Something Old, Something New

In 2015, I assembled a couple of chapbooks with old poems, and sent them around to a couple of contests. Predictably, neither of them found a home. Collections I've published in the past have never been based around a theme, or even written at the same time. Poems in the past have come to me one by one, and the only discernible theme has been, "me, me, me."

I did try a couple of years ago to write poems around the theme of horses. As it turns out, I had a tenuous connection at best with these beautiful creatures, although growing up on Long Island, next to a corral and next door to my grandfather's barn, they were common as squirrels. Of course, that very estranged relationship could be what I was supposed to be writing about in the first place, and not just a bunch of portraits of, "Horses I Have Known."

So, I have four or five decent poems about horses, and Long Island, and childhood. I have other poems about childhood too, so my last attempt at putting together a manuscript from poems I've already written will be to combine childhood poems with horse poems. This could work. Again, they have been written over twenty or thirty years, so they will require major revision to hang together, in my opinion. So, that project is in the pile.

This year, I decided to write one poem a month with the starting off point of current events in my life. The weather seems to open most of them, but after warming up, I think I've come up with eleven (so far) decent poems. These, perhaps with a couple others that I wrote outside of this exercise, should make a decently cohesive chapbook. As I wrote them, I just typed them up and put them in a folder, so perhaps my memory of them is a bit rosier than is warranted. We'll see in January.

I began a rather experimental project too, inspired by the works of Katrinka Moore, Anne Gorrick, and Adam Tedesco, among others. I stumbled on an old paperback copy of Valley of the Dolls over the summer. I copied ten random pages, then cut out pill-shaped chunks from the middle. I then switched around the cut pieces, and typed up rough, abstracts drafts of ten poems. I intend to make each successive draft looser and less connected to the original gibberish, but of course the results make more sense than you would think. This seems to be a good project to jump into when I can't think straight, or I'm too tired to write a "real" poem. Not thinking straight is absolutely required for this kind of word play. 

Basically, I am cutting myself some slack over the holidays, concentrating on relaxing (!) and enjoying the season. I'm also planning a trip to Florida in mid-February, via Amtrak, a less stressful mode of travel for both myself and my Roommate. I'm letting life lead for the time being. The poems wait, will wait, have waited, will be waiting. And will demand to be written when they will, always.

How I Learned to Love (and Loath) Open Mics

     
     Second to mailing (and now emailing) your poems out to an invisible editor or editors, the best way to share your work with others is to read at an open mic. I cannot remember the first one I went to. I have written poems since elementary school, but I was slow in assuming the persona of a "poet." In high school I was on the staff of our fine literary magazine, Pegasus, and wasn't shy about expressing my misgivings about submitted work. When it came time to present something of my own, though, I always had a friend read it aloud for me. Poetry was too sacred, too personal an exposure for me to offer up without fear.

    When I went away to college, I continued to write, and for a short time even joined the literary magazine staff there, which had a tendency to dissolve and reconfigure itself semester after semester. I  was becoming more comfortable, more confident about my poems, and began to value them as my chosen mode of artistic expression as well as cheap therapy. I wrote my way through a difficult marriage and divorce, all the way to independence and sanity of a kind.

    After college, I saw an ad in the Shadwrapper (the local newspaper) for a poetry group that met twice a month at the nearby Stone Ridge Library. The Stone Ridge Poetry Society, founded by Shirley Powell, was my first adventure in poetry outside of academia. I made friends that are still friends thirty years later. Meetings combined workshopping poems with one or two featured readers. It was probably here, in the cozy living room-like space where the group met, that I had my first feature.

    Woodstock, the REAL Woodstock, New York had always been a welcoming place for artists of all levels of accomplishment. The open mic at the Tinker Street Cafe', hosted by Dean Schambach, was a challenging atmosphere for a twenty-something female, let alone a poet. There was alcohol, there were sometime fisticuffs. Dean was and is a contentious character with both champions and enemies. I myself had nothing but the most genial interactions with "Gungha Dean," as he is sometimes known by the locals because of his stirring rendition of Kipling's classic poem. Hecklers at the bar were something else again, but I still consider it a personal accomplishment to have survived the readings at the Tinker Street Cafe' relatively unscathed.

    One of the highlights of living in Albany was the longtime open mic hosted by Tom Natell at the legendary QE2, now both departed. I sometimes think I should have spent more of my student loan there instead of on tuition, but what's done is done. Since then, I have spent a lot of time commuting back and forth between The Emerald City and the Hudson Valley for readings there. There is an attitude of respect that rarely wavers-- for the audience, for one's own work-- that I find to be rarely matched. Readers don't often take advantage of the mic, or apologize in advance for the work they're about to impose on you. Time limits are clear and rarely violated.

    When my Roommate and I connected, I was running from one open mic to another almost every night of the week, and hosting an annual event called The Sylvia Plath Bake-Off, which at its height attracted 50 or more attendees in a single evening. Since that time, I have become more particular about which readings I attend. If a reading is poorly managed, if egos are allowed to run amok and hog the mic, if the open mic list is either endless or absurdly restricted, I will probably not be back soon. And I may or may not be missed. I'm OK with that.

    Unlike other artists, poets can be reasonably certain that there is no "Big Time" level of achievement for them to aspire to. It's one of the things I like about being a poet. It's a sort of exclusive club that, to paraphrase Groucho Marx, few would want to be a member of. But when all have gathered to share work, philosophies, secret details they may never tell their partners or families, and when they are sincere, I feel privileged to be in their presence. The Internet can at times echo some of that intimacy, but it's not there yet. The Open Mic, at its best, has yet to be equaled in the age of chat rooms and e-zines.

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)

Breakfast With The Muse

           Balancing my writing and personal lives is a constant struggle for me. I promise myself I will use an afternoon off, or an evening alone to “get some writing done,” as if inspiration is a switch that can be turned on and off. It is true that I have several long-term projects in various stages laying around at all times, and even a half hour of filing would be a constructive way to spend my time, even though it doesn’t feel very “poety.” 

            I think I scare myself by making too many plans for large chunks of time. We all have something else to do with those minutes, things that somehow seem to take precedence, but don’t hold up when I apply my Hundred Year yardstick (“What will really matter in a hundred years?”). Ultimately, I end spending no more than an hour or two doing what I intended to spend the whole day doing, if that, and beat myself up for “wasting” time on anything else. 

            I have finally accepted that the structure of my days is not going to change in the near future. I need a 9 to 5 job not only to keep myself afloat financially, but to give my days a framework. Freelancing left me with too much leeway, and perhaps I need a little imposed distraction to make me appreciate time away from work (sad but true). Luckily, my current position is overall a pleasant endeavor, and I don’t come home wounded and depressed as I had in the past. 

            One thing I have learned over the years is that I work best, words flow best, in the morning, before I’m bombarded with sunlight and radio and all the other sensory stimuli that seem to cloud my early visions. Therefore, I have begun a routine at 6:00 a.m., the time my alarm clock is set for anyway. I get myself out of bed (perhaps after the weather report. Weather has been a big issue lately, and I gain some false sense of control and security by listening to the daily guess at what’s ahead), go to the bathroom, grab a cup of coffee which I may or may not finish, and head back upstairs to my desk. 

            After all that, I may only get twenty minutes to get something done, maybe half an hour. It depends on whether I plan a shower before work, packed my lunch or picked out my clothes the night before, or even on the blasted weather itself. But in that twenty minutes, I can put down a first draft of a poem, type out a few first drafts I’ve accumulated, or even do some revising. I have several years worth of feedback from my faithful Goat Hill Poets salon that I’ve yet to consider in the revision process. It’s twenty minutes more a day than I’ve been spending, and I’ve quickly seen work begin to pile up. I’m even inspired to sometimes grab twenty minutes in the evening to file or get submissions together. 

            I prefer most nights to spend most of my nights with my Roommate. That is why we live together in the first place. Quality time with Michael is beyond the Hundred Year test. We will never have enough time. But he goes his way and I go mine at some point in the evening, and after doing a token few dishes, sorting socks or unpacking my lunch bag, poetry is finding a place in my day. It’s only been a couple of weeks, but what do studies say about creating a new habit? I am hopeful. And the bottom line is, it’s up to me. I cannot continue to bullshit myself about some future time when it’ll be more convenient. It truly is now or never…

Online or In Hand?

I used to be tremendously prejudiced against online literary magazines, likening them abstractly to online dating services. In the early days, websites were awkward, intermittently updated, and just not "real" to me. I was a strict traditionalist, and continued to submit to publications that only published "real" magazines, on paper or, in the case of Home Planet News, newsprint.

Truthfully, I still have a hard time sitting down and reading a whole "issue" of an online 'zine, but my harsh opinion of them seems to have softened a bit. As the technology becomes more user friendly, the looks of them has improved, and if I had a tablet, I might even be tempted to crawl into bed with a couple one night, Roommate be damned.

I am certainly aware of the tremendous start-up and maintenance costs of keeping a literary magazine afloat. There is still something about the feel of paper in the hand, the seductive variety of papers hanging in the art supply store, that inspires me to bang together a homemade chapbook every year or so. But that’s not for profit. That’s not even with an expectation that I’ll break even when the cost of supplies and labor is figured in. It’s art. It’s an expression, made all the easier by my handy dandy HP printer.  

I suppose the Web is here to stay. I might as well make myself comfortable. Look up a few attractive candidates. Reminisce about the old days, when it took more than pressing a few buttons to send your poems out for the world’s consideration. On the other hand, isn’t it nice to get an email response in just a few days, yay or nay, rather than a few months?

Back in the Swing...

     I haven't been writing much lately, and crocheting a LOT. It's non-verbal, it's creative and I end up with some nice handmade items to keep or give as gifts. It's safe, too. I don't write my own patterns, after all. Just a lot of following directions.

     On Saturday, July 26, I read along with other Hudson Valley poets at the Half Moon Bookstore in Kingston, and I felt good about it. I'll be the first to admit that I'm pretty burned out on most of the open mics around the Hudson Valley. I am living a different life than I was a few years ago. I have a full-time boyfriend living under my roof, my "roommate," as I often refer to him. It's much less scary to use that term than some others I've applied to other men in my life. I am happy in my home, and have worked hard for the peacefulness among the clutter I feel there. The days of me spending five nights a week out at some reading or another, mainly for the sake of not being home alone, are over for now.

     Even when I say I'm not writing much, truth be told, I'm always writing. It is still the only thing I do that makes me feel like that smart kid back at the Hills School. Do I have any illusions about becoming Poet Laureate? Not really. I have no desire to pursue the degrees and teaching gigs that would require. I am happy printing up my own chapbooks, and selling them here and there.

     I have taken enough time off to be able to begin sending a few pieces out for consideration by the outside world. I have even set aside my prejudice against online journals, something I held tightly to for far too long. One of the poets I respect most, for his cool eye and longevity, is Alan Catlin, and he's just started an online journal called misfitmagazine.com (http://misfitmagazine.net/index.html). I will definitely be sending him something soon.

     My newest laptop has crapped out. It seems to have freed me. It took up a lot of space on my desk, and it made it too easy for me to piss time away on Facebook or YouTube. I have a little Netbook that can handle most of what I need to do. I have most of my work on a flashdrive. I have actual books now piled on my desk, all in the name of research for a longer poem I hope to tackle. In the meantime, I'll be pulling a few things together for chapbook contests (sunnyoutside press and Tupelo Press, at least). I have a human size keyboard that plugs into the Netbook. When all else fails, I still have my yellow legal pads and pens. Heavens, what a dinosaur!

Here's a link to a recording of my portion of the Half Moon reading, thanks to Thom Francis: 

https://soundcloud.com/albany-poets/cheryl-a-rice-half-moon-books-saturday-july-26-2014

     I haven't written off open mics completely, but I am more thoughtful about those I choose to attend. I want to support my friends. I want to support the venues that open their doors to poetry readings, the lowliest of the performance arts (correct me if I'm wrong, but that's how Society has portrayed us these days). But I work a full-time 9 to 5er nowadays. I like to go home, have some dinner, watch a little Netflix. It is what I have wanted all along, really. How to balance art and life will take some thought. But I'm not the first to deal with this. In fact, I am glad I've got the problem.

(photo by Martz Szabo)