I spent some time at the bar the other night, listening to a band and reading over a few of Jenny's serial killer poems (Jenny talks about them a bit in this post). While I was there, I ran into a gal I know and her first question was, "What are you reading?"
When I told her I was reading a series of poems about Ted Bundy (I had read the Edmund Kemper series earlier that day), there was some eyebrow raising, followed by, "Can I see?"
I handed her one. She read it. Then she motioned for me to hand her the rest of the stack. I passed over about thirty more poems. Right then in there, in the dim light of a crowded bar while a local band played loudly on the other side of the room, she read every single one of them.
Now, I've got to say, if you've never had the experience of watching someone else read a series of poems about a serial killer, it's interesting. Mostly there was a lot of big eyes. In a few places, her hand flew to her mouth in classic startled/horrified form. Once or twice, she leaned over to her boyfriend (who had tried to read, but couldn't on account of the bad light) and read a stanza or two out loud to him.
I did get the poems back, eventually, but I had to wait patiently until this woman was finished, because I would have had to wrestle them away from her otherwise. I didn't want to risk it, so I took another sip of my cocktail and turned to watch the band while she read.
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
WPW: Invisible People
**Hi all, welcome to another Writing Prompt Wednesday. Won't you play along? The guidelines are simple, and I'd love to read what you come up with.**
The invisible people walk in soft soled shoes
with scarves around their necks that reach down to their waists
wearing big fuzzy sweaters
and pants made of anything but courdoroy.
The invisible people lean against walls,
blending in by not moving
until you pause, just close enough
for one of them to whisper in your ear.
Listen close.
They will only say it once.
The invisible people walk in soft soled shoes
with scarves around their necks that reach down to their waists
wearing big fuzzy sweaters
and pants made of anything but courdoroy.
The invisible people lean against walls,
blending in by not moving
until you pause, just close enough
for one of them to whisper in your ear.
Listen close.
They will only say it once.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Say Hi to Shawn
My friend Shawn finally send me a link to her website/blog. Go take a look at it.
Shawn is in the same boat as me thesis-wise since she's also working on a creative thesis. She's doing poetry and I'm looking forward to seeing it once she's finished.
When she first told me about her blog, she said she was planning to use it as a way of holding herself accountable to her writing, so I want to urge everybody to stop by her blog and give her a friendly nudge. I know how much you all like to encourage (*cough* nag *cough*) each other. So go say howdy.
Shawn is in the same boat as me thesis-wise since she's also working on a creative thesis. She's doing poetry and I'm looking forward to seeing it once she's finished.
When she first told me about her blog, she said she was planning to use it as a way of holding herself accountable to her writing, so I want to urge everybody to stop by her blog and give her a friendly nudge. I know how much you all like to encourage (*cough* nag *cough*) each other. So go say howdy.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Everybody Knows... Poems
As I've been playing around with poetry lately, I've been thinking back to the exercises David used to assign us in class. There was the animal poem, the famous place name poem, the dream poem... and there was the "Everybody Knows" poem. That last one is what seems to be working best for me right now.
Here's how it works:
The first thing you write is "Everybody knows" and then you put something, anything, after it. This works best if you follow with something that everybody doesn't know. You find some obscure fact, or such and plug it in. Then you keep writing. Once you're done, you delete the "Everybody knows" and you're left with everything that came after it.
Then what's the point of writing it in the first place? It's a mindset thing. When you start a poem with those words, you give yourself the freedom to say anything after without explanation, because everybody knows that what you're saying is true. You don't have to lay it out, you don't have to explain, you just say it, and you can get away with saying anything, thus freeing yourself up for some leaps.
It's a neat trick and if you haven't tried it yet, I highly recommend it.
Here's how it works:
The first thing you write is "Everybody knows" and then you put something, anything, after it. This works best if you follow with something that everybody doesn't know. You find some obscure fact, or such and plug it in. Then you keep writing. Once you're done, you delete the "Everybody knows" and you're left with everything that came after it.
Then what's the point of writing it in the first place? It's a mindset thing. When you start a poem with those words, you give yourself the freedom to say anything after without explanation, because everybody knows that what you're saying is true. You don't have to lay it out, you don't have to explain, you just say it, and you can get away with saying anything, thus freeing yourself up for some leaps.
It's a neat trick and if you haven't tried it yet, I highly recommend it.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Don't Read That
So... March?
It's trying real hard around here to be spring. The trees are growing some buds, the weather's warming up, and there's even a new baby around. I guess this month's theme is pretty obvious, isn't it?
'Tis the season of new, and I'm going to latch right onto that and say that this is the month for doing something new. This is the month to break your routine, your habits, and that rut you've unknowingly fallen into.
"Um," you say, "That was last month, wasn't it?"
Okay, we're operating under a similar theme. It's the specifics, you see, that are different. Last month was all about shaking up your writing routine. This month is all about shaking up your reading. We've all got our reading stand-bys, whether they're a specific genre, author, or genre (I love how there are two meanings for "genre"). We've also got those that we haven't ventured into yet. Now's the ideal time to do just that.
I hardly ever read poetry. Mostly, my poetry reading experience has been limited to Lit. Survey classes and poetry workshops, i.e. limited. I've decided that I'm going to work on broadening that experience and picking up some poetry books the next time I'm at the library. In the meantime, I'll revisit my old class books. I feel an itch to re-read Frank O'Hara's "Why I Am Not a Painter."
So, whatever you usually read, I'm going to encourage you not to. Read something else instead.
What's your reading comfort zone? How are you going to go outside of it?
It's trying real hard around here to be spring. The trees are growing some buds, the weather's warming up, and there's even a new baby around. I guess this month's theme is pretty obvious, isn't it?
'Tis the season of new, and I'm going to latch right onto that and say that this is the month for doing something new. This is the month to break your routine, your habits, and that rut you've unknowingly fallen into.
"Um," you say, "That was last month, wasn't it?"
Okay, we're operating under a similar theme. It's the specifics, you see, that are different. Last month was all about shaking up your writing routine. This month is all about shaking up your reading. We've all got our reading stand-bys, whether they're a specific genre, author, or genre (I love how there are two meanings for "genre"). We've also got those that we haven't ventured into yet. Now's the ideal time to do just that.
I hardly ever read poetry. Mostly, my poetry reading experience has been limited to Lit. Survey classes and poetry workshops, i.e. limited. I've decided that I'm going to work on broadening that experience and picking up some poetry books the next time I'm at the library. In the meantime, I'll revisit my old class books. I feel an itch to re-read Frank O'Hara's "Why I Am Not a Painter."
So, whatever you usually read, I'm going to encourage you not to. Read something else instead.
What's your reading comfort zone? How are you going to go outside of it?
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Lame Poetry and the Zoom-In Theory
Did my Thursday pages today, but was rather dissatisfied with the result. Part of that is circumstantial stuff - I was rushed. I had too much going on today to be able to really sit down and take my time. Part of it was in my approach.
After the Vikings, I've been working mostly on raptor related poetry, drawing on my time as a Raptor Center volunteer. Raptor poetry came easily, it's all about slowing down a moment and painting a picture. I have an easy time of approaching this particular subject that way. Last Saturday I took my fountain pen and a stack of pretty paper to the bar and wrote a pile of stuff while I was there. One after another, bingo-bango.
By today, I hit a point where I felt like I was written out. What else could I say about the birds or the place? I'd covered it all. (Not true, of course, but it felt like it anyway). So, what else? I tried another subject. It was terrible. I kept trying to go at it head on. I should know better, but I couldn't think of how else to go at it. So, I plunged right in and flailed. *Sigh*
Frustrating? You bet.
When I was learning how to ride my bike, my mom taught me that the best way to get from the street to the sidewalk wasn't to go at the curb straight on, but to go at an angle. Then you don't get the big jolt. Same thing with poetry. You don't just say what is, you show it.
My struggle right now is I don't know what I want to show. My best poetry comes from isolating something - a memory, for instance - and breaking it down into little bits. The color of nail polish, the clicking of a hand decked in rings, mascara smudges... Today, though, I just couldn't get from the big picture to the zoom-in.
I just couldn't think of what I wanted to look at that closely.
So, let's get to the question, shall we? (No, that's not the question, you literalist). In this discussion of close looking and poetry, the relevant point is fascination. In order to get to the zoom-in, you've pretty much got to be fascinated by the subject to some degree. Birds of prey fascinate me - no secret there. What fascinates you? Don't get all abstract on me, either. Anything like "the human condition" or "kindness" doesn't count. Give me a tangible, like dental floss or cowboys.
After the Vikings, I've been working mostly on raptor related poetry, drawing on my time as a Raptor Center volunteer. Raptor poetry came easily, it's all about slowing down a moment and painting a picture. I have an easy time of approaching this particular subject that way. Last Saturday I took my fountain pen and a stack of pretty paper to the bar and wrote a pile of stuff while I was there. One after another, bingo-bango.
By today, I hit a point where I felt like I was written out. What else could I say about the birds or the place? I'd covered it all. (Not true, of course, but it felt like it anyway). So, what else? I tried another subject. It was terrible. I kept trying to go at it head on. I should know better, but I couldn't think of how else to go at it. So, I plunged right in and flailed. *Sigh*
Frustrating? You bet.
When I was learning how to ride my bike, my mom taught me that the best way to get from the street to the sidewalk wasn't to go at the curb straight on, but to go at an angle. Then you don't get the big jolt. Same thing with poetry. You don't just say what is, you show it.
My struggle right now is I don't know what I want to show. My best poetry comes from isolating something - a memory, for instance - and breaking it down into little bits. The color of nail polish, the clicking of a hand decked in rings, mascara smudges... Today, though, I just couldn't get from the big picture to the zoom-in.
I just couldn't think of what I wanted to look at that closely.
So, let's get to the question, shall we? (No, that's not the question, you literalist). In this discussion of close looking and poetry, the relevant point is fascination. In order to get to the zoom-in, you've pretty much got to be fascinated by the subject to some degree. Birds of prey fascinate me - no secret there. What fascinates you? Don't get all abstract on me, either. Anything like "the human condition" or "kindness" doesn't count. Give me a tangible, like dental floss or cowboys.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
This February Thing
I'm diggin' February a lot. Committing to Thursday pages has been a good thing in more ways that one. On one hand, it helps break up my long day off by getting me out of the house and into the public for at least a couple hours. It's good to have that nudge.
On the other hand, it ensures that I'm writing. I used to be really good about writing all the time (thanks High School and boring Gen. Ed. undergrad classes), but anymore I'm out of the habit. My writing schedule has grown to revolve around deadlines: "Group's in two days, I need to write something to submit."
Having the fountain pen is fun. Novelty is always entertaining and using resume paper and a fountain pen makes me feel like a more important writer. My words are special enough for special writing materials. I am just that badass.
The freedom is good too. The mindset change has been helpful. Along with the deadline pattern was the pattern of everything I was writing was winding up with an audience. That makes your mind work differently, knowing that everything you write is going to be read by someone else. That kind of audience awareness isn't a bad thing, but I was due for a break.
It's funny, with all this poetry stuff, I'm reminding myself of memories and things I used to know. For instance, in the course of recycling a binder for my February writings, I came across a picture from a couple years ago.
I couldn't believe it. I had totally forgotten about the fridge.
On the other hand, it ensures that I'm writing. I used to be really good about writing all the time (thanks High School and boring Gen. Ed. undergrad classes), but anymore I'm out of the habit. My writing schedule has grown to revolve around deadlines: "Group's in two days, I need to write something to submit."
Having the fountain pen is fun. Novelty is always entertaining and using resume paper and a fountain pen makes me feel like a more important writer. My words are special enough for special writing materials. I am just that badass.
The freedom is good too. The mindset change has been helpful. Along with the deadline pattern was the pattern of everything I was writing was winding up with an audience. That makes your mind work differently, knowing that everything you write is going to be read by someone else. That kind of audience awareness isn't a bad thing, but I was due for a break.
It's funny, with all this poetry stuff, I'm reminding myself of memories and things I used to know. For instance, in the course of recycling a binder for my February writings, I came across a picture from a couple years ago.
I couldn't believe it. I had totally forgotten about the fridge.
Monday, February 4, 2008
Theory of Relevance: It's All About Poetry
There's this idea that says when something becomes significant to you, you become more aware of it and therefore notice it everywhere. It's like when I got my car last year and suddenly I was seeing Chevy Cavaliers all around me.
This month, after making the conscious decision to free up my writing, I started writing poetry.
E-mail announcement a couple days ago: it's time for the annual Southern Colorado Women's Poetry Contest, now accepting entries from university students and the community at large.
Shawn stopped by the SCWP office today to pick up some things and we got to talking about her thesis. She's doing a creative one - poetry.
Flyer in the Psych. building: Poetry Slam on campus Wednesday night, open mic.
I can't open my eyes without seeing poetry somewhere. It's got me surrounded! I just may have to check out the Poetry Slam, though. Could be fun... or painful, we'll see.
This month, after making the conscious decision to free up my writing, I started writing poetry.
E-mail announcement a couple days ago: it's time for the annual Southern Colorado Women's Poetry Contest, now accepting entries from university students and the community at large.
Shawn stopped by the SCWP office today to pick up some things and we got to talking about her thesis. She's doing a creative one - poetry.
Flyer in the Psych. building: Poetry Slam on campus Wednesday night, open mic.
I can't open my eyes without seeing poetry somewhere. It's got me surrounded! I just may have to check out the Poetry Slam, though. Could be fun... or painful, we'll see.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
The Pen Made Me Do It
I tend to talk about writing within a somewhat mystical framework. It's a process which isn't always what you expect it to be and somewhat known for going in directions other than the writer planned. Because of this, I'm only half joking when I talk about Voodoo. Writing longhand, especially, lends itself to a magic.
The other day I got a fountain pen. Then, thinking about my goal this month of writing two new stories, I started working on figuring out what I would write.
"We will write poetry," says the pen.
"But, my goal is to write two new stories. I don't have time to write poetry."
"We. Will. Write. Poetry," the pen insists.
"Hey now, I'm the writer here."
"Yes, but I am how you write. I am a fountain pen with a flat nib, and I have the power to change the very look of the letters you write. Notice how cool 'w's look now."
"Alright, you make a good point there. I still have that goal, though."
"You'll get over it. Besides, your most important goal is to write what comes to you, not to just write according to plan. So, aren't you really more obligated to blow off your writing goals than to meet them?"
"Okay, fine. We'll write poetry." So I pull out one of my recycled school notebooks.
"Um, excuse me."
"Now what?"
"We are not writing on that crappy paper. I'm too good for that garbage, and I don't like white paper, it's much too pedestrian."
"It's the only paper I have."
"No it isn't. You got that pack of parchment style paper two years ago and still have most of it. We are going to write on colored parchment style paper."
"Good lord. Okay, are you happy now?"
"Well, we really ought to have colored ink. This black thing isn't working for me. I'm feeling in a red mood today."
After assembling the necessary supplies, I pack up and head for the library. There's an empty table toward the back of the non-fiction shelves. I sit down and pull out my writing gear. "Right, here goes. Red ink. Tan parchment paper. Poetry."
"Great. Now we're going to write about Vikings."
"What do Vikings have to do with anything? You're kidding, right? I mean, really... Vikings?"
"Vikings," the pen insists. "And put one in a coffee shop."
The other day I got a fountain pen. Then, thinking about my goal this month of writing two new stories, I started working on figuring out what I would write.
"We will write poetry," says the pen.
"But, my goal is to write two new stories. I don't have time to write poetry."
"We. Will. Write. Poetry," the pen insists.
"Hey now, I'm the writer here."
"Yes, but I am how you write. I am a fountain pen with a flat nib, and I have the power to change the very look of the letters you write. Notice how cool 'w's look now."
"Alright, you make a good point there. I still have that goal, though."
"You'll get over it. Besides, your most important goal is to write what comes to you, not to just write according to plan. So, aren't you really more obligated to blow off your writing goals than to meet them?"
"Okay, fine. We'll write poetry." So I pull out one of my recycled school notebooks.
"Um, excuse me."
"Now what?"
"We are not writing on that crappy paper. I'm too good for that garbage, and I don't like white paper, it's much too pedestrian."
"It's the only paper I have."
"No it isn't. You got that pack of parchment style paper two years ago and still have most of it. We are going to write on colored parchment style paper."
"Good lord. Okay, are you happy now?"
"Well, we really ought to have colored ink. This black thing isn't working for me. I'm feeling in a red mood today."
After assembling the necessary supplies, I pack up and head for the library. There's an empty table toward the back of the non-fiction shelves. I sit down and pull out my writing gear. "Right, here goes. Red ink. Tan parchment paper. Poetry."
"Great. Now we're going to write about Vikings."
"What do Vikings have to do with anything? You're kidding, right? I mean, really... Vikings?"
"Vikings," the pen insists. "And put one in a coffee shop."
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
.8mm Nib
Tonight was a prime example of the whole point of this blog's title. Sometimes you've got to let go of your plan and let something else figure things out on your behalf. Every now and again, it works.
I got a fountain pen today. It's technically for calligraphy (since that was the only way I could find a cheap one). As soon as I had time to try it out, I started a new letter to Camii.
This month my challenge for everyone is to change their writing ritual. My plan was/is to do more longhand writing and to step away from my pre-planned projects.
Since Sunday I've been listening to The Church in my car.
Yesterday I had a Hungry Eye meeting and afterwards gave a ride to someone who talked about her poetry.
A handful of nights ago I had a dream.
In my letter to Camii, I hit a spot where I told her how making the decision to step away from knowing what to write next meant I wasn't really sure what I would write next. I started talking about a possible story idea. Then, I started to tell her about the dream.
On my way home from class tonight, I started to write a poem. All of the things I listed went together and led to the poem, even if I can't exactly explain how all of them fit. Once I got home I grabbed a piece of paper and my fountain pen and wrote out the first draft.
Care to dance?
Friday, June 8, 2007
The American University Students Are About to be Very Lucky
"As of Friday, June 6th, I will have left CSU-Pueblo and will no longer be checking email on this account. Thank you!"
-David Keplinger
Well, this is it. As of tomorrow, David's officially gone. Class last night was exceedingly short, and fairly emotional. We're all going to miss David so much, both because of all he's taught us and because we just like him so much. I took one of his classes my first semester and I credit him with helping me make all the progress I have with poetry. He's one of the best instructors I've had thanks to his intelligence about the subjects, his personality, and especially his enthusiasm for whatever class he's teaching and for the students.
*Sigh* Bye David, you'll be sorely missed.
-David Keplinger
Well, this is it. As of tomorrow, David's officially gone. Class last night was exceedingly short, and fairly emotional. We're all going to miss David so much, both because of all he's taught us and because we just like him so much. I took one of his classes my first semester and I credit him with helping me make all the progress I have with poetry. He's one of the best instructors I've had thanks to his intelligence about the subjects, his personality, and especially his enthusiasm for whatever class he's teaching and for the students.
*Sigh* Bye David, you'll be sorely missed.
Thursday, June 7, 2007
Sonnets
"When I went out to kill myself, I caught
a pack of hoodlums beating up a man.
Running to spare his suffering, I forgot
My name, my number, how my day began..."
-"Saint Judas" by James Wright
For our last poems in Eng640, David thought it'd be fun if we all wrote sonnets. I think that's the worst idea he's ever had. Okay, okay, I see his point about how restricting yourself with form means you have to be more on top of your game than if you can just write whatever. I get it. I just don't like it. Ugh. My sonnet came out horribly, and I know the meter is off in places. I have a hard time hearing accents, I've found. Since I despise my sonnet and its title, I think it'd be fun to share it with everyone - share the pain, eh?
My wedding day came bright and clear with not
a cloud in the sky. Roses white and blue
came too and flower girls so cute, who fought
to win the biggest basket even to
the point of tearing each other’s hair and then
the rings were swallowed just as Father Mitch
got sick on Mom’s new rug while Dad said ten
of twenty vegan meals were pitched.
When lightning hit and power flickered out
I couldn’t help my laughter. No more lights,
or curling irons, forget electric harp.
I get to do this my way. Let them pout.
I found our drunken priest and pulled him right,
then I was married ‘neath a rain-drenched tarp.
a pack of hoodlums beating up a man.
Running to spare his suffering, I forgot
My name, my number, how my day began..."
-"Saint Judas" by James Wright
For our last poems in Eng640, David thought it'd be fun if we all wrote sonnets. I think that's the worst idea he's ever had. Okay, okay, I see his point about how restricting yourself with form means you have to be more on top of your game than if you can just write whatever. I get it. I just don't like it. Ugh. My sonnet came out horribly, and I know the meter is off in places. I have a hard time hearing accents, I've found. Since I despise my sonnet and its title, I think it'd be fun to share it with everyone - share the pain, eh?
Big Wedding
My wedding day came bright and clear with not
a cloud in the sky. Roses white and blue
came too and flower girls so cute, who fought
to win the biggest basket even to
the point of tearing each other’s hair and then
the rings were swallowed just as Father Mitch
got sick on Mom’s new rug while Dad said ten
of twenty vegan meals were pitched.
When lightning hit and power flickered out
I couldn’t help my laughter. No more lights,
or curling irons, forget electric harp.
I get to do this my way. Let them pout.
I found our drunken priest and pulled him right,
then I was married ‘neath a rain-drenched tarp.
Friday, June 1, 2007
"Step"
A couple of years ago, I wrote a poem for one of David's classes. I put it up on a "writing" website, where it still lives.
http://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/885130
http://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/885130
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Persona Poem
"Write a poem from the perspective of someone you aren't."
-The jist
It doesn't sound that hard, does it? Except, I'm having a terrible time of it. I just can't get a hold of an entry-point on this one. Ugh. The only thing I can think of is a story my mom told me about how her grandfather forbid her to learn German, "You're an American. Americans speak English."
I think this may be the worst poem I've written during this class. *sigh*
-The jist
It doesn't sound that hard, does it? Except, I'm having a terrible time of it. I just can't get a hold of an entry-point on this one. Ugh. The only thing I can think of is a story my mom told me about how her grandfather forbid her to learn German, "You're an American. Americans speak English."
I think this may be the worst poem I've written during this class. *sigh*
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
"When" Poem
"When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse
to buy me, and snaps the purse shut..."
-When Death Comes by Mary Oliver
Last night we talked about "When" poems where you start off with the word, then at the end, pay it off. Mary Oliver pays it off with "I don't want to end up simply having visited this world." They key, also, is that this poem is not an imagist poem specifically, it's a poem that explicitly sets out to make a point.
The funny thing is, I never intended to write a political poem, but that's what I did. Hard to avoid, though, since I wrote about my AFA cadet brother. He's in his second year, which means he's getting close to graduation, which means possible deployment. A detail which freaks me out a bit. Also, something I’ve only just admitted by writing this.
“When my brother
goes from cadet to officer
as quickly as the words
can be pulled from lips
I am afraid the war will get him
…when he comes back
his face won’t look
like mine anymore.”
I brought my draft to David, and he looked at it for a while, and said the middle part was flat. Stereotypical “bullets will rush at him” stuff that we put in the war box. Then he had a eureka moment, “These are your fears, that’s what needs to be here, and the more strange they are, the better.” I’m still trying to figure out how to articulate those fears, but what he said made perfect sense. I’m digging into the personal, and I need to dig deeper.
David also mentioned that the poetry I’m writing now is the poetry he’s been waiting for me to write. He asked if I felt it, too. I do. Right now I’m finally confident enough to let go, to get into that personal territory that makes me so nervous, and to play with that anxiety. Strange, isn’t it? Ties right in with my last post, too. If you’re going to write poetry, don’t write what’s safe because no one cares about safe.
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse
to buy me, and snaps the purse shut..."
-When Death Comes by Mary Oliver
Last night we talked about "When" poems where you start off with the word, then at the end, pay it off. Mary Oliver pays it off with "I don't want to end up simply having visited this world." They key, also, is that this poem is not an imagist poem specifically, it's a poem that explicitly sets out to make a point.
The funny thing is, I never intended to write a political poem, but that's what I did. Hard to avoid, though, since I wrote about my AFA cadet brother. He's in his second year, which means he's getting close to graduation, which means possible deployment. A detail which freaks me out a bit. Also, something I’ve only just admitted by writing this.
“When my brother
goes from cadet to officer
as quickly as the words
can be pulled from lips
I am afraid the war will get him
…when he comes back
his face won’t look
like mine anymore.”
I brought my draft to David, and he looked at it for a while, and said the middle part was flat. Stereotypical “bullets will rush at him” stuff that we put in the war box. Then he had a eureka moment, “These are your fears, that’s what needs to be here, and the more strange they are, the better.” I’m still trying to figure out how to articulate those fears, but what he said made perfect sense. I’m digging into the personal, and I need to dig deeper.
David also mentioned that the poetry I’m writing now is the poetry he’s been waiting for me to write. He asked if I felt it, too. I do. Right now I’m finally confident enough to let go, to get into that personal territory that makes me so nervous, and to play with that anxiety. Strange, isn’t it? Ties right in with my last post, too. If you’re going to write poetry, don’t write what’s safe because no one cares about safe.
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