Women's History Month - Beatrice Wood

Beatrice Wood

My life is full of mistakes. They're like pebbles that make a good road. Beatrice Wood

I think it appropriate that Beatrice Wood is the final woman featured here for my Women's History posts. She followed her own bent, created a movement and brilliant art, and lived her life joyfully and exuberantly, on her own terms.

Here are a few links:
Beatrice Wood Center for the Arts
Beatrice Wood
The Legend of Beatrice Wood's Art
Books by Beatrice Wood
Beatrice Wood Portfolio

Women's History Month - Judith Freeman

Judith Freeman

Red Water- Judith Freeman


I heard Judith Freeman read from Red Water at the Great Salt Lake Book Festival. She was an engaging speaker and reader, and to be completely honest, watching her, I had the thought that writing and reading from what I've written is exactly what I should be doing. Her comment that she didn't know what else she could do other than write, resonated like a big clanging gong.

Red Water is a captivating novel told by three of John D. Lee's wives. The narrative's trio recounts the daily pettiness, hardship, brutality, and struggles of polygamy (er, for the wives, that is), and a life centered completely around religion. The novel's sullied undercurrent centers on the Mountain Meadow Massacre and the eventual prosecution and execution of Lee, Prophet Brigham Young's adopted son. The Ensign , a Mormon publication, featured an article on the massacre which you may find interesting.

Freeman lastest novel is The Long Embrace: Raymond Chandler and the Woman He Loved.

National Poetry Month - One Day Notice

Game on tomorrow. 30 poems in 30 days. I have no idea what subject matter I'll begin with, but I will have written a poem by the close of day tomorrow.

30 Ways to Celebrate National Poetry Month. I plan to take a poem to lunch and attend poetry readings offered by local arts organizatons and universities.

This Moment - March 31, 12:19 P.M.

Snow is falling in rivers, strong current driving insistent flakes under and down to the ground. Tear shaped drops hang from forlorn branches, but do not fall. Small white pockets find refuge in the crooks of trees and in the hollows of cupped leaves. The sky is hidden behind a thick rug of clouds. A lone bird clutches a branch. Swallows that have made their nest in the building’s water spout, call warning or greeting, it is impossible to know. A crow, a dark eye in the sky’s white face, flies quickly northward. A seagull follows. A sibilant shushing sound slips through the open window and threads its soft fingers through the office air.

This Moment - 5:26 P.M.

The fires burning on the shore of the island are smoldering to ash. Twin circular kites pitch and twist fluorescent pink, yellow and purple double helixes against the cloud-glutted sky, which is a bleaker shade of lead. The wind is showing the trees who's boss with sucker punches to the kidney and groin. Wind chimes swing violently and clang their discordant music. The puppy barks his annoyance with the wind pushing against the French doors and snaps and paws the air. The older dog growls a warning, lips bunched to reveal worn teeth. The puppy takes this as an invitation and receives a nip. He retreats to his bed for a brief time, comes to the side of the bed for a pet, then runs at the glass again. Now the trees branches turn slightly upward and gently sway, as if dancing. All is suddenly silent. The sky darkens. Haggard clouds are torn and frayed at the seams. The promised storm is preparing to announce itself.

Poem Therapy at 1:42 P.M.

Lee Briccetti

Sacred Heart
Lee Briccetti

Even as a girl I knew the heart was not a valentine;
it was wet, like a leopard frog on a lily pad,
had long tube roots

anchoring it in place.
And smaller roots like lupine and marigold
and bleeding hearts’ roots I traced with my finger

while transplanting in the garden.
Jesus had a thousand bloody hearts
planted in our flowerbeds beneath pink flowers;

they could see us through the ground.
I had a book about a girl who lived in the earth
near the tree roots, who cut off her finger

and used it as a key. I wondered if I could love like that.
I studied the painting of His chest peeled back
to show light around the Sacred Heart.

And in the bedroom at my grandmother’s where I slept
against the trees, I was the spirit
inside the room’s heart, my life inside me,

something that could leave through the window quietly.
I heard the fibrous closing and closing
inside my body and prayed to stay alive.

I'm wordless. I've read this poem at least a dozen times since I discovered it fifteen minutes ago and I haven't found words yet to articulate my emotions or thoughts. I want to paint this poem. I can even imagine a tattoo image. Words, no.

What I know is that as the years come, I'm leaning more and more toward icons and iconography. I love sacred heart imagery in jewelry and paintings. I wear a lot of crosses, but I don't own a crucifix or any Jesus images. I just don't think I can go that far. The same goes for rosary beads.

I purchased two sacred heart milagros while in Phoenix. I gave one away and the other is still in its wrapping. Later today I plan to thread it on a silver chain necklace and feel the cool metal on my skin in the space above my own heart. This weekend I attended a gem faire and found a Ganesh charm, (elephantine god of education, knowledge, wisdom, and wealth, he is known as the lord of success and destroyer of evil and obstacles). I have been wearing it religiously since.

Women's History Month - Ana Menedez

Ana Menendez

Ana Menendez was slated to teach a writing class at W@W a few years back so I picked up her books In Cuba I Was a German Shepherd and Loving Che, and devoured both. Sadly, her new position at The Miami Herald didn't allow her the time to teach summer classes, so the class was cancelled.

The title story of In Cuba I Was a German Shepherd portrays first generation Cuban immigrants working at menial jobs while longing for their former life and thier former country. I love the humor and pathos of this story, these men, and I don't want to spoil the punchline of the story, so I won't, but I dare you to read this story without tearing up or a pushing down a lump in your throat.

Loving Che is another enthralling novel that begs the questions: is the narrator reliable?; is memory reliable?; how does a brush with greatness refigure an ordinary life?

I haven't read Menedez's latest, The Last War, but since it's release it's been making literary and personal waves.

Ana Menendez is in Ogden, Utah this week for Weber State University's Undergraduate Literature Conference. She'll be giving readings March 31 at the Eccles Center from 7-8 p.m.; April 1 at The Elizabeth Hall Auditorium from 3:15-4:10; and participating in a question & answer panel discussion in Shepherd Union Building, Ballroom C from 11:45-12:45, April 2.

Don't miss this opportunity to meet an emerging literary talent.