redefining failure

When I supposedly quit teaching last Spring, one of the things I looked forward to doing more intentionally was write poetry. During my sabbatical, I had planned a similar thing but was open to trying a variety of styles: I took a 1-day play-writing workshop at Portland Center Stage (wherein I had a minor anxiety attack on my walk from parking garage to classroom but overall had a useful and not-mortifying experience, plus made a Facebook friend in the delightful + highly accomplished teacher/playwright [namedrop ahead] Adam Szymkowicz, though I have still created nothing remotely like a play); went to two meetings of PDX Playwrights and participated in a table reading, which was extremely gratifying at the time but otherwise did not inspire a masterpiece; watched rehearsal for a staged reading production that was immensely interesting though again, didn't result in me developing a thing; and I entered a mentally exhausting short story contest through NYC Midnight that somehow earned me an Honorable Mention, which I will forever hold in irrationally high esteem. Poetry has always been an occasional exorcising exercise for me, and sometimes I revise it for other people to read. This year I decided to explore the world of Deliberately Writing Poems And Maybe Getting Paid For It.

First though, I paid someone to be my guide into the publishing world because I thought it would be good for advice + accountability. Yet, after 50+ years of being me, I'm finally admitting that I usually do/don't do what I want regardless of whether it's good for me or an egregious waste of money. My writing workshop leader is wonderful and I do not begrudge her in any way the fee or cost of her book - I have found a lot of the planning tips & goal setting worksheets useful, and checking in on the web forum every week [or three] with her and other writers also helps me to put my thoughts & ideas in order. But it has also made me realize, after a few months of frenzied and slightly distressing submissions to poetry journals, that Being A Writer is not really what I want to do; I just want to write.

The first two places I sent poems this year both accepted my work right away; at the time this certainly meant I was a Capital P Poet at long last, so I set up a daily writing & revising schedule then chose ridiculously esoteric places to submit. But when the rejection emails began to arrive, mercifully staggered and gentle yet still disheartening I, in dismal role model fashion, abandoned my routine and went back to simply writing every few days while eating breakfast on my porch, revising occasionally because something lodges in my brain for hours, only considering submission to small obscure journals craving content.

I like writing. I sometimes savor revision. And of course I appreciate recognition, but that isn't the goal.

Just like when I was teaching. So there I am again, gladly.
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Stopping Time, featured in the Poetry Moves program through Artstra & C-Tran


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Gunning for Manhood, featured in Porcupine Literary

Consider these boys,
the ones thick with scars
from sitting down and shutting up,
tearing down and manning up;
the ones who keep the hammer cocked.

Young girl on the bus sees these boys:

thick bodies smashing space,

grabbing brawn like starving dogs,

yowling aimlessly in the aisle,

sneaking fearful glances.

Click.

Wary girl on campus eyes these boys:

sure bodies brawling bravado,

parting crowds like prized princes,

catcalling crassly in hallways,

disguising desperate desires.

Click.

Teacher at her desk notices these boys:

sharp bodies cleaving feelings,
battering emotions like dangerous boxers,

waiting warily in shadows,

dismissing sorrow and grief.

Consider these boys,
the ones who run and punch and yell and rail

and kick and scrape and howl and break,

the ones who would rather pull a trigger

than hurt
out
loud.