The waiting . . .

A I write this, I am waiting for my personal copies of Hobble Creek Almanac to make it to my door front.  I have been given a deadline, which if not met, I am to contact my editor at Aldrich Press, but you probably can tell I am hoping my books beat that deadline.  It would be a real treat to have my book early, to see it in the flesh, or pulp as it were.  Until then, it's the waiting time. 

This specific time many of you are familiar with is full of ritual for me.  Number one on my list is to pretend I have dozens of other writing related issues to tend to as not to appear too desperate.  With that in mind, please have patience while I talk about other things which I will treat with much more seriousness than they are worth.

I just signed the contract for my poem, "Ode to Pablo Neruda," to be included in the 99 Poems for the 99 Percent anthology.  No links yet, because I seriously don't know where anything is on the net and I don't feel like searching for it right now.  This is my very first anthologized poem and I very happy for that.  Not just because this is my first anthologized poem, but because I really like that particular poem.

My poem, "Poem for David Lee, Three Sisters Mountain," just finished its tenure over at Heron Tree.  It is an integral part of my book, Hobble Creek Almanac, but it appears under a different title over at Heron Tree for clarity.  The original context of the poem is set and the title, "Eastern Pretty Skies" is a very natural title.  With this book, I really feel like I am getting closer to the kind of poetry I am meant to write as my life's work, and this poem in particular is a really good representation of that writing.  I am hoping to have at least one more Springville book in me, so I can have a trilogy, a long sequence of poems about one specific place.

I continue to work with BlazeVox Press towards getting my manuscript, Sailing This Nameless Ship, ready for publication as part of their Kindle Editions.  I am perfectly happy seeing this book as an e-book.  To be honest, there was a really long period (the majority of these poems were written in 2008-2009) where I never thought they would ever see the light of day.  To have this outlet be such a great press is a wonderful option.  I can see no downside to having my feet trenched in both the print and electronic worlds of publishing.  Right now it's all about the proofing and aesthetics.  It keeps me somewhat busy.

And just last night, I got back into the submission game, sending out three new poems.  It's not my usual voice, but what I am beginning to see is some real joy from taking little side roads off the beaten path of my usual voice.  Every now and then I begin to think I can't write like other poets (read: I can't write in the currently popular vernacular) and that holds me back in some ways.  Well the truth is I can write those kinds of poems, and while I enjoy reading them, I don't really writing them en masse.  Don't get me wrong.  I am not claiming the high road here.  I don't think myself above such writing, just different, and it is nice to see I am writing different poetry as a  matter of choice rather than out of not being able to write those kinds of poems.

 As you can see, if you have been able to read through all of that bragging, I have been quite fortunate of late.  It feels nice to be here, and it's this I need to build on to negate those times when I feel frustrated and just a little out of sorts about my life as a poet.

Think Positive

I have been doing a lot of proofreading which makes me think of what Kelli said recently on her blog.

I have been looking around and I am reminded that while I do not save my rejections in a drawer like some of the people she mentions, I do not dwell upon them in any negative way.  I submit and I happily accept whatever comes my way.  But right now I would like to build a little bit on what she spoke of.  I would like to talk about the successes we have versus the successes we perceive.

If you have been a follower of my blog, you know pessimism comes naturally to me.  Well, not today, and not for a while.  Why?  Because I have been confronted with the reality that I have been quite successful as a poet as of late, and what's more, the evidence of that success trumps anything I might feel about my success.

As I write this, I have two, yes two, books going through the final stages of being proofed and readied for publication.  The first book is Hobble Creek Almanac, soon to be out from Aldrich Press.  The second is my book, Sailing This Nameless Ship, which is being released by BlazeVox and their Kindle Editions series. 

Now I haven't written much poetry for the past several months, nor have I even tried to submit poetry for even longer than that, yet on Sunday, a poem of mine will appear in Heron Tree, and soon, five of my poems from Hobble Creek Almanac, will be appearing in Weber-The Contemporary West.  Now, I could concentrate on all of the places my poetry has not appeared, or wonder why some poets are seemingly showered in praise while my work goes mostly unnoticed.  However, I will not do either, because if I was to do those things I would be ignoring the fact that in three short years time (2011-2013) I will have had a chapbook and three full length manuscripts of poetry published.  That's a number I never thought I would see.  That's a number I find astonishing. It's the sort of number that flies in the face of anything I could attempt to label as failure.

What I keep thinking, what stays with my thoughts is as I look back over this past week or so is this sort of thing doesn't happen to me.  I am still a little overwhelmed at the thought of refuting my own narrative regarding my efforts as a poet.  I keep thinking about all of the things I think of as hallmarks for success, all of the things which are happening for me, and all I can wonder is how did I build a gap so wide.  And that's what it is.  It's a cognitive dissonance I am just now beginning to resolve.  Why?  Regardless of my pessimism, I have found editors who not only publish my work, but have thought enough of it to merit multiple publications of manuscripts. Now I may still want to break into specific markets, but as for reaching an audience, it is absolutely clear I have achieved a great deal of success.

The writer, right or wrong, always writes.  And though it will most likely take a while, I am learning how to see my successes for what they are, and see through the transparency of my failures, knowing neither one defines me as a writer.

Welcome to the Suck

For those of you who hang on, visit regularly, or only check in once in a great while, I thought I would give you an update as to my teaching schedule for next year.  As most of you know I am  high school teacher, and I teach at a small high school in rural Nevada.  This year I have been teaching history and drama.  Well, next year I am being given an almost entirely different schedule.  I am going to be teaching two drama classes (we had 47 kids sign up for the class) and an eclectic set of English classes.

I will be once again teaching senior English.  I will also be teaching the 9-10 Honors English class, and the 11-12 Honors English class.  While part of me is flattered because it is the general consensus I have been rather successful teaching senior English, I am not looking forward to the sheer amount of work I can expect as a result of teaching these classes (3 regular senior English and the 2 honors sections).

I have a pretty good structure for the regular senior English class, and I am trying something entirely new for the honors sections.  Senior English is British lit in these parts, and while I have that down, I am taking it upon myself to re-create the honors English courses to try and instill academic rigor which has been lacking---even two years ago, when I taught it for the firs time.  What is of crtical importance is students be rid of the notion the honors class in this town is a free ride for the 'well-behaved' kids.  While that is an honorable goal to give well-behaved kids a class in which they can pursue their studies, an honors curriculum it does not make.

To that end, tomorrow I have the honor of informing the prospective honors students of what will be expected of them.  My 9-10 students they will be reading The Great Gatsby over the summer (complete with exam in the first week of class); reading three other novels within the first 9 weeks of class; writing four papers in each semester (2 literary analysis and 2 expository). Units in poetry and drama will follow, with a major independent research project to cap off the year.  My 11-12 students will be required to read The Odyssey over the summer (complete wit an exam in the first week of class), immediately read Beowulf in its entirety and embark upon a greatly expanded reading curriculum for British Lit, complete with a schedule of four longer papers throughout each semester.  Each class will also be required to complete weekly write-ups and class discussions on current issues.

* * *

What this means to you, and most of the writers I share the internets with is this:  You may, if it suits you, add my name to the list of high school English teachers you blame for sending high school students to college unprepared for the basics of the composition classes you teach.  I will be trying my best to teach them the basics of writing a decent paper, but I really have never liked my chances of being successful.  Oh, a few students learn and adapt their writing patterns to be in line with standards and expectations, but the vast majority fall under one of two categories---well, those who go to college.  Category One consists of students who already know enough to make a good pass at college writing and I feel helpless in my attempts to get them to be better writers.  Category Two consists of the students who need to learn how to be better writers but for whatever reason, lack the ability to adapt their writing, and I feel helpless in my attempts to get them to be better writers.

Yes, that's about it.  I have found the writers who are a joy to teach are the ones who already know how to write, and I can do very little for them.  The students who need the help are infinitely frustrating because I see in them the ability to write better, but they either choose to do nothing or simply cannot do anything to be better writers.

I know how frustrating it is for college instructors, as I see many of their/your complaints on blogs and Facebook, citing the stunning depths of ignorance students are seemingly willing to sink.  I know what it's like to waffle between being infuriated at the student because of this willingness and being infuriated at the teacher because part of you refuses to believe anyone would willingly be that ignorant.  I don't know what to say except to apologize in advance and offer myself as sacrifice to the writing gods.  Well, actually, I would like you to consider what actors students can be.  They have for years been honing their performance, and you should never underestimate their willingness to try and not be held accountable for something you require of them.

And of course this includes throwing their high school teachers under the bus to give the impression they have never heard of a thesis statement or plagiarism.

Sudden Burst of words

These beautiful days are lost, buried
in the dark, fertile earth along side
the bones of our ancestors.  Peel back
the sky's black curtain, revealing
the watercolor smudges of everything
which remains: The holy and profane,
the dark and the terrible, storm and peace.

NaPoWriMo

It has been years since I tried writing a poem a day for NaPoWriMo.  This isn't a confession because I don't feel guilty about it in the slightest.  I am proud of my past efforts and I am thrilled to see so many people attempt to write a poem a day for an entire month.  And it isn't like there hasn't been a whole lot of material /fodder/pop culture happenings to inspire poetry, but this isn't my yea . . . again.

I am coming down off the tail end of completing a manuscript which hopefully will be out in the world by summer, and I am not writing poems.  I haven't written a poem in months.  Still not a confession---just a statement.  This is just my pattern.  I write steadily until I have a project in mind, then everything turns to that project.  After I turn my writing attentions to that project, everything else dies.  I write and write and re-write and write more towards that one thing.  After it's over, I have no writing energy left.  I literally have to re-learn how to write poems of a different voice, subject matter, and/or reflection.  It happens every time.  What has taken me years to learn is to ignore this particular kind of emptiness and silence. 

I used to panic.  I used to scare myself into writing terrible poems because I thought if I didn't keep writing I would lose what little talent I had and I would never write another good poem.  I am not saying my "good" poems are really that great.  I am just saying my poems during those times were/are particularly bad.  Well, it has finally started to stick.  I have learned to accept the fact I am not a consistent writer of poems.  I do not write on a steady schedule.  I am not an aggregate poet, in that  I have a batting average when it comes to poems.  I love all my finished poems even if editors hate them all.  I have come to accept that I have forgotten how to write new poems, and it will be some time before that happens.

What's more, with every passing day I am learning to live with the sort of poet I am and the kind of poet I will never be.  Rather than going into any of that, I will simply provide you a poem to read.  It's a poem I like, which means it's good enough to share.


Spring rain---
This cold morning
lasting forever

Book Review: Shaindel Beers The Children's War and Other Poems

The Children's War and Other Poems

Shaindel Beers
72 pp., Salt Publishing
ISBN: 978-1-84471-930-3
$15.95


Having read Shaindel Beers' first book of poetry and identified with it on a personal level, I was excited to read this book.  From the moment I heard the title, I knew I was in for something special and meaningful.  The title certainly is up-front and honest.  There is no subterfuge.  The world Beers brings forth in this book is daunting and relentless . . . and worth every minute you spend engaged in it.

Beginning with stunning first person narratives of war and violence, Shaindel Beers begins to discuss the things we know of but would much rather forget.  That in itself is an easy statement to make, because we would all rather forget about war and violence, but there is a deeper indictment going on here.  The unsettling truth these poems begin to reveal is that we would much rather forget the violence, pretending it doesn’t exist, than actually doing something to stop it.  This is a bitter pill to take, but swallow it we must.  At times we would like to believe we are as impotent as the children as they recount their tales, but in the backs of our minds always lingers the truth that we are not only culpable for the violence, we remain ever capable to make the world a better place yet unwilling on so many levels.

Walking into the title poem, Beers gives us little respite from the heartbreak, but one kindness she bestows is breaking the poem into smaller, separate sections.  In this we are able to take on manageable fragments, digest as we like the compelling stories and images.  Slowly, the poems begin to expand in scope and emotional landscape.  With each passing section, a larger picture is formed and the reader can’t help but be drawn into a higher level of consciousness, more in tune with the larger world.

One such passage, the opening lines from “After Martija’s Watercolor, Croatia” gives us this:

There are things that can happen that you can’t draw.

A soldier ripping off a baby’s diaper and slamming him

into the wall because it will be easier if the baby

cannot cry. Your mother without a head. You paint splotches.

Of course the shock is intentional.  To hide this sort of thing from the reader might let us get away clean.  Like any responsible artist, Beers knows some things are absolutes.

In the second, longer section, we are graduated to the more complex understandings of war, violence and pain.  It is a testament to Beers’ ability to know where that line is because I will be honest and tell you it took me going back into the book to realize that divide.  It is this second section which begins anew, serves to show in some ways how pervasive the epidemic of violence has become— how much of the culture of war we have internalized into our own lives.  Here there are poems which highlight the war each of us wages with other people, our lives, our past, and families.

My favorite poem from this section is probably a strange choice. “Dark-haired girl in the park—” shies away from the weightier structure of most the other poems and presents a war of almost the mildest sort, the conflict between parent and child as the child comes of age.  Using that struggle, we see there is some necessity in struggle.  A young girl sees herself as a sexual being much to the dismay of her parents.  Her need to tear herself away from them is not based in hatred, but rather the need to be desired.  The girl is young, innocent to what may result in her defiance.  We are reminded that for many of us, especially in the privileged first world, our first struggles are mild in comparison to the reality most children in the world face.  We look back to our adolescence with nostalgia, a sweetened pain which is often savored.  Most of the world’s children are not so lucky.  Most of the world’s children could teach us all about real pain and suffering.

Ultimately this is an important book on many levels.  The Children’s War and Other Poems is a sharp departure from Shaindel’s first book, A Brief History of Time.  I do not like making comparisons between two different works of art so I will simply restate this book is a bold and sobering step away from   It carries with it a wonderful voice, weighty ideas, and an unflinching eye for our darker expressions.  It is a book which you will want to return to again and again.
her first book.

Book Review: Jeff Newberry's Brackish

Brackish

Jeff Newberry

101 pp., Aldrich Press

ISBN: 978-0615705637

$14

Opening up Jeff Newberry’s first book of poems, Brackish, is a daunting task if all you are looking for is a casual glance at contemporary poetry.  Newberry both draws you into the biography of a young boy and that of a small, factory town seemingly on the verge of collapse.  It is the poet’s ability to demonstrate how he draws on the peculiarity of family and ride the fine line between sorrow and acceptance which makes this collection of poetry work, and in working, the thing which allows us to see far more than we thought possible.

The book opens with a section of poems which defines both place and character—that of the narrator.  In this first section, titled ‘His Father’s Son,’ Newberry lays out for the reader what it is to come of age in a small Florida community past its prime.  Here there is no Southern, Capote-like reminiscence, no nostalgia for a bygone age.  These first poems set the stage for an unflinching look at the world as it really was.  Take the opening lines to “The Butcher’s Son”:

The Butcher’s son stays out late

because the butcher’s dead—

five years tonight.

There is no softening, no holding back.  The world is alive and moves on, with or without us.  This section also provides a series of portraits of the father which defy easy explanation.  They contradict in the best way poems can by being both specific to the narrator’s world and yet immediately recognizable to the reader.

After establishing a presence in the first section, most poets would transition to other themes and other venues, but Jeff, in his later sections, takes on the difficult task of  staying with the same ideas and themes of his first section, reinforcing in the reader’s mind how important place can be in the development of the individual psyche.  Here is where Jeff Newberry shines for me as a poet.  He writes poetry in such a way I almost immediately forget he is a poet writing poetry.  I start reading and his poems become a natural, vibrant part of the whole. I forget about the technical aspects of poetry and I am swept up into the moment of reading for the sake of reading. 

Newberry’s poems take on a narrative quality in the later sections of his book, and begin to weave tales and stories, of which I can only hope some are true and others are complete fabrications.  Drawing on the power of Richard Hugo, Newberry begins to write poems for specific places and towns, helping us to define another generic part of the map we make of the world.  At the center of this new map is the poet’s home town, Port St. Joe, but we are audience to many other specific places.  The book ends with a section called, ‘Autobiography,’ and if we are to believe any of it, we must accept everything.  There is no middle ground for this, our journey into the world Brackish creates.  Take these beautiful lines from this last section about coming home:

Each time I crest the Apalachicola

causeway, bay oysters sing

in a blistered hymn, promise

me if I plunge my palms

deep into the surf, edge fingers

down deep through sand & scallop,

I’ll find a pearl left just for me.

It’s the beguiling song of nostalgia which always comes up short.  Even while singing of his home and early life, Newberry is compelled to reveal the empty promises of those places we have left.  The reader knows of such promises already, and knows there are no easy answers.  In this, the poet adds to our understanding.

You should go buy Brackish.  It is a lovely book and deserves your patronage.

Book Review: Collin Kelley's Render

Render

Collin Kelley

76 pp., Sibling Rivalry Press

ISBN: 978-1-937420-34-5

$14.95

Collin Kelley’s latest collection, Render, is a masterful stroke of both political and socially relevant poems, where the poet uses his own life as a pop-culture touchstone for his generation’s most meaningful, shared experiences.  Among the plethora of significant events hit upon in this book are: First love, parents, infidelity, nostalgia, the movies, sexual icons of puberty, post-puberty, and the inherent confusion which lies within. And while I would say most people will find something to love within these pages, this book speaks directly to anyone who is part of the generation born between the late 1960’s up through 1974.   One poem after another breaks through the barrier of fuzzy memory and brings the reader immediately into the world of the poet.  Each poem strengthens its grip upon the reader and will not let go.  These poems will stay with you long after you have finished the book.

Collin Kelley is a genius when it comes to confession.  He teases you with brilliant titles and amazing opening lines.  Once he has you hooked, he delivers sucker punches and body blows like a prize fighter.  What is amazing is even after you are dumbstruck by a series of poems, your first instinct will be to read another poem, and another. 

Using the disillusion (and seeming dissolution) of the American Family, Collin Kelly presents a world so many of us from his generation know all too well.  We are the Post Atomic Age children, born of parents who participated or did not participate in the counter-culture of the 1960’s.  We are the first artificial, non-organic generation, and Kelley drives that point home by exposing the hidden narrative of his own family in some strange quiet crisis.

It’s difficult for me to choose any one poem to demonstrate the building of this narrative.  I can tell you there are no weak poems here, no filler.  Each and every poem is essential and I cannot imagine the book any other way than how Collin has constructed it.  Each poem captures with exacting precision not only the poet’s memory, the thing he must share, but the details of the world at large, making each accessible in the best way possible.  I do not mean accessible as in simple, because there will never be anything simple about Collin’s poetry.  No, accessible in the way everyone can relate to the stories he tells, because we all have memories tied to the events Collin ties his memories to. 

When Collin talks about his summer at the movies while his mother is having an affair, I immediately remember my adolescent movie experiences, but also the dysfunction of my own parents’ marriage.  When he talks about the Bicentennial in his poem, “Freedom Train,” it’s his details which jar a thousand memories loose from my past, causing me to wonder why I have lost so many.  When Collin talks about his early sexual encounters, especially with those boys who feel shame for their behavior, I am reminded of my own fumbled experiences early in my adolescence.

Collin Kelley succeeds with his poems because he is willing to face the truth of his past, confront the seeds which were sewn, resulting in the person he is today.  He succeeds because he does this when so many of us are too afraid to do these things for ourselves.  But even more so, Render is a tremendous book because it does not condemn in its confession.  It lays out the reality of the world without trying to make anyone feel guilty for their past.  It allows us to take from it and only wants us to share.

Antici . . . (Say it!) . . . pation

Because I am so awesome, I have decided to explore my future path to becoming the poetry world's next big thing, its new darling, the flavor of the month if you will.  It's inevitable, so all I have to do, according to my worn out copy of The Secret, is visualize each tiny step on the way to being the poetry world's next craze, where I am certain to join the ranks of Schomburg, Zapruder, Hicok, Meitner, Beasley, Dickman (Team Michael), and ____________________.  Come along with me as I lay out the road map to the respect and adulation of which I am imminently deserving.  Be warned, however; this is my road map.  If I catch any of you plagiarizing my pathway to celebrity, I will hunt you down and destroy everything you love.


Step one:  Write a manuscript.  No matter how distasteful it might seem, one must actually produce poetry in order to receive the praise of the poetry community.  Well, this rule applies for those as of yet to be inducted into the club.  Once established as a member of The Little Darling's Society, you can pretty much write your own ticket. where this is concerned, writing as little as is necessary to publish a 'New & Selected' book every five or six years.

Said manuscript earns extra points if you are a member of any of the following subsets of demographics:  Woman, Gay, Latino/a, any combination of non-Caucasian hyphenated American, live in NYC, came to poetry after earning or simultaneously earning a non-poetry professional degree, identify as a feminist (2nd or 3rd generation preferred), own exotic animals, once worked in a non-traditional occupation or career (see the year code for the approved list of non-traditional jobs), or lives with modified behavioral patters as displayed by three distinct personality quirks.

Status:  Done.


Step two:  Find a publisher.  Because my manuscript hits all of the hot-topic issues (19th Century Agrarian Mormon Landscape Meditation), finding a publisher was not really a huge concern of mine.  My biggest worry was how I was going to let down some of the publishing companies while still making them feel good about themselves.  I mean, Copper Canyon Press, in the wake of Sam Hammill's departure tends to get their feelings hurt when one turns them down.  Knopf and Harper Collins do keep up appearances, but etiquette dictates kindness and understanding.  Some might say go the contest route, but I have two reservations.  Contests are so 2007, and bidding wars can be really nasty.  the publisher one chooses must be humble enough to be outside of the box, yet a true work horse.  After all, they are going to carry one all the way to the top.

Said press earns extra points if it has an paradoxical, or whimsical name.  My Big Fat Poetry Press, Flat Line Trajectory Press, Socialist Tractor Press, Self Immolating Monk Press, etc., etc.  You get the idea, right?

Status: Done.


Step Three: Promotion.  As attention whores, most poets will find this step the most easy to perform.  However, there are a few guidelines.  A poet must never speak about his or her own manuscript.  Instead, enlist the help of friends and former mentors to create a buzz about the poet as much as the manuscript.  Promoting the poet is important because most poets are genuinely boring.  Most poets are for lack of a better definition, sloven, one track minded bores.  If you are going to be the poetry world's next big thing, you need to stand out, be seen as unique, wear one of the secondary colors for an entire year.  Mere blurbs, blogging and Facebook just don't cut it any more.  You need to get former professors, imminent poets, and previous flavors of the month to sing your praise in blurbs, on their blogs, and on Facebook.

Said promotion will go further if you can get any of the following poets to sing your praise:  W.S. Merwin, John Ashbery, Philip Levine, Mark Doty, Maxine Kumin, Marie Howe, Dorian Laux, Marvin Bell, or Naomi Shihab Nye.

Status: Done.


Step Four:  Video Trailers.  Do them yourself or have a friend do them, but by god, they work.  Nothing says "Too Cool for School" better than  a video trailer of your book processed with scratches and sepia tone to make it look all retro.  And if one is good, then fifteen must be better.  Go hog wild.  Well, go tofu wild because a lot of poets are vegan. 

Said video trailers will have more of an impact if they are contrary while remaining true to the overall thesis of your manuscript.  How do you do that?  Two words: Trailer. Park.

Status: In the works.


Step Five: Swag.  I know swag is on its way out, but that's why you need to use it.  You need to demonstrate your non-conformist tendencies by displaying your adherence to barely out of fashion trends within the poetry community.  The best swag will of course be ironic.  Now you have a decision to make.  Do you want to express irony with your swag in a "I know swag is out of style and that's why I am so awesome by giving you swag which is silly and funny" or, do you want to express your irony by saying "I know swag is out of style and as such, I will be making a commentary on swag itself by giving you authentic and genuinely nice swag"?

Said swag should never, under any circumstances, be an expression of the poets genuine investiture regarding the emotional state of the readers.  In fact, it is considered a plus if the poet demonstrates a continual state of mild irritation regarding the reader.

Status: Done.


Step Six: Wait.  After having followed every "rule" for becoming the next big superstar of the poetry world, simply sit back and wait for greatness to be thrust upon you.  Remember the cardinal rule of this phase of the game:  Let those around you do all of the worrying and so-called heavy lifting.  Poetry is about standing on the shoulders of giants and taking all of the credit.  No poet ever gets to be canonized by being a nice guy and being genuinely in love with poetry.  It's a poet-eat-poet  world out there, and poetry has taught us anything (and it hasn't) you owe the world nothing.  It's the world who owes you everything.

Status:  About to start.

* * *

You know, I am so close on so many of these things.  Boy, this fame thing is going to be a good move for me.  I am so happy I decided to be a poet.

Every Word My Last

Just now I was reading a book of poems by the late Ken Brewer, and I stumbled upon a strange thought.  Ken passed away when this book was about to be published, dying from pancreatic cancer.  While sad, that isn't my stranger thought.  My strange thought was wondering how long he knew this was most likely going to be his last book.  I have this thought on occasion.  The first time I listened to John Coltrane's Giant Steps, I wondered if he knew his death was 11 years away, what I would be doing 11 years before I died---if I had already done that.  Probably not, but that isn't my point.

I have always had a fatalistic approach to my writing.  As a young poet I am sure that helped to write many of the dark and teen-angst filled dreck I was writing at the time, but later it still serves me.  With every writing project I complete, I literally believe for a short while what I have just completed will be the last thing I ever write.  I don't mean to think so, and I hope I am not looking at the issue from a this is my legacy perspective, but I do.  I look at what I have completed and I cannot imagine anything ever coming to me with the same sense of renewal as my last project brought along.  I cannot perceive of anything being interesting enough to ever write a poem about.  In fact, for weeks and sometimes months after, I find writing poetry distasteful, too much effort, and quite boring.

That's not the model.  I am supposed to be passionate about writing, but in the wake of completing a manuscript, my writing suffers.  Even this blog suffers.  I lose interest and I become obsessed with seeing the final product of my efforts even though I don't have the energy I am supposed to have to work on it any longer.  Many of the poets I admire are writing two or three different manuscript at once.  Others have a slower pace to writing and simply write a few poems every year.  Still others write furiously every day as if their lives depended on finishing a draft or two every day.

Here's what I am wondering:  Do we share a fatalism only to express it in a variety of ways?  A friend of mine once said, "I have written thousands of poems, and I would give them all up to write another one."  That's devotion, as are the other habits I listed above.  I wonder if my fatalism is my way of making what I write count for something more. 

Some day I will want to write more poetry, but right now I am feeling a little ambivalent about not wanting to write.  I almost feel like a traitor, a liar, and a fraud all wrapped into one because I am not writing poetry.  Having been through this several times before, I know I really won't be interested in writing poetry until I become genuinely afraid I have written my last poem.  Even then it will be a struggle to get back up on the horse.

Getting This Started

My book is supposed to be coming out this summer, so now is the time to stat setting these things up.  I do not find this work tasteful, but I see both its worth and its effectiveness, so on to the publicity.  I want to do this book release the right way.  I am finished hiding my light under a bushel.

I am looking for anyone who might be interested in having me come out to a classroom to do a reading and workshop.  I am also looking for people who might be willing to conduct interviews with me.  Primarily I am looking to make readings happen within Utah and Nevada, and interviews anywhere I can.  Why Utah and Nevada?  Because there is a much stronger possibility I can make this happen money-wise if such events are local.  So if you, or anyone you know needs a guest reader/poet for a class or two, please get in contact with me or pass along this information.

To be honest, I am more than just new to this sort of thing, I am a newborn infant in this world.  This is my second full length book, but I have never tried to schedule this sort of thing, and that's why I am asking all of you for help.  I need to get out there and get past my fear of asking for help when it comes to promoting my work and my value as an artist.

Places I can get to in Utah within a day or two:

In Utah, I can get anywhere along the Wasatch Front same or next day, guaranteed.  I can go as far as Cedar City and St. George by the next day, and I am willing to do the reading and workshop for what essentially amounts to gas money.  I have the ability to take days off from work (with over a semester's worth of sick leave) and I am willing to do so.

I must admit I fantasize about somebody wanting me to fly across the nation to participate in a reading and run a workshop.  I know that is as likely to happen as winning the lottery, but I need to put it all out on the table.  If anyone knows a guy who knows a girl who has a professor friend who is coordinating a reading series, I am interested in hearing about it.  Again, without any university affiliation of my own, I know this is not very likely.  Here then are some things about me to keep in mind.

My strengths:

Poetry of place.  Haibun and haiku.  Landscape meditation.

Where I would like to do my thing:

Anywhere, really.  I am willing to read and conduct a workshop from colleges all the way to middle schools.  Historical Societies and community workshops are right up my alley.

When:

Ideally I would like to get things set up in the Fall, but I am willing to get going to non-academic settings in the summer as well.

____________

How is this supposed to work?  On the contact page you will find my e-mail.  Simply pass on my information to who you know, or pass on their information to me.

Easy.

Rebel Rebel

Today's mini-rant is all about being a rebel.  As a high school teacher, I see kids trying to express their individuality on a daily basis, and with a very few exceptions, they are all miserable failures.  When I point this out to them I almost always immediately get a quizzical look, revealing they don't understand what it is to be a rebel.  Next, they give me that defiant look that says, "Hey!  I'm unique.  I am a rebel."  That's when I finish their sentence with: "Just like all of your friends."  It takes a few seconds, but most catch on to the strange predicament they have walked themselves into in the attempt to set themselves apart from the crowd.

The poetry community is much the same.  Yes it is.  Think for a moment.  Most of us, while many have their own voice, still fit within the confines of the cliched box.  We are terrified of that box, and many of us believe being poets sets us apart from the crowd, but we are in fact, simply trying to be different, just like all of our poet friends.  I don't excuse myself from this distinction.  I want to be perfectly clear what I am going to be talking about for the next few paragraphs in no way excuses me from the status of sheep or lemming, or mindless poetry zombie---pick your image.  I am different, just like all of my poet friends.

Thin about it.  On Facebook, how many of your so-called friends are poets?  How many of those poets talk about being published and talk about writing issues and being rejected over and over?  How many of them (us) toot our horn when we get a really good acceptance, or have a book taken by a publisher?  How many of us play the same corporate game of poetry we see everyone else playing?  More?  How many poets out there do you know of who are true rebels?  I mean the kind who truly go against the grain.  I can think of a couple.  Bill Knott comes to mind, and I am certain if I was to put a few minutes of serious thought to it I could name a hand-full more. 

Now put that in terms of how we support poetry.  How many people talk about how difficult the contest system is in the poetry world, but day after day and week after week, keep sending in their manuscripts to contests because of some secret desire they have to be able to put that in their bio?  I know I struggle with it every day, or most every day.  Hardly a day passes where I don't wonder what it would be like to be the poetry world's little darling or flavor of the month, to have my poetry accepted by some of the name journals, to have "winner of the ________________ contest for emerging poets.  I am being sincere.  I want these things and I am not certain how to feel about them or the fact I want them.

For years I have been urging people to support poetry presses by other means than entering contests.  Contests are so limiting.  It is my belief they literally stifle the creativity in poetry.  The entire poetry community is homogenous if your sample pool is wide enough, but I am not speaking of all of us fitting into a mold we can all recognize.  I am talking about expectations.  If all we do is envision the contest system as our means of book publication, we begin to move towards that which we think will win contests.  Isn't it already bad enough inside our heads as poets?  In my head I am constantly hearing my own little private radio station, passages and lines continually drifting in and out of earshot, and I ignore most of them, waiting for me to focus in on what I think poetry is.  It's my own little censor, but what if the poetry I ignore or am perhaps too fearful to write down is a new direction calling to me?  I think it's the same with poetry at large.  For the most part, too many poets are shaping their language to their perceptions of what they see going on, allowing what has come before to have too much of an imprint on their own poetry. 

I don't mean this to be a condemnation, just an acknowledgement, an idea of what I see happening.  I am continually blown away with the beautiful words from so many poets.  But if I am truthful, I see a lot of poetry that is trying to be the same thing, even if that same thing is trying to be different like all the other poems out there.  I certainly am not free from this reality.  I still write to please too many people.  That is, too much of what I write is written trying to please more than myself.  I just happen to think if more poets would go around the contest system, we would see a lot more diversity in poetry---even more than we see now. 

Of course, that diversity comes at a cost, because we poets need to support presses by buying books, and not just books written by our friends.  We need to buy books which constitute a risk.  I have bought many books I do not like.  I have purchased books by poets who write in a voice and/or style I will never write in, and I do so willingly.  I have said it before, but one of the things I admire most about Ron Silliman, even though we write nothing alike, is his willingness to read almost everything and anything.  He buys books and reads.  He rarely gives out praise and that's fine, but I respect his opinion because he reads the poetry I like, and he reads the kind of poetry I write.  he may not ever like any poem of mine, but he dares to take up the banner and march forward.

So, rock on with your poetry, but let your wallet do the heavy lifting and make a real change.  Be a rebel.  Be like me.