Time To Write, Time To Live

    All writers struggle with balance. As a poet, I generally don't need long stretches of time for actual composition of poems, but I can benefit from an hour or two every day or so for "secretarial" duties. Lately though, I seem to require being alone in the house to get anything done. I bought my Roommate headphones so that in our tiny, open house I can do my thing while he watches "The Andy Griffith Show" or "The Walking Dead" without disturbing me. He is very accommodating, although half-jokingly complains about time I spend at my desk, but with a full-time job and limited waking hours, I have to make choices. Often even this kind of extreme cooperation doesn't seem to be enough.

    I have recommitted (again) to the gym and to a weekly yoga class right around the corner, after blowing off everything for the last several months (and consequently not fitting into my jeans anymore), so that is another bit of time unavailable for art. I have some success in the morning, if I can be at my desk by 6:15 a.m. or so. I am able to get in 30 to 45 minutes of writing, or typing up of longhand first drafts. But sometimes mornings don't work out the way I plan.

    I didn't realize how much slacking off affects how well I feel. My joints and tendons are entering the second half of their first century, and without constant attention, they do complain. I have always existed mainly in my head, but I realize now that in order to accomplish what I would like to, I need to maintain my body as a reasonably fit vehicle for my brain. I will never be a runner or a runway model. I already have Diva locked up, because physical beauty is not a major qualification for that title. But fitness and the ability to spend what time I have writing are, regrettably, permanently intertwined.

    Oddly, I can find the solitude I seem to require in a room full of strangers. The library is a particularly comfortable location, when I don't run into old acquaintances I'd rather not see. But when I can settle into my favorite corner desk, I am good for 2 or 3 solid hours of writing, if my schedule allows.  This is not to say that my Roommate actively discourages me from writing in the house, by the way. My ex-husband's horrific behavior comes to mind, where he would read my poems while I was at work (he worked nights), and use the contents to accuse me yet again of multiple infidelities, more than most humans have the stamina for, even in their 20s. My Roommate is nothing like that. In fact, I know him to be a creative soul himself.

    Ultimately, I don't think there is one-solution-fits-all answer. My mood changes. My commitments change. The worth of my efforts changes. I usually think it is very important for me to finish all the projects I've started before I die. Then there are times when what I do, what we all do, matters not a bit. Sort of a 'dust in the wind' view, acknowledging the impermanence all around us, including our stories. Is the value in the effort? In the sharing now?


(photo courtesy Jim Sugrue)

Poet Emeritus? Already?

            I was recently asked to judge a regional poetry contest along with the great Howard Kogan. I eagerly accepted, although my own preferences in poetry are so peculiar that I really should not have. I expect that Howard’s level-headedness will cancel out my impulsiveness, and all submissions will receive a fair shake. 

            However, as part of the bigger picture, I’ve noticed a trend. Earlier this year, I was invited to become a part of a screening committee for the local arts center, representing the literati of my city. I’m also now on the board of CAPS (Calling All Poets), a Beacon based group that hosts a monthly open poetry mic that is streamed online around the universe. My longtime nickname, “Diva,” has inspired a lot of faux scraping and bowing over the years, often by my chronological elders. I am wondering if lately perhaps the notion of some sort of elder status has imposed itself on my poetic career. 

            It may be that merely by hanging around long enough one attains a sort of eligibility for committees and the like. I have lived in the Hudson Valley for 35 years now, and have been active in the poetry scene here for almost that long. For 10 years I hosted the annual Sylvia Plath Bake-Off, a now defunct midwinter love letter to the late poet that in later editions included a baking contest in addition to an open mic. As friends and family began to exit the planet, I lost my taste for morbid mockery, even as it may be creeping back as a way to stay sane in my later years. 

            I’ve participated in readings from Cape Cod to Waterloo Village, and all points in between. I’ve published a bit of work here and there, but not nearly as much as some of my fellows. I’ve put out a few handmade chapbooks along the way, even before computers and home printers made that self-indulgent act far too easy. 

            Now that I think about it, I was a judge for a contest put on by the Stone Ridge Poetry Society back in the late 1980s, a one-day affair they called “Day of the Poet.” My friend Don Levy was one of the other judges, and I believe we both qualified because we’d previously been winners, or at least placed. “Day of the Poet” was brilliant. In one day, three rounds of readings were held, each smaller than the last, and then finally a winner wast chosen. Judging was based on performance as well as words. It was efficient, enjoyable, and even left room for musicians or truly established poets (hello, Ed Sanders!) to round out the activities. It’s a concept that bears repeating. Hmmmm… maybe I should bring that up at the next board meeting. Any board meeting. 

            Have I crossed the line from ‘new voice’ to ‘elder statesperson’? Is there a line at all? Is it a good thing to be asked to judge the work of others? How do others judge me, let alone my work? All good writing prompts. But then again, the fortunes in cookies are often excellent prompts. And I suppose the answers to be above questions might be as easily obtained. So much for wisdom of the elders…