Little Explosions / Poetry

Returning from an intensive three day conference in the Berkshires, I am looking at my work anew. Never one to adhere to "poetry trends", I need to reconcile what I know about the current publishing climate with my own aesthetic. Having so many astute readers of my manuscript was a privilege. It was also wonderful to hear the great work of fellow poets. That said, I remind myself of why I do this--and it isn't for money or fame. Ellen Dore Watson (one of the faculty at this conference) asked what we would do if we knew we would never get published. That's easy, I thought. I would write anyway. It's a process--a way in which I interact with the world and myself. I pursue publishing because I do believe that literature should be in the world, not in a drawer (or on one's personal computer). It's exhausting to face the months of revision but exciting to reinvent poems I thought were finished. Re-imagining is what we do as writers---turn it sideways, upside down; view it through the window or from the air. Poems can be improved to evoke feeling, communicate senses. I remember hearing Galway Kinnell read once at the Geraldine Dodge Festival and he was changing words as he walked to the podium. A poem is never finished, only abandoned, said French critic and poet Paul Valery. I am back on the journey to find the perfect pairing of words to make the little explosion that is a finished poem.

Heat Wave

I used to love that song sung by Martha and the Vandellas. Just thinking of it brings back long hair, granny dresses, halter tops, and Jimi Hendrix. The temperature climbed into the 90s today, making it feel like August instead of late May. Not acclimated to the heat, I found myself longing for January and the silence of falling snow instead of the bird calls and insect noises I hear these days in early morning. And that's how it is. No matter what we find around us, there is always something else to yearn for--the unreachable moment,place, relationship. The school year is winding down and I can actually think about long writing days stretching in front of me. I will continue work on my collaborative collection of poetry as well as another collection and fiction and nonfiction in process. It's all a part of the rhythm of my life--this change with the seasons. When the heat finally breaks and spring returns, I will carry the warmth within--a reminder of AM radio, ragtop cars, long days, and the thrill of two months of relative freedom from the structure of the rest of my year.

Rain and Change

The rain is a constant drumming on the tiny patch of pavement by my front door. Hummingbirds don't care, bustle by my feeder with their vibrating bee-like wings. How lush the trees are, filling all eight panes of my window with tear-drop, ovoid and lace-edged leaves. I've been reading student responses to the poems of Tony Hoagland, Natasha Tretheway, Mary Oliver. I always hope that embedded in the stress of being a student, a little glimmer happens--a particular poem touches a student who never before interacted with poetry in that way. From their responses, it seems as if this does occur. It's why I teach. A few great teachers changed my life and my perceptions though a few did the opposite. It is my goal to value every student. I cringe when I see students humiliated or told they are incapable. We are all imperfect and learning is a process that never ends. How each of us approaches a task is highly individual. I strive to make classes meaningful for students who have no desire to be writers as well as those who do. It's not an easy task to teach, competing with text messaging and email--I understand the frustration of teachers. Even in a college class, many students have outside pressures. In the years I've been teaching, I have had a number of college students who are raising children, caring for sick parents, working full-time, or coping with their own medical challenges. I worked full-time when I was both an undergraduate and a graduate student and it was not easy. I would have gotten more out of my classes and probably put more into them as well if I didn't have to make a living. People have complicated lives. I like to think of a classroom as a place for a student to relax into learning and get excited about something outside him or herself. It's good to focus outside oneself--it's how we finally grow up. It is also good for writers to look around and see what isn't easily seen; the rabbit under the hedge, a honeybee hovering over the iris, seed pods blowing in the May breezes.

Dreams and Realities

A small interlude in Provincetown last week gave me both peace and perspective. There were abundant whale sightings and cool breezes. The ocean was gorgeous and wild one day, serene the next. There is something primal about being by the sea. I felt small and my stress was diminished by the great expanse. In daily life, it's easy to be overly focused on minutia---correcting papers, driving in traffic, paying bills. How short a time we have in this beautiful and flawed world. How much conflict is created by misunderstanding. I resolve to do better at detaching from issues over which I have no control. In writing, I strive for emotional truth. In the relationships that carry me, I aspire to honesty and appreciation. My dream is to keep writing and life separate, though life informs writing. Writing is an observation, an interaction with the world that is completely realized on the page. Life is ragged and complicated yet always worth it for the perfect moments--- a surprising synchronicity, loving attention, laughter, shared dreams. This week was the fifth anniversary of my father's death. He loved the ocean, as do I. There's a lot I will never know about his life but I did learn a love of language from him. Tonight when I teach my poetry class, I will think of the poetry read to me-Hardy and T.S. Eliot, Robert Louis Stevenson and Ogden Nash. I will think of the late April morning when we scattered his ashes in the Atlantic Ocean and how memories float like dreams do--in and out of the conscious mind--never disappearing completely from sight.