Stuck in the Middle: A Longtime Writer’s Whine

 

 

 

At this point, I have been writing something for over 50 years. As a child, I could easily whip off a short story or poem about whatever the teacher used as a prompt, and I can still do that today. For a few years I aspired to be a journalist, and wrote for a few local papers (!) and magazines as a freelancer. I was able to regurgitate a basic news story format, as well as a colorful review or account of an event. When that proved less than a living wage, I reverted to being primarily a poet. In poetry, there are no illusions of financial profit, but for me there’s been a wealth of personal satisfaction I would never have gained in any other so-called “career.”

I have assembled a respectable list of credits, and even had a book published by a mere acquaintance instead of a close friend, a major achievement in my view. I have self-published several chapbooks, and even won a contest or two. I’ve enjoyed the accolades that being a featured reader can bring, and truly appreciate all the nice (and even critical) response to my work.

Quality-wise, I feel myself hitting a wall of sorts. I want to be better, more effective, less derivative. I see the work of others and sometimes want to pack it all in, and move on to whatever people who don’t write do. My time to write is limited, but I know that despite what some instructors tell you, the Muse cannot always be lured to my desk when time allows. My poetry especially is dependent on whims and wisps of inspiration, a problem when it comes time to assemble a manuscript. I know poets who can create whole volumes on a theme. I have never come up with successful work this way. Any books I’ve put together have been cobbled  out of the flotsam of words that lurks in my files. If a theme emerges, I cannot take the least bit of credit for it.

Getting better, getting closer to the quality of work I aspire to is at this point a strictly personal journey. I’ve attended many retreats and workshops over the years, but the last few were disappointments. Not because of the instructors, but because they turned out to be aimed at beginners, and I am not in that category. One workshop even used prompts very similar to the ones I myself have used when instigating my own classes. There is no stretch in them for me. I have met some wonderful people, and I miss that part of being an active writer in the Hudson Valley for sure. Since the Pandemic, many venues have closed, or can no longer welcome a poetry gathering for free or minimal payment. And I get it—utilities, rents, salaries have all increased. The spirits of many entrepreneurs might be willing, but the flesh, the actual means of survival financially and otherwise has become a strain.

Zoom has been a great substitute for in-person gatherings, but it has not filled all the gaps. Calling All Poets has reverted to a strictly-Zoom format, and this enables writers from all around the country, and the world, to participate. But I miss the local community, the closeness of a tribe that needs its own to feel less alone in a world where writing is increasingly disregarded, disrespected, and dismissed.

Robert Milby was a tremendous advocate for the art of spoken word, and ran a series of open mics throughout the Valley and especially in Orange County for many years. He fell ill last April, and passed away in December. Already he is missed, the last hardcore troubadour following in the footsteps of Poe and Baudelaire. I’m hosting a memorial event in his honor at the Elting Library in New Paltz on April 13, just five days before what would have been his 55 birthday. It’s been postponed twice due to weather, and the Hudson Valley being what it is, I don’t think we’re out of the woods yet. It will be strictly live, despite the capability of live streaming. I don’t think Robert would object.

There are small salons around too, where folks share work without the pressure of a prompt or leader. I have participated in such groups, too, but a beneficial one can be tricky. There are the show boaters, those who’ve joined not to share and grow, but to merely perform, look for applause. Too many of these make for a dull couple of hours. I have so few hours available, fewer every day. And what will become of all my work? Some is out there now, cozied up between the pages of one journal or another. Some of it lurks in the file cabinets that surround my blessed desk. I even have a flash drive, easy to grab in case of fire. Would any of it be missed if a fire took it all? I don’t suppose it will matter when I’ve dropped this body. But the pursuit of betterment, the elusive perfection that writers seek and never find, make for a richness of life that I really can’t imagine going without.

Contrary to tradition, Emily Dickinson did send a few of her poems out for feedback. It’s hard not to. Poems are words, and the primary job of words is to communicate thoughts and feelings. I know I’ve accomplished that much. Maybe others will follow me, connect with the similarities, pity the differences. Feel more human together. It has done that much for me.

National Poetry Month- Not Just For Poets!

Some of you non-poets out there (and if you’re a non-poet and reading this blog on a regular basis, you have my undying gratitude) might have the impression that National Poetry Month ranks right up there with “National Salami Sandwich Day,” or “Grandparents Day.” It may at first glance give the impression of being the Hallmarkiest of Hallmark Holidays, spread out over thirty of them. However, unlike those other gift grabs, National Poetry Month requires no sending of cards or expensive gifts (unless you’re so inclined… PM me for my address)!

National Poetry Month was started by the Academy of American Poets in 1996, but the need had existed for years. Remember all those little quaint schoolhouses you see in the movies where pupils painfully stumbled through poems they’d been forced to memorize? Well, those days are long gone. Even when I was in grade school, for the better part of the 1970s, poetry got short shrift in lesson plans. If it hadn’t been for my mother reading to us from a wonderful collection called The Big Golden Book of Poetry (long out of print, but much sought after), I may not have been exposed to much verse at all. And without trying, I committed long passages to memory about Little Orphant Annie and the Owl & the Pussycat that ring around my brain to this day.

Bullwinkle the Moose was a poetry supporter early on, too. His short segments on “Bullwinkle’s Corner,” introduced several new generations to the likes of Poe and Wordsworth. Without changing a word of the poems, he and Jay Ward created amusing visual interpretations that illuminated the work in a new way, as poetry should be enjoyed uniquely by each new reader or listener.

It’s probably still the case that outside of literary circles, not much is heard about National Poetry Month. Around my house, my Roommate is pretty sick of it already. I’ve got two short gigs booked already, including “Readings Against the End of the World,” sponsored by Albany Poets on April 21^st. I’ve signed up for 11:00am, and there’s still space on the open mic list if you’d like to join me. As Dan Wilcox reminds us, “In Albany, every day is Poetry Month!” Not every city is so lucky to have a wizard like Dan to make that true.

Here in New York’s Hudson Valley, live poetry is on the upswing once again, despite the apparent demise recently of two longtime readings. Check your local listings, or drop me a line. Better yet, I’m always up for a drink or dinner in April, if you’re craving a lengthy discussion on the merits of literature in the 21^st century. And, I’m always up for a free meal in April.