http://radiowritersblock.wordpress.com/2011/04/25/the-writers-block-for-april-28th-joan-logghe/
That's the place you can hear an interview I did that hits the highlights on my visit to Boise.
I did four readings, five workshops, one interview, one meeting about PL with their arts administrators and community. I am landing at home again, the snow has melted and I think I am melting a bit as well.
I cannot begin to write about all my Boise adventures, so I will give you some highlights.
My friend, Diane Ronayne, a consummate activist and community organizer, outdid herself. In fact she almost outdid me or did me in, but no, I had a grateful blast and it all went smoothly. We weren't even late one time. I got to teach poetry to elders, teachers, high school students, therapists, and my old friends.
I got to read at a bookstore, coffee-shop with my second cousin playing a mean guitar, a school library, and a literary center. I was on the radio, took a few good walks, and introduced WS Merwin, the US poet Laureate.
A lanky girl, i later found is named Sophia, came up to me on the street, "Are you the poet?" She had to make up a test and so missed my reading. I gave her my poem typed on a tiny piece of pink cloth, "Dressing Down for Love." I told her to promise me if she had a poetry emergency she would call me.
Her teacher wrote me this morning that she came into school with the poem, much treasured. Maybe that was my favorite thing.
Honestly, it was all my favorite thing. I have said it before, Boise is my Holy Land. Or is travel just the chance to get out of our patterned ways and become more whole? I don't travel much, so not so sure.
I fell in love with another poet, loved having Michael meet my friends, and got so tired I had to lie down on a rug. Now I am home, the world is changed with Bin Laden's death. Teaching poetry makes me happy, and divisions between us make me sad. I am not waving any flags, though feel solidarity with those who have fought, lost dear ones, and yet saddened by circumstances that cause us to hate one another.
If I can figure out how to send you any films we took I will. If you want to hang out with me a while, check out the site above, a great young interviewer indeed. Love to all in Boise, and to my arranged love, Santa Fe, I'm back. XXX JL
Monday, May 2, 2011
Saturday, April 16, 2011
DATES TO DATE, Living La Vida Local
April 17 - Reading at Acequia Booksellers, 4019 4TH ST, 505-890-5365 in Albuquerque for UNM PresS Book The Singing Bowl. 3:00 WITH MICHAEL C. FORD, EMMY AND GRAMMY NOMINATED POET
April 21 – Benefit reading for Santa Fe Girls’ School with student readers and Poet Laureate celebration. 6:00 at 333 Montezuma Annex, near Guadalupe. The girls are awesome.
April 23, Poetry at Paul’s, 6:00, Songs from the heart, chant, drumming, poetry with Sita Jamison and Gregory Gutin. see Poetry At Paul's, potluck, reading, and open mic.
April 25- May 1- Boise Idaho, appearance on radio, Boise High School, therapists, Osher Institute, three readings, and intro of US Poet Laureate, WS Merwin.
May 6 – Los Alamos, University Women, 4:30 reading and tea at Bethleham Lutheran church in Los Alamos
May 7th, Southwest Writers, 10-12, 275-2556, Reverberations, writing inspired by others-- derivatives and homage.
May 8th, Church of Beethoven, 10:30, 1715 5th St, Albuquerque, $15, classical music and poetry, come at 10:00 for coffee
May 11- Collected Works, Launch for The Singing Bowl, 6:00 PM with didgeridoo by Leland Guthrie, Free
May 21 – New Mexico State Poetry Society – Albuquerque, lunch reading, 12-2:00, Cooperage, 7220 Lomas, make lunch reservation mechistle@gmail.com, 505-889-4672
May 28th – Unitarian Church 107 W. Barcelona in Santa Fe, reading, 4:00, 992-0665
June 2, Launch for Love & Death: Greatest Hits, Collected Works, 6:00 with
Miriam Sagan and Renée Gregorio
June 18, Mining the Unconscious, free poetry workshop at Community Gallery on Marcy Street with Jane Lipman and me, 11:00-3:00 PM, Poetry Reading by Particpants June 22 5:00 PM
at the Community Gallery
WRITE LOCALLY, SHOP LOCALLY, READ LOCALLY, LOVE LOCALLY, DREAM LOCALLY
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Feeling Fluish
So, what I meant about the confetti that as I thought about all the various appearances in town I have made, and by town I mean Santa Fe (minimum 50 miles round trip) to Albuquerque (180 miles round trip) often for a five minute reading, I was thinking, what I am doing? And I thought, confetti. Then that word keep appearing in the way that pesky, light colored words blown by wind will do. And I started to think heavier thoughts, and then I got the flu.
See, I was cleaning my desk area which takes over the dining area, an upstairs bedroom formerly lived in by each of my kids, sometimes in bunk beds, let's face it, I am messy and hate cleaning. But I was having a very good time and sorted all my pencils and made a cup with a broken handle for writing materials and a matching cup with a broken handle for art supplies. I would be organized. But then there is always the moment when a molecule of dust, a smidgeon, a speck, an inhalation comes into my throat and I get sick. Like that! And sick I got, with fever of 101 and two horizontal days, and still I am dizzy and woozy and unfocused. I am violently allergic to house cleaning and this is day five.
Then yesterday I went out barefoot, gingerly, to pick some jonquils before the winds brought them to submission. That is how flowers grow here, the bulbs poke up, open, and then are destroyed on their first day. It's a wonder I have skin at all. Dear Oil of Olay. But as I moved toward the blooms I would cut to uplift my spirits, I stepped onto something spiny, and horrible, a pufferfish or hedgehog on the lawn... But no, it was a Datura seed pod left by the curious Raw Food Men who were here earlier, feeding me flax seed crackers and raw chocolate by the pinky finger-full. All day I limped, sure I would be growing datura from my sore foot, and I needed Frida Khalo more than O'Keeffe for that image, and so it has been a most puny and un Poet Laureate week, until today.
Today, when talking to my friend Cecile Moochnek and the call waiting buzzing and I look at caller ID. Gerald Stern, no other than, my poetry darling, my inspiration, and fellow Pittsburgher. Jerry is my most inspiring teacher, though today I realized it was 20 years ago. I loved how he sang when he came into class, how he danced, and how he flirted. He was a notorious runaround, but I loved his voice which sounded like a cross between my brother and an uncle, pretty much any uncle, if they had been poets.
When I must have hung up on him in my call waiting frenzy, he called back on the cell. He loved my book, or so he said. He liked the Pittsburgh poems, and he really seemed to like the entirety of The Singing Bowl. Or so he said. He also said he was a Mongol, and later a Crypto Mongol, the first Poet Laureate of New Jersey, proceeding Amira Baraka who managed to get the program killed the the gay governor who soon after resigned. But what I loved most about the call, besides the fact that Jerry's writing inspires me like none other, was that he and his beloved, the poet Anne Marie Macarie, live four blocks apart. When, after talking over a half hour, the call waiting buzzed him he left for dinner. That seems so perfect for a fluish person. Four blocks. He loved my book.
The phone call hooked me up to Poet Laureate Central, I am picturing a Crypto Mongol at the switch, laughing. I wanted to call everyone and say, "Jerry Stern and I were talking only today about the crypto Mongols." I think I am on the mend. My ego is recovering from the swift allergic blow, and the datura set-back. The confetti, not the dust, is rising and I feel ever so slightly happy.
Tomorrow at 6:30 Mt Time I will be on Living Juicy with the estimable Rhea Goodman, streaming live on www.KSFR.org. Check me out. I think I'm back in the game. The wind is down, and there are two books in hand, not just all that colorful falderal.
See, I was cleaning my desk area which takes over the dining area, an upstairs bedroom formerly lived in by each of my kids, sometimes in bunk beds, let's face it, I am messy and hate cleaning. But I was having a very good time and sorted all my pencils and made a cup with a broken handle for writing materials and a matching cup with a broken handle for art supplies. I would be organized. But then there is always the moment when a molecule of dust, a smidgeon, a speck, an inhalation comes into my throat and I get sick. Like that! And sick I got, with fever of 101 and two horizontal days, and still I am dizzy and woozy and unfocused. I am violently allergic to house cleaning and this is day five.
Then yesterday I went out barefoot, gingerly, to pick some jonquils before the winds brought them to submission. That is how flowers grow here, the bulbs poke up, open, and then are destroyed on their first day. It's a wonder I have skin at all. Dear Oil of Olay. But as I moved toward the blooms I would cut to uplift my spirits, I stepped onto something spiny, and horrible, a pufferfish or hedgehog on the lawn... But no, it was a Datura seed pod left by the curious Raw Food Men who were here earlier, feeding me flax seed crackers and raw chocolate by the pinky finger-full. All day I limped, sure I would be growing datura from my sore foot, and I needed Frida Khalo more than O'Keeffe for that image, and so it has been a most puny and un Poet Laureate week, until today.
Today, when talking to my friend Cecile Moochnek and the call waiting buzzing and I look at caller ID. Gerald Stern, no other than, my poetry darling, my inspiration, and fellow Pittsburgher. Jerry is my most inspiring teacher, though today I realized it was 20 years ago. I loved how he sang when he came into class, how he danced, and how he flirted. He was a notorious runaround, but I loved his voice which sounded like a cross between my brother and an uncle, pretty much any uncle, if they had been poets.
When I must have hung up on him in my call waiting frenzy, he called back on the cell. He loved my book, or so he said. He liked the Pittsburgh poems, and he really seemed to like the entirety of The Singing Bowl. Or so he said. He also said he was a Mongol, and later a Crypto Mongol, the first Poet Laureate of New Jersey, proceeding Amira Baraka who managed to get the program killed the the gay governor who soon after resigned. But what I loved most about the call, besides the fact that Jerry's writing inspires me like none other, was that he and his beloved, the poet Anne Marie Macarie, live four blocks apart. When, after talking over a half hour, the call waiting buzzed him he left for dinner. That seems so perfect for a fluish person. Four blocks. He loved my book.
The phone call hooked me up to Poet Laureate Central, I am picturing a Crypto Mongol at the switch, laughing. I wanted to call everyone and say, "Jerry Stern and I were talking only today about the crypto Mongols." I think I am on the mend. My ego is recovering from the swift allergic blow, and the datura set-back. The confetti, not the dust, is rising and I feel ever so slightly happy.
Tomorrow at 6:30 Mt Time I will be on Living Juicy with the estimable Rhea Goodman, streaming live on www.KSFR.org. Check me out. I think I'm back in the game. The wind is down, and there are two books in hand, not just all that colorful falderal.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Happiness Confetti
What ever am I doing, William Yeats? Wallace Stevens would have approved. Yesterday the board I serve on had a benefit reading for our Poetry Gratitude Award. We love to honor poets or organizations who have done many good deeds. Grassroots which Michelle Holland says is another word for penniless.
I got to pass on the happiness wisdom I had gained through arduous hours of research watching PBS and Oprah. I learned that a club which makes you show up once a month can increase your happiness as much a doubling your salary. I find that deeply hard to believe but it was on Oprah, and I take notes. And to digress only the tiniest amount, O Magazine had four pages of Mary Oliver and Four pages on WS Merwin this month, plus many pages from Oprh's diary. Anyhow, if your neighbor is happy it increases your happiness by 37% and if you do a good deed your endorphins increase. If you watch someone else do a good deed they increase also. So I watch Oprah and when she gives away massive gifts, I grow younger. By the time our reading was over and the ABQ UNIDOS Youth Slam Team blew them away, everybody was 49% happier. And we have book sales to prove it.
I felt so happy that we ran into Española, well actually Mike drove in, and bought some really great postage stamps. I always ask for the pretty ones and we had a choice between Ronald Reagan and Carmen Miranda with a pineapple and banana on her head. Life is pretty darn simple when given a choice like that. Then we wanted to take a walk and I wanted to show Mike the sacred golf course paths below Black Mesa the golf course of Santa Clara, my home pueblo. In New Mexico many anglos have pueblos where they feel connected. Not only do I have a few friends there, but I taught poetry for four years at the Day School, village based schools, and the kids there still call me Joanie Baloney which I find endearing.
So we walked the dirt paths,where I usually hike with Camilla and her chihuahua, Sammy. Sammy sometime dresses in a remodeled sock. He is the latest in recycled fashion. In my mind the golf course is between the sacred and the profane, holy because my parents were religious golfers, and profane for the water they take in a desert clime. The ones I can name, Black Mesa, Buffalo Thunder, Los Alamos, Santa Fe Country Club, and the one, Marty somebody, where our brother-in-law played. A cool thing that I learned from the elders of Santa Clara that they played a stick ball game called "shinny," not too far from golf. They matched olds men against women or married against unmarrieds.
As we cut across Mike picked p what I thought was a small ostrich egg from the cholla cactus ridden land. It was a sacred object, a golf ball. As I picked through the grasses and prickly pear, he gathered call after ball. Now Camilla and I often see pot shard. She is a potter and has a keen eye, and she picks them up, admires them, places them in the earth with a prayer. Never takes one. Mike is collecting an entire plastic bag full, one must have blown miraculously into his outstretched hand. He gets enough to hit a bucket,an activity my parents partook in. I mean, in which my parents partook.
So, I look at my life lately, as I have been Poet Laureate now for nine months, a pregnancy of sorts.
This week two of my own books birthed into my hands. All the tiny events, driving to ABQ to read for five minutes, intros of Arthue Sze, Luis Lopez, Annie Lamott, and coming up Mary Oishi, great and local, WS Merwin who luckily I just read about in Oprah magazine, and who is also US POet Laureate.
I wonder if possibly it has made him as happy as it has made me. And if he is, will my happiness increase by being near him, or will his happiness increase because I am so happy. One could only hope.
I have done many tiny things in these nine months, but I have done them with great joy. The confetti I mention in the title. I so hope they have increased the half life of poetry. That we are the joy brigade and the true believers and tellers. I am banking my joy for old age, I hope I can find the deposit slip.
I hope that the confetti isn't all, that it brings rain down, grows food, increases literacy, and in good taste. That it folds cranes to raise money in Japan as I saw on Facebook. Anyhow, I have to write a few more intros and then I can go fondle my new books.
If you wonder why I mention Yeats and Wallace Stevens to start this piece, obviously, Yeats was Irish where the grass is very green, and Wallace Stevens was a golfer. In fact my favorite story was when he died and the obituary listed him as a great American poet, a golf friend famously said, "Wally, a Poet?"
I got to pass on the happiness wisdom I had gained through arduous hours of research watching PBS and Oprah. I learned that a club which makes you show up once a month can increase your happiness as much a doubling your salary. I find that deeply hard to believe but it was on Oprah, and I take notes. And to digress only the tiniest amount, O Magazine had four pages of Mary Oliver and Four pages on WS Merwin this month, plus many pages from Oprh's diary. Anyhow, if your neighbor is happy it increases your happiness by 37% and if you do a good deed your endorphins increase. If you watch someone else do a good deed they increase also. So I watch Oprah and when she gives away massive gifts, I grow younger. By the time our reading was over and the ABQ UNIDOS Youth Slam Team blew them away, everybody was 49% happier. And we have book sales to prove it.
I felt so happy that we ran into Española, well actually Mike drove in, and bought some really great postage stamps. I always ask for the pretty ones and we had a choice between Ronald Reagan and Carmen Miranda with a pineapple and banana on her head. Life is pretty darn simple when given a choice like that. Then we wanted to take a walk and I wanted to show Mike the sacred golf course paths below Black Mesa the golf course of Santa Clara, my home pueblo. In New Mexico many anglos have pueblos where they feel connected. Not only do I have a few friends there, but I taught poetry for four years at the Day School, village based schools, and the kids there still call me Joanie Baloney which I find endearing.
So we walked the dirt paths,where I usually hike with Camilla and her chihuahua, Sammy. Sammy sometime dresses in a remodeled sock. He is the latest in recycled fashion. In my mind the golf course is between the sacred and the profane, holy because my parents were religious golfers, and profane for the water they take in a desert clime. The ones I can name, Black Mesa, Buffalo Thunder, Los Alamos, Santa Fe Country Club, and the one, Marty somebody, where our brother-in-law played. A cool thing that I learned from the elders of Santa Clara that they played a stick ball game called "shinny," not too far from golf. They matched olds men against women or married against unmarrieds.
As we cut across Mike picked p what I thought was a small ostrich egg from the cholla cactus ridden land. It was a sacred object, a golf ball. As I picked through the grasses and prickly pear, he gathered call after ball. Now Camilla and I often see pot shard. She is a potter and has a keen eye, and she picks them up, admires them, places them in the earth with a prayer. Never takes one. Mike is collecting an entire plastic bag full, one must have blown miraculously into his outstretched hand. He gets enough to hit a bucket,an activity my parents partook in. I mean, in which my parents partook.
So, I look at my life lately, as I have been Poet Laureate now for nine months, a pregnancy of sorts.
This week two of my own books birthed into my hands. All the tiny events, driving to ABQ to read for five minutes, intros of Arthue Sze, Luis Lopez, Annie Lamott, and coming up Mary Oishi, great and local, WS Merwin who luckily I just read about in Oprah magazine, and who is also US POet Laureate.
I wonder if possibly it has made him as happy as it has made me. And if he is, will my happiness increase by being near him, or will his happiness increase because I am so happy. One could only hope.
I have done many tiny things in these nine months, but I have done them with great joy. The confetti I mention in the title. I so hope they have increased the half life of poetry. That we are the joy brigade and the true believers and tellers. I am banking my joy for old age, I hope I can find the deposit slip.
I hope that the confetti isn't all, that it brings rain down, grows food, increases literacy, and in good taste. That it folds cranes to raise money in Japan as I saw on Facebook. Anyhow, I have to write a few more intros and then I can go fondle my new books.
If you wonder why I mention Yeats and Wallace Stevens to start this piece, obviously, Yeats was Irish where the grass is very green, and Wallace Stevens was a golfer. In fact my favorite story was when he died and the obituary listed him as a great American poet, a golf friend famously said, "Wally, a Poet?"
Friday, March 25, 2011
Everything has a Mother
After our trip to Florida, where we were super relaxed, the very next day, my husband who doesn't do well with leisure announced that he was taking the kids to Carlsbad Caverns. Now our three grandkids are a boy of fifteen a boy of eight, and a girl who just turned five. And the drive is six hours, if you're not a big side-road taker and explorer, which he is. I didn't think the parents would just let them go, the next day, no plans or anything. But it was the end of spring break and go they all did. During this time, a trip into the caverns, the earthquake hit Japan. The kids were going underground that very day and Mike told them to notice how fragile the stalactites and stalagmites were. How long it took to form them proved than being there was a safe place to be. They were delighted with the caves, though Mike thought they tore through it too quickly and said next time he goes he will be taking their children. A highly unlikely occurrence.
The long drive was the challenge, but they all came home safe and sound-proofed with earphones and devices which probably saved Mike's sanity for the six hours each way. Then all stayed at our house the night of their return.
Kaylee at five wanted to know, if everything has a mother, who was the first person? Galen was telling her about the big bang, then I was telling her that it was a great mystery and various religions had different versions, Adam and Eve for one. "I know, I know!" said my grand girl."The first person was God.
And God's mother and father. And they were farmers." Her perfectly imperfect logic made my week.
Maybe you have to run away for three days, drive the kids to inside the earth, and drive home to have the moments of truth. Maybe, since I stayed home, the whole trip was full of such gems. I admit I treasure my time with the kids and my time alone, twenty nine years with our children in the house. We're lucky. We enjoy one another greatly when together, and go days or weeks apart. Hope just moved to Albuquerque but comes home some weekends to the yurt and to Leland. Tammy is commuting to Albuquerque for her Dental Hygiene program.
You would have to find an outing closer to home for me to don my grandmother shoes. Since everything has a mother, even time, even a poem, even my scroungy dog Cielo Mellow even the earthquake, even wind, may I be the mother of solitude, the mother of experimental happiness, the mother of last week, the mother of trading memory for laughter. I am also the mother of allowing myself to blog and grandparent with great joy. Which is this evening, a sabbath in March, the sweet wine waiting for me to pray over it. The grandkids are in their own homes, Carlsbad inside them thanks to a fearless man.
The long drive was the challenge, but they all came home safe and sound-proofed with earphones and devices which probably saved Mike's sanity for the six hours each way. Then all stayed at our house the night of their return.
Kaylee at five wanted to know, if everything has a mother, who was the first person? Galen was telling her about the big bang, then I was telling her that it was a great mystery and various religions had different versions, Adam and Eve for one. "I know, I know!" said my grand girl."The first person was God.
And God's mother and father. And they were farmers." Her perfectly imperfect logic made my week.
Maybe you have to run away for three days, drive the kids to inside the earth, and drive home to have the moments of truth. Maybe, since I stayed home, the whole trip was full of such gems. I admit I treasure my time with the kids and my time alone, twenty nine years with our children in the house. We're lucky. We enjoy one another greatly when together, and go days or weeks apart. Hope just moved to Albuquerque but comes home some weekends to the yurt and to Leland. Tammy is commuting to Albuquerque for her Dental Hygiene program.
You would have to find an outing closer to home for me to don my grandmother shoes. Since everything has a mother, even time, even a poem, even my scroungy dog Cielo Mellow even the earthquake, even wind, may I be the mother of solitude, the mother of experimental happiness, the mother of last week, the mother of trading memory for laughter. I am also the mother of allowing myself to blog and grandparent with great joy. Which is this evening, a sabbath in March, the sweet wine waiting for me to pray over it. The grandkids are in their own homes, Carlsbad inside them thanks to a fearless man.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
9,000 Poems
My house is full of people right now. One of the guests asked if I have private time, and well, here it is, after waffles for nine all morning, so many voices that it becomes white noise to me. I can think as well now as any day, which may explain my rather causal approach to poetic theory. At the reading on Friday, I forgot to say Japan was in turmoil. I forgot to pray for Coleman Barks who had a stroke, that brilliant translator of Rumi who gave us this huge gift. I wanted to say something, but felt the rush wouldn't do justice to the emotions. I had fifteen minutes and wrestled all day with how as Poet Laureate, my life is being measured out in coffee spoons. I don't drink coffee. This week I have five minutes to read in ABQ.
My joke is that I have become the parsley on the feast of poetry and mostly it is lovely. Garnish, for example with a group of young performance poets, music, fire dancing, and my daughter and fiancé in the audience. Parsley as on the Seder plate, vital, green, new life for me.
But my favorite thing is the feast and for that "Joan and the Giant Pencil," poetry for kids with music composed by Jeremy Bleich. Where the boy in the audience at Atalaya Elementary, after an hour of amazing listening and questions, asked me how many poems I had written. "Nine thousand?" he wanted to know. I started to do the math, a literalist after all my teaching of metaphor and exaggeration. Afterwards he came up on stage, "Nine thousand, nine thousand," he kept saying. I think of the Buddhists' ten thousand joys, ten thousand sorrows. I keep saying "nine thousand" to myself. I heard from two helpers for the special education kids, that they loved the poems and the kid who always walks around sat through it all. They were amazed. That many poems. I think of the weight of poems, even those written in Santa Fe alone. A ton of poems. I can feel them, the political, the prayers, the catharsis, the collaged, formal and wild.
Japan is awash and on edge of meltdown. The poems that came from that dense Island. 9,000 prayers, for Coleman, and the Nuke plants, and Los Alamos, and restraint in energy use and vile violence. 9,000 poems...the voices in the room are starting to pull me in, teens and men, and daughters. Back to the family and a drive to Santa Fe. Another Sunday in this momentary paradise.
My joke is that I have become the parsley on the feast of poetry and mostly it is lovely. Garnish, for example with a group of young performance poets, music, fire dancing, and my daughter and fiancé in the audience. Parsley as on the Seder plate, vital, green, new life for me.
But my favorite thing is the feast and for that "Joan and the Giant Pencil," poetry for kids with music composed by Jeremy Bleich. Where the boy in the audience at Atalaya Elementary, after an hour of amazing listening and questions, asked me how many poems I had written. "Nine thousand?" he wanted to know. I started to do the math, a literalist after all my teaching of metaphor and exaggeration. Afterwards he came up on stage, "Nine thousand, nine thousand," he kept saying. I think of the Buddhists' ten thousand joys, ten thousand sorrows. I keep saying "nine thousand" to myself. I heard from two helpers for the special education kids, that they loved the poems and the kid who always walks around sat through it all. They were amazed. That many poems. I think of the weight of poems, even those written in Santa Fe alone. A ton of poems. I can feel them, the political, the prayers, the catharsis, the collaged, formal and wild.
Japan is awash and on edge of meltdown. The poems that came from that dense Island. 9,000 prayers, for Coleman, and the Nuke plants, and Los Alamos, and restraint in energy use and vile violence. 9,000 poems...the voices in the room are starting to pull me in, teens and men, and daughters. Back to the family and a drive to Santa Fe. Another Sunday in this momentary paradise.
Spring PL Events
Living La Vida Local with Santa Fe’s Poet Laureate
March 17, 6:30, National Hispanic Cultural Center, Albuquerque, Nine by Five, reading with Nine Women poets curated by Valerie Martinez.
March 27, Collected Works, reading for Gratitude Award of New Mexico Literary Arts, 4:00, Featured readers, Anne Valley-Fox, Michelle Holland, JB Bryan, Joan Logghe, Lisa Gill, and the ABQ Youth Slam Team
April 17, 3:00- Reading at Acequia Booksellers in Albuquerque for The Singing Bowl, with Emmy and Grammy nominated poet, Michael C.Ford, 4019 4th Street, Albuquerque, 505-890-5365
April 21, 6:00, Benefit reading for Santa Fe Girls’ School with student readers and Poet Laureate celebration, 333 Montezuma. By donation.
April 23, Poetry at Paul’s with Joan, Sita Jamison and Gregory Gutin. Time TBA
April 25- May 1- Boise, Idaho, appearance with schools, therapists, Osher Institute, Log Cabin Literary Center, intro of US Poet Laureate, WS Merwin
May 7, 10:00-12:00 Southwest Writers, Albuquerque, 10-12:00 PM
May 8, 10:30 AM, Church of Beethoven, classical music and poetry.
1715 5th Street, Albuquerque. $15.
May 11, 6:00 Collected Works, launch for The Singing Bowl. Free.
May 21 – New Mexico State Poetry Society – Albuquerque, lunch reading
May 29, reading at the Unitarian Church in Santa Fe, 4:00
June 18, Santa Fe Community Gallery, Mining the Unconscious, Free poetry workshop with Jane Lipman to focus on The Redbook Show, 12:00-4:00 PM.
Reading of participants from new work. Wednesday, June 22
WRITE LOCALLY, SHOP LOCALLY, READ LOCALLY, LOVE LOCALLY, DREAM LOCALLY
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