Workshopping Again: New Venue, New Approach

 

It’s been some time since I’ve facilitated one of my RANDOM WRITING workshops. Even pre-Pandemic, I struggled to find a venue and to frame the perimeters of a series. After having coffee with Will Nixon about six months ago, I realized that Lissa Kiernan and I had been batting this idea around for a couple years, and that I should just go ahead and formally propose it to her, to be held at the Poetry Barn in Hurley.

In this age of transformation in Ulster County, the Poetry Barn is one of those nice additions that does much to enhance the artistic landscape. Poetry in particular has always been the red-headed stepchild of the arts, and to have a permanent facility devoted to its promotion, via workshops, book signings, and a lending library, is a fortunate occurrence indeed. Readings wander from home to home, at the mercy of capitalist whims and needs. A series will go on for a year or two, then suddenly cease when the gallery or bar closes, or when the demands of a so-called public space become too much for a moderator to bear.

The Poetry Barn has proven itself for almost six years now, and I am happy to report that I will be instigating a four-part workshop series there in July. I say “instigate” because I don’t really believe the writing of poetry can be taught. Examples of forms can be offered, triggers for memory or emotion can be displayed, but I believe that anyone in attendance already has an innate sense of what poetry is to them, and where they want to go with their work. I enjoy this group format because it’s more efficient than sending work out to various publishers and receiving little to no feedback, even if poems are accepted for inclusion.

I believe above all else that poems are a form of communication, be they literal, abstract, or tethered to a rigid form. Words are for relating ideas or emotions to other humans. If the message isn’t getting across, wouldn’t you want to know before years pass? I’ve certainly come across many poets who, instead of striving for clarity, defend the words they’ve chosen. Often these arguments go on for longer than the poem in question! If your goal is mere entertainment, smokes and mirrors without substance, have at it. I think words deserve better.

Of course, for me sincerity carries a lot of weight in a poem. The more one writes, the clearer one’s ideas will usually become. If you begin by discarding cliches, avoid regurgitating notions you’ve seen in the Hallmark card aisle, that’s as solid a start as one can hope for. And if you never show anyone your poems, I think it’s a terrible shame. But it is your choice. I understand fear of criticism, or worse, no reaction at all. But poems live their fullest lives out in the open. We live our best life as poets when we put the words out for others to consider.

Poetry has made my life delicious. It’s a portable art that requires no more of an investment than paper and pen. And I do insist on handheld writing instruments for first drafts. In this age of computer word programs, a pen will slow one down just enough to see what comes next. Paper is no commitment, by any means. Rewriting is common, and I even go back to my first drafts if I feel the third or fourth version is falling a little flat. There I’ll find a few of the original sparks that drove me to write in the first place.

My RANDOM WRITING  workshop series at the Poetry Barn is on July 7,14, 21 & 28, from 6:30- 8:30pm. Tuition is $150 for all four sessions, and there may even still be a scholarship spot available. For more information, please go to https://www.poetrybarn.co/ for more information.

 See you there?

*Poem: "Kimmie and That Dress"

  

Kimmie and That Dress

 

‘How did she fit her big, fat, luscious ass

into that slender beam of history?’ I thought.

She says it took a crash, 16 pounds, real suffering

to get it on, and even then she only rode

the red carpet, no stairs, no wine,

Met Gala first, a piece of Marilyn in the house.

And first it felt like violating a sacred relic,

as if some Fifteen Minute Diva nailed

a saint’s shriveled limb to her breast,

or conned the Smithsonian into loaning

Ruby Slippers for a night on the town.

 

Then, I tried to imagine how Marilyn would feel,

so close to the end, however it came,

on the outs with her studio, lingering flu

or worse, standing for fittings in this wonderful

sculpture cut to her exact frame. Legend has it

she was sewn into it, probably no access

to toilet or chair, but in those Garden lights,

her hair glowed cotton candy, her voice

its natural state of breathless romance.

Was it for John or Bobby? Publicity stunt to

get the fans back on her side?

 

This dress, six-thousand crystals,

illusion of nudity, hearkens back to her early days

of calendar poses, was among her mortal effects

when she died naked, found by the housekeeper,

bottle of pills that may or may not have been the cause. 

She favored Pucci in those last days, 

not the gowns we like to imagine her in,

Pucci and cozy sweaters, champagne, 

her new Mexican house barely furnished.

 

She lived like an orphan, though technically not one,

like someone who’d packed and unpacked her whole life. 

A few books, a ring from Joe, diamond missing,

and this dress, still warm from New York’s hot lights.

Whose hands snipped the threads that released her?

Was it folded neatly? Tossed in a corner with a sigh?

Did she crawl into bed, alone or not, pull sheets

tight around her storied body, drift off, we hope, to sleep?

 

What Would Marilyn Do about Kimmie’s performance?

I think she might wish her well, that dress, that song

having done her little good. It is bold to think for Marilyn at all. 

Back to the freak show the dress goes, another night in its history,

Ripley himself grinning from beyond at all the publicity,

Marilyn rolling over, plumping the pillow,

stardust falling from the ceiling.

 

 CAR   5/3/22

 

 

Putting It Together: DIY Chapbooks

 

About once a year, I try to make my own chapbook. I have a halfway decent printer, although I still mourn my old HP, which served me well for ten years. The new HP requires an internet account with HP, and like all so-called updates, has added unnecessary steps to accomplish what should be simple tasks. I don’t buy that “improvements behind the scenes” crap either. Built-in obsolescence at its finest. But I’ve figured it out pretty much, and as soon as that color ink cartridge arrives (cheapest at Amazon, though I’ve minimized my purchases there) I’ll be ready to go.

There are programs out there to make my life easier when it comes to doing layouts, but I fumble through it pretty much manually. Last of the great eye ballers, I should write down more of my method while I’m doing it, but no. That would be no challenge! The layout is horizontal, and I create two columns. I fool with the margins and gutter, whatever that is, and print up a lot of test pages before going into full production. Hence, my press runs are quite small. I just don’t have the patience to create 500 copies of a 20-page chapbook. And actually, thank goodness it is a chapbook, because I still haven’t figured out how to number the pages. With a work this brief, it’s unnecessary, truly.

I do have fun with the cover, and that’s one of the big attractions for me to do it myself. The illusion of total control. I’ve been dabbling in collage and other visual expressions, but they’re really not clicking for me. With this chapbook, I’ve defaulted to a simple design that has served me for several volumes: white cover, black title and author lines in various fonts, and a photo added from my phone or elsewhere. I feel like I cheated a little with this one, since although the poems are from a monthly series I did in 2015, the photo dates from a year or two later. It’s cropped from a larger image, and was taken in the Royal Ontario Museum in Toronto. It seems to suit the mood, and grab the eye.

I’ll have the place to myself this weekend, so we’ll see where all the daily chores of living a decent human life fall on the list. I may just focus on this, and give myself something new to offer on April 30^th, when I take part in a Poetry Month marathon at the Woodstock Library. In person. Real people. I can hardly wrap my head around it.