Loquacious: "Bungalow" by Lené Gary

Loquacious: full of excessive talk : wordy (www.m-w.com)

Loquacious is a "wordy" series that revels in language. This week, the lovely Lené Gary, writer and poet, rolls around in the sound and meaning of one of her favorite words: bungalow. I adore Lené's sensibility and am so happy to bring you this sweet tidbit from her.

Bungalow

By Lené Gary

I don't know if it's the belly of the "b" or the cradled sling of the "g". . .

or the slippery tide I imagine washing sand under the fog on an early morning walk on the beach near my bungalow. Yes, my bungalow. That low-pitched roof of a small nest on a high cliff nestled in a sea of lavender dashed, big-petaled, perennial-thickened, Pacific air tempered garden near the railroad tracks. Nasturtium blooms will drape dips in the fence ― those barely rubbed pickets of white-seashell-washed wooden markers, noting ever so subtly the transition between here and there, between the sidewalk and front yard and front door (of my bungalow). Doesn't it make you want to stay? Want to pick lemons from the tree? Echinacea from the garden? Doesn't it make you want to lie back in the soft canvas cocoon of a veranda-hung hammock? Doesn't it make you want to read books? Hard covered, hand oiled, soft leather spined, patina-toned books (the kind only grandmothers have for their grandchildren)?

Me too. I want to go back to the bungalow of which I dreamed when I would walk the eroding cliff roads of Santa Cruz. The kind of home a surfer's feet pass when returning to his oblong, happy can with wheels ― the VW van with the tie-dyed, gently-pulled-closed curtains parked in the only spot left. Our street might not have a name, a sign I should say, for all the times that the sign has been stolen. You know you're in a good spot when everyone works to keep it a secret.

That's the place of the bungalow. In my heart. In my mind. A word I cannot let go of for the sound of the surf in my ear; it inspires, lets me believe, beyond all rationale, that there is a place held safe in my dream. And a place that holds my dream safely. A secret. Where I can breathe. Literally. Where I can be well, feel the ocean, smell the flowers, hear the birds, and read.

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Lené Gary is a poet and writer living in Montpelier, Vermont. Her work has appeared in Birchsong: Poetry Centered in Vermont, Poemeleon, Limestone, Six Little Things, Watershed, M Review, Pecan Grove Review, Silkworm, Crash, Connotation Press, Grandmother Earth, SAGE, Vermont Nature, KNOCK, and The Poet’s Touchstone. She holds a dual-genre MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts. When she’s not writing, she can be found paddling her well-worn, Mad River canoe.

Loquacious: "One of my Favorite Words" by Rebecca Macijseki

Loquacious: full of excessive talk : wordy (www.m-w.com)

Loquacious is a "wordy" series that revels in language. In this installment, poet and writer Rebecca Macijeski tackles the question, "What is one of your favorite words?" I love the way Rebecca ― as a person and as a poet ― combines her playful sense of humor, her deep connection to language, and her highly intelligent brain. The result is utterly delightful.

One of my Favorite Words

By Rebecca Macijeski

There are many words that I love. Green. And sneakers. Thistles. And Meriwether. And shoehorns. And raspberries. And the white smoothing over the knuckles at my hands.

I will write poems all my life to celebrate the underappreciated quirkiness in words like rhododendron and semi-gloss and yo-yos and death certificates. So many poems linger in the comfortable heat of bougainvillea and sea shores and cinnamon. When I write words I am eating their sounds. My teeth get into their juice and their squishy pulp and before I know it I'm caught with the beautiful red stains on my palms. From picking strawberries. From bending over and picking each ripe, irregular round from the low-lying vines.

Can I pick one favorite? Can I choose one word to celebrate above all the other words? Does one have more electricity?

Lately I've been making lists of the words I use over and over again. You could say I'm obsessed with them. I'm not sure what it says about me that I'm always writing poems with brain in them, along with smiles and sandwiches, things that curve, tall grass, and mouths. Maybe I pick them because it's July ― I have been writing a lot of warm things. Maybe I write when I'm hungry. Could that explain the sandwiches and the mouths?

It is difficult to separate words from my feelings about them. I tend to dislike the idea that words are distinct, abstract units that have no relation to the real people and places and things they represent. I concede that there are a few clinical-sounding words that serve more like vitamins than the slow-roasted meals I want them to be. Not all words are red and juicy. Some feel and taste a little like chalk ― octogenarian, for example. An octogenarian is someone with eighty years of stories and experiences. Octogenarian speaks nothing at all to the reverence earned through the dozens of clam bakes, countless birthdays, weddings, and funerals, tears, shared moments, stubbed toes, meat loaves, UFO sightings, cups of tea, tourist photographs, sleepless nights, and friends that build a life.

So, I’ve been circuitous ― or, perhaps, I've been surreptitious. That's a good favorite. Surreptitious. I remember learning that word for the first time. "What a delightfully pompous way of saying 'sneaky,'" I thought to myself. The word starts with that slinking S,
 and then opens fully into a syrup sound. Then, as if embarrassed by how silly it's become, the word ends with an elite and academic itious.

"There," the word must think to itself after it all. "That should fool her."

You see. This is what happens when I consider my relationship with language: I end up with circles and lists. Interestingly, this reflects the shape of my most recent poems, my poems want to hold everything inside them. They want to categorize and complete. Maybe that's what dictates the repeating. If a poem is a snapshot of the unconscious, or a representation of thought, or a transcript of my dialogue with my own mind ― all variations on the same idea ― then it makes sense that I'd be pursuing the same words. I'm trying, over and over again, to write the same poem, the poem that says everything there is to say about thistles and smiles and curving strawberry vines.

Of course this is impossible, but I know I will always try. With each attempt I learn too much to ever want to stop trying.

Such a silly brain. Tricking me into seeing the newness of each recycled thought. Such a silly, wonderful, surreptitious brain.

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Rebecca Macijeski earned an MFA in Poetry from the Vermont College of Fine Arts in July 2011. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Salon, Lullwater Review, and Clackamas Literary Review. She currently serves as Assistant Poetry Editor for Hunger Mountain.

How We See It (Pacific Northwest) #2

James and I have been traveling through Oregon and Washington on an EPNW (Epic Pacific Northwest) adventure. We're at the tail end of the trip, but I thought I'd share some of the photos we've been taking.

How we see each other....

jenna, by james (motorola droid razr maxx, retrocamera app)

 james, by jenna (iphone 4, instagram)

A Good Life (a one-moment memoir)

on puget sound (iphone 4)She sat on the ferry and ate cherries from the market. That seemed like a good life to her.

How We See It (Pacific Northwest) #1

James and I have been traveling through Oregon and Washington on an EPNW (Epic Pacific Northwest) adventure. We're at the tail end of the trip, but I thought I'd share some of the photos we've been taking.

Here's yesterday's view from Neahkahnie Mountain in Oregon.

Jenna (iphone 4)

James (droid razr maxx camera phone)