Care And Feeding Of The Rejected Poet

I am a poetry toddler. Although I’ve been writing poetry since the first grade, have had a Master of Fine Arts degree in Creative Writing emphasizing poetry and nonfiction for nearly a decade, and been involved in the local poetry “community” for many, many years – I am a poetry toddler.

Earlier this year, I submitted my poetry chapbook to my first “contest.” I’ve had a good amount of success getting the individual poems published in literary journals. I thought I had a grip on that golden horseshoe, the lucky winner, the chosen one, as I held my book in my hands.

I was not shy about letting people know that I had a “good feeling” about submitting my chapbook. People were nice and said great things, which of course egged me on to believing that my work had a chance, a shot with this small press. I had put all my eggs in one basket. This was the contest for me. If I did not win, I would at least be a finalist!

Damn. Have you ever had to eat crow? It ferments in your mouth like rotten grapes. It gets stuck to your teeth. You can’t even remove it with floss. Crow is finding out that you were way out of your league. You were toddling around in a messy diaper at the prom.

Last week, when I received the email letting me down softly and announcing who won the contest, I put down my pen and stuck my thumb in my poet mouth. Also, there were the finalists, great poets who I adore and admire and would never put my poems “up against.”

It’s been a week or so. In that week, I went back and read two important books that had been calling to me for months. Lola Haskins’ Not Feathers Yet: A Beginners Guide to the Poetic Life; and Ordering The Storm: How to Put Together a Book of Poems, an anthology edited by Susan Grimm. They are my Dr. Spock, helping with the care and training (and revision) of this toddler.

Alas, I overhauled my manuscript. It’s been on the floor (I tossed it up in the air), my desk, the couch, my bed (yes, I slept with it one night.) It’s been candy, a dish that I can’t walk by without picking up a random piece (page) and chewing on it.

Later this week, I will remove my binky/ego and send the thing out again. Nobody likes to see a toddler with a binky. I will leave the terrible twos behind for the get over it threes. One day, I will be ready for that prom, poems pinned to my breast, a corsage smelling of tenacity, hope.

THE BIG POETRY GIVEAWAY 2013!

Thank you to my dear friend, Poet Susan Rich for facilitating the 2013 BIG POETRY GIVEAWAY! To start, I am following both Susan and Kelli Russell Agodon’s lead and sharing a little snapshot of myself. Did you know . . .

1. I quit beauty school when I was a senior in high school.

2. I shook President Bill Clinton’s hand while saying something totally inappropriate.

3. I eat Cheetos with a fork.

4. I wrote my first poem in a fort I built under a winter apple tree.

5. I was the worst sugar plum fairy in history.

6. My chapbook,”How To Talk To Your Schizophrenic Child” will be published this year.

7. My six sons can say, “My Mother Wore Combat Boots” as I am an authentic WAC Army Veteran.

8. My religion is love.

*****

My heart skips a beat when I know I am going to hear the next poet read. She’s my homegirl from Olympia and she is just a lovely woman.

The first book I’d like to give away is Olympia Poet Jeanne Lohmann’s beautiful collection, “As If Words”, which chronicles the years of her marriage with humor and sensuality. Poet Joseph Stroud says of the book, “an extraordinary celebration of the deep and abiding love of a lifetime between two people . . .” It’s hard to pick just one poem to share:

Rosemary

Pruning the dark green spikes,
shaping the overgrown bush
to manageable form, I
cut the lopsided arms,
make room for lemon thyme
and lavender.

Between my breasts a broken sprig
sharp as grief remembered,
bruises my skin. The smell of rosemary
assaults me in the sun
and I do not want to go indoors
or change my clothes.

*****

The second book I will be gifting some lucky “winner” is Sheila Bender’s, “A New Theology – Turning To Poetry In a Time Of Grief.” This book of prose and poetry delivered me last fall from a tough time after the disappearance of one of my adult sons who lives with mental illness. I felt like Sheila was in the room with me, arm around shoulder, telling me to write through the pain. Writer Sue Silverman says of the book, “Bender’s voice, her poetry and her prose interwoven guides us through her journey of grief to a new theology of life . . . we, as readers, find help and hope for our own healing, regardless of the nature of our loss.”

So, what do you have to do to win one of these books? It’s easy! For details go to:

http://thealchemistskitchen.blogspot.com/2013/03/sign-up-now-to-participate-in-big.html

I will put everyone’s name in my favorite vintage hat and draw the lucky winners on May 1, 2013. If you win, you will receive your book in the mail soon after that. If you can’t wait or don’t feel LUCKY, please go to your nearest independent bookstore and buy one or both of these books. You’ll be happy with either.

Finally, HAPPY NATIONAL POETRY MONTH! Wrap poems around your being for the next 30 days. Your spirit will sing. Your soul will smile.

For The Love Of Deadlines

I thrive on them. They are my caffeine-injected whoopee cushions.

I’ve done everything around here I can possibly do. Even re-copied my to-do list. Now, it’s time to write. No, maybe I’d better go make some toast. On the way to make toast, I notice the kitchen floor needs to be swept. While grabbing the broom in the laundry room, I remember there are wet clothes in the washer. When I open the dryer, I find a clean load that needs to be folded.

Four hours later, I sit down to write but fall asleep in my “writing chair” after covering up with a bath towel from the clean clothes pile. I wake up one hour later. It’s 2 pm. I’ve got two hours to get a couple of new poems from my head to the page before tomorrow‘s weekly writing group meets. There’s also that 3,000-word essay/article, which also needs to be in by tomorrow that I’ve not yet begun.

This is the stuff I live for. Bliss. In my reporter days, it made my editor nuts. I was a car, and stories were my tank of gas. The more I could drive down the road the better. This same editor called me in her office one day and said, “I’m pushing you from the nest.” I’d driven her crazy. She fired me.

I went on to earn a BA and an MFA in Creative Writing. It never would have happened if I’d not been “released.” I thrived in college because of the deadline-oriented world it was – both as an undergrad and in grad school. I gave myself a 9 pm deadline to finish this blog post. It’s 8:36 pm now. I will top off the night reading a friend’s new chapbook of poems.

Many of tomorrow’s 3,000 words will come to me before morning. I’ll drive them to the keyboard by noon. Away we’ll go on our journey to familiar territory. One nail biting milepost at a time.

What A Sham . . .

If you know me, yes, this really is my bed. I call it Old Ironsides. Ironically, it’s made (drum roll). There are no books laying where a potential some day mate may rest his head. This is a miracle. It took buying some new bedding – bazillion thread count organic cotton sheets, a new down comforter and a lovely botanical-themed duvet cover. I mulled this purchase for months.

I thought I might want to go back to bed mid-morning after it was made. Instead, it’s so dazzling I don’t want to touch it. I even called Leo the cat “little fucker” when he wanted to nest near the new shams.

I have the same relationship with poems. I need to think and think, let the words percolate by doing busy work like errands or messing with my flower pots outside. Once I sit down to make the poem, when it is finished, its sheets tucked neatly between mattress and box-spring, I don’t want to touch it. It’s for looking at like a painting in a museum.

Sadly, this approach does not work anymore. I am learning to embrace revision. I actually like it. To climb back in bed with one of my poems, to see it with new eyes, is a luxury. I don’t worry about the mess I’m about to make. Everything is fixable. And, although I don’t use a red pen on my poems (aqua blue), I do look at the work with a critical eye, always asking myself, “If this were in a journal would I skip over it or read it? Is this piece compelling enough to take the reader’s time away from something else?”Finally, my deadlines are met for the day. The cat is fed and better not be on the bed. I’m going go revise in my dreams while I nap, after I toss a half dozen books on the other side. Filler for now.

Panning For Self

I’ve got a theme song. Whether I am going to the grocery store, the bank, or out to get the mail, I hear the Lenny Kravitz version of American Woman. It’s loud. Sometimes I sing along. If I’m in my house, I add a little bump-n-grind.

I started hearing the music (not audibly) after I hung a saying over my writing space. The colorful poster states: Have only one rule: Be your wild, courageous, brilliant self every single day. No matter what.

Guess this is what they call mojo? That confidence you get from within that says, I kick ass. Let me go kick some ass. Yes. Some days I wake up with the feeling I could pan gold and find the mother lode. The universe has placed boxing gloves on my bony hands and told me to go get em!

This moxy magic is new to me. For many years, I’ve fished for my self-esteem in murky waters. Depression stuck me to a chair with its thumb. I stayed in that chair (literally) for nearly a decade. When I got sick of myself, my situation, I changed it. For me, it took meds and therapists and building boundaries. I also forgave myself.

Go pick yourself a daffodil from the neighbor’s yard. Tell them I said it was okay. Troll through the music in your mind, and pick a song that makes you puff up your chest. Turn your hallway into a catwalk, and strut your bad self. Do this over and over until it’s like brushing your teeth.

Self-esteem can grow if you weed out the crap that is snuffing it out -bad relationships, memories, failure, guilt/shame. Things like that. Surround yourself with people who pan for that gold right beside you. Let your song be the soundtrack of the person you want to be.

I’m Every Woman (sorta)

 I am currently participating in an amazing professional development program through Artist Trust in Seattle. The program, EDGE, is for literary artists. Each Saturday we assemble at Seattle Pacific University to learn the “business” side of our craft. It’s career development at warp speed.

This writer/poet is totally right-brained. I easily jump on the train of the Artist Bio, Statement and Resume. No Problem. Yesterday’s session was all about taxes and budgets and there were moments when I felt faint, like I was going to slip under the rails of that train. This morning, I woke up playing with spreadsheets, plotting a real budget (not the fake one I did for homework last week). I am excited to look at my “business” with fresh eyes.

Another requirement of the program is having a professional head shot done (see above). I am very grateful to Seattle Photographer, Susan Brown, for doing my photos yesterday. She captured the spirit of me, the writer. Nothing fancy. We met at lunch. By the end of the day, Susan sent me a bevy of photos to select from which told the story of my many moods from playful to melancholy.

I can’t say enough about Artist Trust and EDGE. I learn best by doing things hands-on, from the interactive curriculum, including weekly instruction by the “Cream of the Crop” professionals in their fields, to the specialized presentations, panel discussions and assignments. Most importantly, I am building friendships and networking with other writers who are as serious as I am about their craft.