Thinking about that last post, I want to restate something. I said it was “kind of fun to blow their minds.” It, obviously, was more than kind of fun. It was the best, best, feeling ever, to write a poem and have someone not only be impressed by it, but also be changed by it. That is what all this scribbling and tippy-tappy-typing is really for. And hooray.
(This does leave open the question of what the poem would have done to the guy without our class discussion and all the knowing nods of the moms in the class. He may have breezed right over it, content to see “rage” as a misstatement. Which makes me think about which words are right, and how to put things. Do I want the knowing nods, or do I want to blow that guy’s mind? Both, of course. I want both. The poem worked in that context, in the workshop with several of us there to stand behind it, and it would get the nods from moms anywhere. But maybe it does need a little tweak (or a companion poem) to connect better with the unsaved.)
I’m writing more poems lately, which is a relief after kind of a long spell where I could barely put anything on paper without experiencing intense self loathing. I’m applying this spring, as I did last spring, for a mentor program at our city’s incomparable literary center. This is my third year applying, and I’ve never gotten in, but I am happy to see how much easier it is now to put together the required 15-page manuscript, i.e. now I can do it without including anything I’m ashamed to have written. Scrape away at a handful of poems over a year or two, and it turns out you end up with a handful of poems that are better than the ones you had last year at this time. Hooray again.
It’s spring here, and the girls and I planted peas yesterday. I’m behind at work. I have a new gadget that is just nerdy enough to make me want to run a lot. And my feet hurt. You?