For regular readers, it may come as a bit of a shock, but I am in the
process of applying to read at the 2020 edition of the Dodge Poetry Festival. I’ll wait for you to pick yourself up off
the floor, tip your lower jaw back up to close your gaping mouth. But, wait.
Let me explain…
In the last few months, I’ve been trying to seriously up my poetry
game. I’m putting myself out there as much as work and life allows. I’ve read
in a few places that are totally new to me, to people that are new to me as
well. I’m sending work out a little more, and get things published at a higher
rate, fulfilling my own theory that there is someplace for every poem you
write. I’m even helping out an old friend by acting as Poetry Editor until the
end of the year. Well, that last thing isn’t really a burden, so much as
offering me the concentrated pleasure of saying ‘no’ repeatedly to 90% of the
dreck that comes in for consideration. I know what I like, and I know what’s
worth the space at this point.
In any case, as I was surfing the Almighty Internet the other day, I
stumbled upon a link to the Dodge Festival, coming up in autumn of next year.
Not just a link to the festival itself, but a link leading to the details of
the application process to actually be a featured reader. In all these years I’d
never considered myself worthy, and even now, I know that the Big Guns of
Academia will be chosen before me. However, as I considered all the moving
parts required, I realized that it would be a relatively simple thing to pull
them together. I could manage to do a bit each day, between calls or before
work itself. I certainly had freshly revised poems hanging around—there’s a
book deal in the works that I will discuss when things are more definite. For
now though, let’s say picking out twenty pages of what I feel is my strongest,
most crowd-pleasing work was a relatively painless process.
A Poetry CV, or “Curriculum Vitae,” more commonly found in the world of
arts & literature than a resume’ also existed in my files in a rough form.
I pared it down to the most impressive credits so that it would all fit on two
pages. In the process I brought my records regarding publication up to date.
So, ultimately, when I get that letter of “thanks-no-thanks,” the whole
endeavor will have been at least an opportunity to bring everything here at Casa Diva up to date.
Now, I have been a pretty vocal critic of the Dodge’s current
incarnation. I understand the Foundation has gone through some hard times, and
partnering with the City of Newark
was the only way to have any kind of festival at all. I am sad that I’ll never
wander the hallowed grounds of Waterloo
Village, stopping at the mill to hear Lucille
Clifton, or rising at dawn to hear Coleman
Barks recite Rumi in the early
mist. I tried Newark, and it was a different festival. No wandering from tent
to tent, no easy forest charm. But, if it was the only way, I have to give
credit for ingenuity where credit is due.
And instead of the Big Tent, dancing with colored lights, there is NJPAC. A shining chandelier hangs from
the ceiling, modern and classical all at once, and its charm, in all my disgruntled
fussing, did not escape me. However, I needed a break. Life was calling, love
on a full-time basis was in the offing, and the Dodge fell low on my list of
priorities. Now, some of my favorite poets have passed both big names and small
town heroes. In fact, like a river we all swim in, the flow carries more and
more away each year. I don’t like to think of myself as a time-waster, but so
often that’s what I’ve done. I’ve had my rest. What time is left is for
passions and delights, blessed by a sudden clarity of thought that can only be
described as a star burst not unlike that sun inside NJPAC. I want to see where
this poetry life will take me. One of those directions might be south, to Newark.
And even if in the likely event my application is rejected, I may still give
the Dodge another try. Time, after all, doesn’t last forever.
