeney's latest collections (for Poetry Wales).

The latest of the brood

Here she is, Joslynn Bella Nicole Casperson (whew!).

Welcome to the World, Miss Casperson!

I have a new niece, born 12 July. Her name is, as yet, undecided, but despite her being premature, she's strong at 3 pounds, 10 ounces. My sister Sandra was induced about a month before her due date, on account of complications from her MS, and she sounds remarkably well.

There was talk of my sister Joanna also being induced today, but fortunately that did not happen. It's expected that within a week or so she'll be giving birth to a boy.

Once Joanna gives birth, I'll have 12 (we should have a word for nephews and nieces collectively)--5 nieces and 7 nephews. I've no idea how I'm going to manage Christmas.

Breakthrough: advance, gain, improvement, progress, amelioration, betterment, enrichment, furtherance, headway

Breakthrough by itself sounds too hackneyed to express what's happened, so I've included appropriate synonyms as well (that's what you get on a poet's blog).

The breakthrough the doctors have been waiting for for months has finally come: yesterday Dad stood entirely on his own, bearing his own weight.

When I visited him in April at the last rehabilitation centre, this was the milestone the therapists and doctors were all talking about and working toward, and such has been the case since then. For so long I have heard of good but essentially small measures of progress, nothing that suggested this might happen now.

Yesterday Dad talked about walking, about cycling, as though they were inevitable. Now his walking seems within the realm of possibility. I don't know about cycling, but how I want to feel half as confident as he sounds! It's the best news I've had about his condition since we realised his cognition was returning to what it was originally.

I think he's going to walk again. I wasn't sure before, but now it seems real--and realistic.

Would you believe one of his physical therapists is named Zeus? This feels almost as grand a metamorphosis as those I've read in Ovid. The man three-feet-ish, in bed, occasionally on wheels, is now risen to five-foot-four with two legs. Thank you, Zeus, Miriam (yes, I remember you), and all the others. Thank you.

The poetry of Peter Sirr

On a friend's recommendation, I looked into Peter Sirr's work when I was in Dublin, and greatly liking what I saw, I bought his Selected Poems (Gallery, 2004). I could hardly put it down. Here are some quotes (note, the placement of the lines over one another can't be shown). The poems are richly, densely lyrical, deftly interweaving the common and the metaphysical.



the wrecked sun
creeping to its hut, the night hugging and hoarding

its secret alphabets


*


(speaking of a newsagent's)


the whole shop a shrine to the sustenance of desolation


*


I see a little man dragging over a great space
a wagon filled with goods. Or it may be
gods he brings, who knows? Whatever it is
is heavy and his progress across what surface
has been imagined is slow.


*


What if
the language slips like water through our hands
there are
liquids more surprising


*


I'll stay a long time here,

erasure's emperor


*


I was trying to be exact, I was trying to lean
a little farther in.


*

I stare for hours at water
an infinitely concentrated carelessness
begins there
in which I may be learning
to lend myself to myself
to lodge and withdraw like the sea
or be the beach ignorant of its own account

Hard to believe they have month-old triplets...

Mike and Vicki Duggan, still smiling

Finn, Neve, and Tia were born 15 June 2007

An update on my father

I'm just back from a whirlwind week in London, where I was regularly asked how my father's doing as he approaches the five-month mark since going into hospital. I don't know quite how to answer that question. Is he making progress? Yes, but very, very slowly--sitting up for an hour at a time in a wheelchair is one of his greatest accomplishments to date. He's completely himself, making bad jokes being the most prominent sign, but of course he's frustrated, I'm frustrated, we're all frustrated that six or seven months ago he was cycling across the prairie, miles and miles at a time, and now he can't stand, even with assistance.

Usually when I call the time is limited by his schedule of meals, medicines, bed turning, physical therapy, doctors' visits, etc., but tonight I found him on his own. We talked for forty-five minutes. That certainly hasn't happened since before his illness. It was such a pleasure to talk to him, to talk straightforwardly and ask questions about his health and mood and days as well as divert him with my bits of news. I don't mean TLS--I don't think he quite understands what that is. I tell him about the London weather and pace, about my week "babysitting" Francesca (if one can really babysit a fourteen-year-old), about the new long distance deal I have, that I mention when he worries about the cost of our lengthening conversation.

He mentioned the possibility of my visiting again before Christmas, and I fantasize about a windfall that could make that real. I felt so useful when I was last home--not useful so much in helping his recovery, but giving much needed support and solace to my mother, talking over the situation with my sisters, helping with the bills, the taxes, etc., anything I can do that he used to do. I think it's time for another random check of airline prices, on the off-chance I find a brilliant deal.

TLS--again

See today's issue of TLS for another poem of mine, "The War's Fourth Year." I'm especially pleased to have a political poem published there.

(Re)versing the Damage: Artists Respond to Climate Change

This flyer was sent to me, and though I am not connected with it in any way, it certainly looks worthy and interesting, so I thought I'd spread the word.

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(RE)VERSING THE DAMAGE:

Artists respond to climate change –

With spoken word artists and songwriters from across the country

June 28th –7.30pm –

at Cirocomedia, Portland Square, St Paul 's, Bristol , BS2 8SJ.

Bill McKnibben (author of The End of Nature) recently claimed that artists were ignoring climate change. Steve Larkin (one of the founders of Hammer and Tongue) guessed this was wrong and invited artists to submit their work. He has since assembled a vast array of songs and poetry, a selection which will be performed during this evening.

In partnership with The Climate Outreach and Information Network (COIN). Entry: £3/2