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.

First Prize Winner Robert Milby!

 

Robert Milby of Florida, NY is a freelance writer who has been reading his poetry in the Hudson Valley, NYC, Long Island, NJ, PA, and New England since March, 1995. He’s given over 450 featured readings and has been onstage in front of poetry crowds over 1,500 times, including: featured readings, open mics, workshops, lectures, presentations, radio commentary, indoor & outdoor festivals, independent tv shows, etc. See more at https://robertmilbypoetry.com.

 

I Was Never Under Quarantine

In the haze of selling their future, several generations have forgotten

the bankers’ caste system.

I neither bowed to worship money, nor sang in corporate cages.

I was not sick, beyond disgust with modern sages;

psychic jails, and lockdowns— screwing planks in stages.

There were times that I was knocked down, but I was never under quarantine. 

 

State by state the white-out scent of cooking books,

without burning in a bonfire.

A source of bankers’ lies, on tiny screens and glowing monitors.

I never dressed in surgeon’s drag, walking through the streets,

where people clapped for nurses’ burkas or stared like dolts and preached.

There are times when I’m knocked down, but I am never under quarantine.

 

Without modesty, states stand in as teacher, mother, and father; techno gods of a new order.

I wandered field and forest; drove a city lane;

not once did cries of misery cause me bare-faced shame.

I never paid a jailer—I never bought the myths,

concocted by a dark regime, in estates of cards and sticks.

There were times when they knocked me down, but I was never under quarantine.

 

Entire countries are not hospitals, nor landscapers’ motor pools!

Fearful counties darkened churches; ignored the children, and locked their schools.

Lectured in public, by strangers, whose intents remain the same,

as past regimes’ deceptions in themes of costumed dramas.

We were never under quarantine, unless we gave consent:

Masked and gloved, cold penitents, or domestic spies, and dissidents.

2020 WILD WEST POETRY CONTEST WINNERS ANNOUNCED!!

 

 

 

 

Thanks to all for participating in what may become an annual tradition, the 2020 Wild West Poetry Contest! Following is the list of Winners and Honorable Mentions, as whimsically and with gut instinct were selected by myself, as the sole proprietor of Flying Monkey Press:

First Place: Robert Milby,  "I Was Never Under Quarantine"

    -Receives a copy of my latest book, Love's Compass, & will be published in the Flying Monkey Productions blog.

Second Place: Alan Catlin, "A Journal of the Plague Year"

    -Will be published in the Flying Monkey Productions blog.

Third Place: Patrick Connors, "The New Normal"

    -Will receive a copy of my chapbook, My Minnesota Boyhood.

Honorable Mentions:

-Jaewon Chang, "Marching in Batasam"

-Robert Milby, "Social Disgracing"

-Jaewon Chang, "Snaps in Wilmington, Delaware"

-John C. Mannon, "Watch"

-Alan Catlin, "Quarantined"

-E.P. Fisher, "The Ballad of Western Man"

-Paul Clemente, "A River Remembers 1918"

-Douglas Taylor, "The Life and Times of Stagecoach Mary"

-Paul Clemente, "About 3 PM Central on July 15, 2010

-John C. Mannone, "Life Cycle"

Again, many thanks to all who participated, and watch out next summer on both the POETS and Flying Monkey Productions Facebook pages, and this blog here, for announcements about 2021! First and Second place poems will appear here in the next few days, and prizes are being mailed out shortly.

*College of Poetry!*

     I have been asked to teach in the spring of 2011 at the College of Poetry in Warwick, NY, a relatively new endeavor that bodes well for the future of poetry in the Hudson Valley and beyond. The current format includes three eight-week courses and one or two guest poets per semester, and past participants have included such heavyweights as Ed Sanders and, upcoming on November 13, Janine Pommy-Vega. I am unbelievably flattered to have my proposal accepted, and I'm probably most excited about being involved in the College so that I'll be able to say I was there "when".
  
     The board of advisors consists of several poets whose work and personas I have been familiar with for years. William Seaton is a brilliant man, with an intimidating joy that he finds impossible to repress. Steve Hirsch is the longtime publisher of Heavenbone, a spiritually oriented literary magazine whose staying power is a miracle unto itself. Robert Milby is the hardest working man in Hudson Valley poetry, now hosting a mere three open mics every week but who has managed many, many more. He also keeps us up to date on who's birthday and death anniversary it is, and those juxtapositions alone are often intriguing and thought provoking. I am less familiar with the other members: Steve Calitri, Janet Hamill (who will also be offering a course this spring), Lynn Hoins and Mona Toscana, but their devotion to poetry is apparent by their very presence.

    There is no great financial reward at this point for teaching at the College of Poetry, about an hour and a half from my home. There is rarely any financial benefit to poetry, unless one counts the money saved on therapists and bullets. But the satisfaction of participating is what excites me. An entire school devoted to just poetry! Sounds almost illegal, doesn't it?

     I'll be teaching a version of my RANDOM WRITING workshops, which in themselves are intended to show poets where to find inspiration around them. A sort of planned obsolescence. Check out the website for more information, and contact Seaton on how to register at seaton@frontiernet.net.  The College of Poetry is at http://www.collegeofpoetry.com/index.html.