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It’s time for another installment of 7 Imp’s 7 Kicks . . . For those new to our series, this is where we all stop in every Sunday to report seven (more or less is fine) Good Things that happened to you (or that you read or saw or experienced or . . . well, you get the picture) this week.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n 2* Friday night I got to hang out with my friend Alison, whom I hadn’t seen in forever. We did our usual routine of going out for beer and veggie reubens at Charlie’s Kitchen<\/strong><\/a>, then tipsy-shopping at Urban Outfitters<\/strong><\/a>. I’m going to miss her terribly when I move.<\/p>\n 3* I forgot to mention it last week, but the previous Friday I went to a reading by Brendan Halpin<\/strong><\/a> with my friend Jamie, which was nice – she’s another friend I don’t see often enough, and whom I’m going to miss terribly when I move. Am I cheating by including that in this week’s list? Whatever.<\/p>\n 5* The Cold War Kids’s<\/strong><\/a> CD Robbers & Cowards<\/strong><\/em><\/a>. Freakin’ awesome. I was in love from the moment I first heard “Hang Me Up To Dry” on the radio. Gotta love lyrics that compare a bad relationship to laundry. The rest of the CD does not disappoint.<\/p>\n 6* We had snow Wednesday. SNOW! IN APRIL! And there may be more next week. I don’t have a favorite type of weather, but I just love it when the weather is totally WRONG. I love how nature just laughs at our puny human assumptions of how things are supposed to be and does whatever it feels like. I do feel bad for all those little girls having to wear long underwear under their Easter dresses, though.<\/p>\n 7* I spent most of Saturday curled up on the couch with that Jon McGregor<\/strong><\/a> novel I mentioned last week, So Many Ways to Begin<\/em><\/strong><\/a>. Oh, yes. Very very good.<\/p>\n In honor of the Academy of American Poets’ National Poetry Month<\/a><\/strong> (April, of course), my barbaric yawps<\/a><\/strong> screamed from my rooftop of the world this week will be poetry-related — though, as Liz Scanlon<\/a><\/strong> said last week<\/a><\/strong> (which is worth repeating and to which I say, word<\/em>): “My only beef with National Poetry Month is the presumption that poetry be relegated to a single month — a terrible misinterpretation that would narrow the scope of the art rather than explode it wide open, which I’m sure was the founders’ intent. So, if we all agree that reading poetry only in April would be like granting love or chocolate just 30 humble days of our attention, then we can move forward and celebrate.” So, let’s move forward then, and I’ll mention 7 Poetry Kicks this week:<\/p>\n 1>. “Psalm and Lament” by Donald Justice<\/a><\/strong>, which you can read here<\/a><\/strong> (and which I discovered, thanks to Liz<\/a><\/strong> telling us about Knopf Poetry’s<\/a><\/strong> Poem-A-Day emails). I love this from the poem: “Out spring the butterflies of recollection\/ And I think that for the first time I understand\/ The beautiful ordinary light of this patio\/ And even perhaps the dark rich earth of a heart.”<\/p>\n “Give up the ground I think I want to pass that bit of wisdom on to my daughters.<\/p>\n 3>. My friend, Shannon, and I are going to try to publish an anthology of poetry (not original creations), based on a project I did in grad school. My impossibly and savagely cool advisor and prof had then encouraged me to consider publication. And Shannon and I have been slowly working on it for years, taking our time, scoping the world for poetry that fits our theme. And I’m grateful to Shannon for all the thoughtful emails he sends about the project. And when I start fretting, something at which I excel (Shannon once told me, in fact, that I could make a successful career as a Worry Consultant, as in my client would say, “I just finished my dissertation and did quite well. What is there to worry about now?” Me: “Have you considered global warming?”) . . . as I was saying, when I start to doubt my writing and poetry-anthologizing skills, Shannon writes and says something like this: “Jules, remember, we are on a good path. Things will come together as they need to come together . . . I don\u2019t care if it ever is actually published; for once I\u2019m more concerned about ‘getting there’ rather than ‘arriving there.’ Somehow this makes me think the work will actually be better . . . and easier\u2014at least it will be more enjoyable.” Why can’t all<\/em> colleagues be like that?<\/p>\n 4>. Okay, not poetry-related, but speaking of great friends like Shannon, I had a visit from another Knoxville friend this week, and we had fun catching up over coffee.<\/p>\n 5>. My friend telling me that he’ll possibly be spending a bit of time in the presence of the one and only Naomi Shihab Nye<\/a><\/strong> this summer; I won’t say why, in case she doesn’t want her summer teaching\/lecturing\/relaxing\/travelling\/what-have-you plans blabbed across cyberspace. She is one of my very favorite writers, and so here’s<\/a><\/strong> probably My Favorite Poem Ever (written by her).<\/p>\n Okay, so the last two are not poetry-related, but just humor me:<\/p>\n 6>. I know I’ve babbled incessantly (in comment boxes anyway) about the brilliant show Six Feet Under<\/strong><\/em><\/a>, which my husband and I finally just finished watching on DVD, and you may be tired of hearing me say how good it is. Anyway, here’s Claire Fisher’s<\/a><\/strong> wonderful pantyhose song<\/a><\/strong>. Down with cubes, yo (and, uh, down with any job that actually requires<\/em> pantyhose. Fashionable and funky tights are one thing, but pantyhose? Yeesh).<\/p>\n 7>. Watching my three-year-old set out her empty Easter basket tonight, carefully choosing where she would place it (the middle of the couch won out). This is probably the first<\/em> year she finally gets it (but not entirely, and I admit I felt weird telling her a bunny would be hopping ’round our place in the wee hours of the morning). Sometimes I wish I could instantly channel the cheer and wonder of a three-year-old (and also their brazen willingness to open their mouths and let their tongues hang, releasing food, when they’ve tried something they think is grievously bad — just like that scene with Tom Hanks in “Big”<\/a><\/strong>).<\/p>\n![\"Grace](\"http:\/\/blaine.org\/sevenimpossiblethings\/wp-content\/uploads\/2007\/04\/grace.thumbnail.jpg\" "\\"Grace")
<\/a>1* Thursday I met Grace Lin<\/strong><\/a>. She did a program at my library. In spite of woefully low attendance, and a bizarre series of mishaps that made the day feel slightly cursed (she even had to ride in my cute-but-trashy car Phoebe), she was utterly gracious and adorable and interesting and wonderful, and I think the children who did attend had a very nice time indeed. As did I.<\/p>\n![\"Amy](\"http:\/\/blaine.org\/sevenimpossiblethings\/wp-content\/uploads\/2007\/04\/amy.thumbnail.jpg\")
<\/a>4* Amy Winehouse’s<\/strong><\/a> CD Back to Black<\/strong><\/em><\/a>. We had a lot of ’60s Motown records around when I was growing up, so I have a serious soft spot for that sound. Or, really, any song that lets me do The Pony<\/strong><\/a>. Amy does it up right.<\/p>\n![](\"http:\/\/blaine.org\/jules\/samphillips1.jpg\")
<\/a>2>. In thinking about poetry this week, I was pondering those singer-songwriter musicians whose lyrics are damn near the stuff of poetry, and I was reminded of these lyrics<\/a><\/strong> (this link has a mistake in it, but I can’t seem to find one that doesn’t) from one of my favorite songs by my very favorite musician, who is obscenely talented and criminally under-rated (yes, that’s her pictured. All hail to Sam<\/a><\/strong>, The Queen):<\/p>\n
\nUnder your feet
\nHold on to nothing for good
\nTurn and run at the mean dogs
\nChasing you
\nStand alone and misunderstood”<\/p>\n