Chasing My Tail

Tags

Aha moments, Cat, Deerbrook Editions, friendship, Martina Reisz Newberry, Norwegian Forest Cat, only child

Once upon a time, I watched our cat, Gato, a big orange Norwegian Forest cat, chase his tail around and around until he was exhausted and fell asleep in the middle of the chase.

He did that more than a few times when he was a young cat. As he aged, he stopped chasing his tail. He looked at it, twitched it. held it high as he marched through our various apartments and houses, but he stopped chasing it. He had lots of fun other ways, but chasing his tail was not one of them. From a certain point, he ignored his tail. It was there, but he paid very little attention to it.

I thought of this when I found myself, once again, texting someone who hasn’t the time or inclination to text me back. Hadn’t heard from this dear soul in weeks, was concerned I’d said or done something wrong, was sad to not hear anything from my friend. I nearly cried thinking that maybe I’d lost someone I cared about.

I am an only child and it is said that “onlies” look for family all their lives. Certainly, I have done this. I communicate regularly with people who say they like me or love me only to have my communications ignored or answered with bland one-liners. Usually, I hear nothing from these folks unless I initiate the contact. At first, the realization of this made me sad. I reflected on wasted time and wasted energy, wasted money on gifts and cards, wasted emails and Facebook messages, wasted affection. I just celebrated my 69th birthday and I realized that I had spent all my life up to now doing what Gato used to do—chasing my tail.

Then it came to me–one of those “aha” moments: Gato didn’t get mad at his tail. He didn’t feel sad that he never caught it. He didn’t waste time wondering why his tail didn’t like him enough to stop and chat. He just stopped chasing it and went on with his beautiful, starlit life.

AMEN I said to myself. I love you, Gato. Thank the Maker for our furry friends. Point taken, lesson learned.

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MAKING SENSE—CHRISTMAS IS COMING!

Tags

Book, Christmas shopping, Deerbrook Editions, gift ideas, Martina Reisz Newberry, poetry for Christmas, Shopping, Xmas shopping

Buying a book very often costs less than a trip to Starbucks or whatever your favorite coffee place is.  My books certainly do.  Try one.  Try a few.  You’ll be glad you did.  Your mind and heart will be glad you did.  The person or people for whom you buy the books will be glad you did.  Try something different this year.  Buy books.  I’m hoping you’ll buy mine.

“When you sell a man a book, you don’t sell him just 12 ounces of paper and ink and glue, you sell him a whole new life.”    Chistopher Morely

“Reading takes us away from home, but more important, it finds homes for us everywhere.”     Hazel Rodman

“It is what you read when you don’t have to that determines what you will be when you can’t help it.”    Oscar Wilde

“If you only read the books that everyone else is reading, you can only think what everyone else is thinking.”    Haruki Murakami

“What really knodks me out is a book that , when you’re all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend ofyours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it.”    J.D. Salinger

“You should never read just for ‘enjoyment.’  Read to make yourself smarter!  Less judgmental.  More apt to understand your friends’ insane behavior or , better yet, your own.  Pick ‘hard books.’ Ones you have to concentrate on while reading.   And for god’s sake, don’t let me ever hear you say, ‘I can’t read fiction [or poetry]. I only have time for the truth.’  Fiction [poetry]IS the truth…!  Ever hear of ‘literature’?
John Waters   (I inserted the word “poetry” into this quote.  MRN)

“A book is the only place in which you can examine a fragile thought without breaking it, or explore an explosive idea without fear it will go off in your face.  It is one of the few havens remaning where a man’s mind can get both provocation and privacy.”    Edward P. Morgan

Much to my delight, a few people have asked me if I’m going to offer a Holiday Price on my books.
I am going to do just that. Please email me at martinanewberry@gmail.com if you’d like to order or have any questions.

These books are from my personal inventory and, once they are gone I won’t be ordering more until next year.

“100 Selected Poems plus One” is usually $21.95. I’m signing and selling it for $15.00.

I’m signing/selling the books listed below (usually $12.95–$16.95) for $10.00:
Shipping is $3.00 on all orders and I’ll Christmas gift-wrap them for you if you request it:

“After the Earthquake,”
“Late Night Radio,”
“Not Untrue and Not Unkind,”
“Hunger”

My newest book, LEARNING BY ROTE, is available here:   http://www.deerbrookeditions.com/

LOVE TO ALL MY WONDERFUL READERS!

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KICKING PROZAC

Tags

10 years, Antidepressant, Arts, Deerbrook Editions, Literary magazine, Major depressive disorder, Martina Reisz Newberry, poetry, Prozac, publishing, Writing

After the long ,winding down, a-little-at-a-time process of kicking Prozac, I am beginning to remember who the hell I was and what life was before I began taking it.  I took Prozac for ten years—ten years of no rough edges, tears so far down they couldn’t come back up, lack of recall about what heartbreak feels like, laughter that had to be panned for.  I was left with few passions:  writing, my husband, my family.

Well, I’m off it now, have been for some time, and I remember real life and it’s a bitch on wheels.

I’ve been writing seriously, with dedication and discipline for 50 years.  On Prozac, the denials, the knowledge that I was ignored because I lacked credentials and contacts, the prizes that I never won (and I do mean NEVER), the continuous “no” heard from book publishers and magazines–literally thousands of them—rained down on my shoulders and, with the little blue Prozac raincoat snugly hugging me, I slogged onward.

I have written every bloody day for the last 50 years.  After hip, ankle, knee surgery, in the hospital, home again, I wrote.  I submitted.  I prayed. I read and read and read everything.  I read literary criticism and books by famous writers advising other writers how to write.  I stopped reading those books and just wrote.  I was one faithful little gal. I read for pleasure, for knowledge, for inspiration, for hope.

Family horrors came and went. Losses I would have thought would surely take me down for good, did not.  Prozac was there, stroking my head, kissing my cheek, whispering “There, there.  It’s ok.  Someday is on its way.”  Mornings were—well—nice.  Nights were—well—nice. Heartbreaks were–well–not nice.

The time of those sweet whisperings is over.  Prozac is done with me and I done with it.  But, godalmighty real life can suck.  The submissions declined, the prizes not won, the continuous stream of rejections is sometimes so heavy that I want to go to bed and not get up.  I cry all the saved–up tears from the last 10 years and more.  I get angry and then angrier. I talk endlessly about a broken spirit and heart to my husband and then cry because he must be sick of listening.  He is always sweet, always kind, always giving.  A marvelous artist in his own right, he understands. I whine to the one of very few shining publishers in my life who said “yes.” He understands because he, too, is an incredibly talented artist and a good friend. I throw pens across the room, and slam books down on the desk and curse all the grammar I have to look up because I keep forgetting some of the rules.

I woke this morning to another set of rejections, another set of voices saying, “They don’t want your shit. The lit mags don’t want to publish it, the readers don’t want to buy it, the prize givers don’t know or care that you exist.” I wanted to stay in bed, throw my computer over the deck railing, tear my hair out, rain curses and clenched fists at the universe.  But, I didn’t.

Anyway, I am not sure I can do life this way—all razor edges and serrated surfaces. I stopped Prozac because I couldn’t find one doctor to tell me what 10 years on Prozac does to a person. I cared about that. I don’t know if I do now or not.  Life is rough and dusty and downright filthy sometimes.  I don’t know how much I like feeling all that again.

So, here is what I’ll do:  I’ll cry some more, I’ll hug my husband, I’ll eat too much. And, I’ll write.  I’ll write this down and submit it.  To you.

ME AND LARRY KRAMER

Tags

Deerbrook Editions, Larry Kramer, Martina Reisz Newberry, Poet, poetry, Writing

When I first met Larry Kramer, I did not know he would become gravely ill.  I did not know that I would lose him to some stupid, fucking disease.  I did not know how dim this planet would become without him and how horribly my mind and heart and pen would miss him.  I could not know that my work would ever be for him and that I would never again take my notebook in hand without his words ringing in my ears, his bright eyes moving down my pages of poems, speaking of what belonged and what didn’t, what was good and what was not.  I could not know those things.

He took me into his home, introduced me to his beautiful wife, his tortoise, his dogs, his birds, his barber chair.  I was the oldest of any of the college students in his classes and he knew I felt strange about that.  He also knew that I was painfully, debilitatingly shy and he joked with me about it and eased it by insisting that I was a good writer and had every right to call myself one. I had no degrees, no certificates.  I had a high school diploma, a couple years of college and a brutal marriage.  I’d not published even one poem anywhere.  But, Larry Kramer liked my work, wanted me to write, to succeed at writing.  He asked me to read with him a couple of times in front of his friends—professors who were, like Larry, poets.  He introduced me as “The real thing,” a phrase that has never left my heart.  He believed in me, paid for me to go to Bennington College writers’ workshops one Summer, and wouldn’t let me pay him back the money.  He gifted me with a beautiful whippet named, “Clementine,” whose love carried me through some horrendous times.

Once, at his house where we worked on poems together, I told him that I felt I’d never be taken seriously as a poet.  I had no connections, no degrees, I came from the wrong background. I told him that I probably ought to give it up right then and not get my hopes up about writing.  He said, first of all, I had read everything a college program would ask me to read and, best of all, I made up my own mind about what was meaningful and what was not.  He said, “If you quit now, you’ll never know what might have happened.  If you have any respect for me or my work, know that I think you’re a writer of excellence.  I like your work very much.  If you quit writing, you’ll have to pay me back for Bennington and you’ll have to master a new skill so you’ll have something to do”  And then he laughed his huge, amazing laugh and patted my shoulder and said, “Let’s get to work.”

So, I have stuck with it.  Because his work was flawless, wonderful, shining—everything poetry ought to be, I loved it and did respect what he said.  It did, in fact, mean everything.

Today, when I put down my pen, more discouraged than I can ever remember being, I thought of Larry.  I met him over 30 years ago, and I’ve not written a word without his presence in my heart and mind.  Today, I told myself, I hate this job.  I’m not writing anymore.  I’m no good at it.  I can’t even blog.  I can’t sell anything.  I can’t win anything.  I can’t do any of it right.  Being a poet is fucked sidewise. And I heard Larry say, “Fine.  Then cough up the Bennington money and go be a welder or something.”

Read Larry Kramer’s “Brilliant Windows”  http://amzn.to/O8tbx9  

Just sayin’

Books by Martina Reisz Newberry here: http://bit.ly/PXknbU

“Learning By Rote” available at http://www.deerbrookeditions.com

Roadrunners and Ruminations

Tags

Deerbrook Editions, exercise, friends, Jeffrey Haste, Martina Reisz Newberry, meditation, omens, Poems, Roadrunner birds, Roadrunner Records, signs and portents, Swimming pool

  

One of the most amazing experiences happened to me this morning.  I was out in the swimming pool, doing my 30 minutes of torture to atone for my sins when a roadrunner (bird) walked up to the edge of the pool and just stood there looking at me.  I went over to where he stood and said, “Hi!  What are you looking at?”  He said nothing.  I said, “Are you hurt? Are you ok?”  He walked over closer.  He looked fine to me. He wasn’t running away as they always do in the presence of other beings–he just stayed where he was. I liked that about him. I said, “Hot, isn’t it?”  And then, in an absolute avalanche of madness, I began talking to this bird.  I told him I was not a happy exerciser, but did the pool thing for my health. I told him there was coffee upstairs waiting for me. I asked him if the hot pavement was hurting his feet.  I told him about reading “The Secret” AGAIN and trying the techniques AGAIN.  I asked him if he knew anything about it, did he practice “wishcraft”?  He said nothing.  I told him about the new book I’m writing and about my hopes for getting out of debt.  I told him it was my daughter’s birthday and said how much I missed her. I told him about my weight issues and about my good friend in the UK whose vacuum cleaner broke (she calls it a “hoover” instead of a vacuum cleaner).   He just stood there.  Our neighbor’s cat, Charlie, lay on his patio watching us. He looked like he had devious plans in his head.  He may also have been contemplating my descent into madness, not sure.  Finally, I realized that I had more exercising to do and needed to get on it.  I thanked him for his kind attention and splashed off.  He walked away, right past Charlie, right past the huge single sunflower in a neighbor’s lawn, right past everything.  Isn’t that amazing?  Do you think this means anything (besides my imminent seclusion in a funny farm)?