Where am I? Where am I going?

When I first decided to create this bog, I was struggling to get poems written. As a poet, I cannot think of a worse feeling.  It is certainly worse than any rejection I have received, or any dismissal I may have felt. I hoped that by starting a blog, I would create an opportunity for me to write about something that wasn’t poetry in an attempt to spark ideas in other directions that would lead to writing poetry.  Seems crazy, but it worked, and hence my absence. I have been writing poetry. And it feels good.  It feels normal. I feel. I can breathe again. 

I have heard many poets talk about what they write, how they write, what they try to do when they write. I don’t always think it is good. Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy good banter between poems; I enjoy knowing what goes on in poets’ heads.  But when a poet spells everything out, explains, teaches, and swears his or her intention, the poems become flat, lack mystery, and feel hopelessly redundant. It is a shame. I know why I write, and I know how I write. Sorry. But that is all I am going to say about it. But I will be honest with you sometimes. Not everything you will see or hear will be a lie. Just know that I’m writing, America. Know I’m writing about you. 

Got to participate in a damn good reading on March 25. Read with poets Gil Allen, Michelle Reese, and a cool upcoming poet named Jonathan Maricle. Watch for Maricle. You will see his work soon, I’m sure.  Reading at Monday Night Blues in Charleston this week. I have never been to Monday Night Blues, but I am told that it is pretty cool. Leaving soon for St. Louis. Going to see my dear friend Eamonn Wall, and read with poet Knute Skinner. I’m filling in the gaps between my readings and hearing readings with teaching and lectures. Anything to stay busy, anything to make a living. This week is wide open, much like last week, and the week before. I feel scattered. Half exhausted. I feel like I am trying to talk to my favorite cousin whom I haven’t seen in months. So much to catch up on. So much to say. So much to not say.  

I need something to divert my attention from the reality of going all the time. Perhaps it is not so much a going problem as it is a growing problem (sorry I couldn’t resist). Anyway, I want to start top ten lists. Just because I have wanted to for quite some time. Going to start with film. Next will be music. And I’m going to break each genre into subgenres. This should take a while. This should keep me busy. I have nothing else to do.

Fat Back

We often hear it is better to speak what you feel, to let it off your chest. But I wonder.

I read a bad review of my book the other day. By bad, I mean just that. It certainly wasn’t flattering, even the lines the reviewer claimed were my best. But that wasn’t what made it bad. In fact I welcome a solid reaming from time to time. It puts me in check. And there are times, I’ll admit, where I definitely need to be put in check – or as my buddy Tim would say, I probably just need to be checked. As a young poet, I don’t want to even begin to think I’m good, and certainly not so good that I am beyond criticism. Being put in check is a learning experience we grow from. But this review wasn’t even a thump to the forehead.

When I teach students to analyze poetry, I tell them that they have the freedom to say whatever they want to say about the work. I honestly mean it when I tell them this. I want to think. My only rule, though, is that they have to back it up – to put some back in it. Without backing it up, a reviewer’s statement about a text is unsubstantiated. It is boorish. It is often disingenuous. Established critics know this. They don’t always do it, but when you are established I guess that is a perk.

This reviewer made statements without backing them up. It didn’t matter to me that the reviewer took no consideration that this was a first book. It didn’t matter to me that the reviewer didn’t get the project of the book nor the poems he referenced. It didn’t matter to me that the reviewer reduced my work with stock rhetorical phrasing. It bothered me that he didn’t back his statements up. It came across as too easy. Almost cheap. And as the poet, I can’t help but find that offensive.

I’m honored that anyone would want to pick up my work and read it. And I’m even more honored that anyone would want to discuss it afterward. I got very excited when I saw that there was a review out there. But when I read it, it was a let down. It was like I had been waiting my whole life for a phone call from a long lost friend and all of a sudden the phone rang, and when I answered he just coughed and hung up on me.

If anyone out there hasn’t read the Driving through the country before you are born I invite you earnestly to do so. I will go ahead and tell you that my book is probably not ideal for most fifth graders, and there are some grammatical issues that have been corrected for the book’s second printing. Beyond that, I welcome all comments. Good, bad, indifferent – let it rip.  I sincerely mean that. But put some back in it.  

Dare to say know

Sorry to be off center, waiting to put this up until now. I got busy. I know it is not an excuse, but it is truth. How many times do we hear that one? How many times do we use it? The excuse that is not an excuse.

I promised myself that I would start making more of an effort to balance things – if I say I am going to do something, I have to do it, but I have to really watch what I say. It haunts me when I can’t complete something I said I would do. It creates an anxiety that will surely manifest itself in some great, dramatic and possibly tragic event. However, what inevitably happens is that I end up saying I am going to do a lot of things, and in the process of doing all these “things” I become so overwhelmed trying to “do” them that it creates an anxiety that will surely manifest itself in some great, dramatic and possibly tragic event.  The cycle is vicious.

I have a good friend who somehow balances “things” very well. He works like a madman – in his office at 8:00 a.m. (he has two offices), maintaining his passion and his service to an institution and a state that is just now beginning to truly appreciate what he is doing (they still have a lot of work to do, by the way) – flying all over the world reading poetry, teaching workshops, and delivering lectures – teaching graduate courses, advising students, advising me, directing two major originations, writing 4-5 books a years – and last, but certainly not least, being married and raising three children. I honestly don’t know how he does it. But he makes it work. And I have never heard him complain about it.

I have another good friend who somehow balances “things” very well. He works like madman – in his office at 8:00 a.m.(he also has two offices), maintaining his passion and his service to an institution and a community that is just now beginning to truly appreciate what he is doing (they also still have a lot of work to do by the way) – he devotes an enormous amount of time reading poetry, teaching workshops, and delivering lectures – teaching graduate courses, advising students, advising me – and last but certainly not least, taking the time to spend with his partner (and if you knew his partner, you would know why). I honestly don’t know how he does it either. I have never heard him complain about it, but I have heard him say he was tired. 

I am no more overburdened by my duties than anyone else. If anything, I am lucky to be surrounded by good friends. I cannot help running my mouth. I cannot help wanting to do everything. I cannot help wanting to be the center of attention. Big deal. I cannot help wanting to please those who ask anything of me. But balance is hard to come by. I need to pay more attention those around me. There is so much to learn, so much to practice. But perhaps the easiest thing I can try to do is learn how those I just mentioned are able to say “no” to things that they want to do, but simply can’t do.

Just say no? I haven’t said no to anything since 1986. Perhaps that is the key. I just always felt like saying “no” to something meant that I was disinterested in the project or the person offering the project. I look into their eyes, I see where I can make a contribution, and I have a hard time looking beyond it. What if they never ask me again? I say yes with the best intentions, then all hell breaks loose.

 

Two letters, “N” and “O,” and all is simple.

 

 

Paranoia won’t destroy ya

I have never been one who scares easily. I like a good adrenaline rush I suppose, about as much as the average person. I have never been a thrill seeker wanting to jump from an airplane or dive off a cliff or bungee of a bridge. I have a lead foot some times when I’m driving, but with the kids and/or my wife in the car, I have become even more cautious lately. But nothing scares me more than the thought of zombies. 

Now I have fears of course. Perhaps my greatest fear (as any parent would have) is something happening to my kids or our home being invaded. The only recourse I have to alleviate those fears it to be as proactive as I can. We talk to the kids about not talking to strangers, not helping adults find puppies, or not going with some one whom they have never met to find me or Lindsay. Sean is excellent in karate, and Morgan knows not to wander, and that helps take away some of the fear, but not all of it. Lindsay is very cautious when she is out alone, so even though I have fears that something could happen to her on the road driving, I know she is protecting herself by being aware of her surroundings as much as possible in a public place. At home, we have played out all sots of scenarios as to what we will do if someone busts down the door or comes through the window.  

Yes, we own guns. And yes, we know how to use them. It is strange, I know – poets with guns. Hell, maybe that is the scariest of all. But when you think about how many times bad things happen to good people, in hindsight it easy to see how most of those situations could have been avoided if the victims were just a little more aware, just a little more paranoid, just a little more proactive. I don’t want to make light of what happened to that poor young lady who went hiking in the mountains of North Georgia, but I can’t help but wonder who thought that was a good idea for her to go hiking BY HERSELF in the mountains. Does anyone read Deliverance anymore?!  

When it comes to humans possibly interacting with other humans (the most unpredictable animal of them all)—why take chances? I often ask my students how many of them walk back from 5 points by themselves in the wee hours of the morning. An overwhelming majority of them raise their hands, and in that majority, over half are females. They are totally unaware that Columbia has just as much rape per capita as Atlanta until I tell them. And if it scares them, good. Maybe they will be just a little more aware the next time.  If we just paid attention a little bit more, think about what we would do if (God forbid) something bad should happen. We would have a better chance of survival, a better chance of nothing bad happening to us.  

But perhaps we are turning too much of our attention to protecting ourselves against just humans and sometimes animals. What about zombies? That’s right, zombies.  

Zombies absolutely freak me out. The thought that an outbreak could occur and the entire earth being swept by flesh-eating undead creatures is the single most frightening thing I can conjure. Ok, maybe not the single most, but it certainly in the top 5. And think about how many people out there have no idea how to handle a face to face confrontation with a zombie. They do not know to escape, how to bring one down, and they certainly do not know how regroup long enough to survive.  

The remake of Dawn of the Dead was pretty good, at least the first half. But the B-rated zombie flicks far outweigh the good ones. Without the films, we have no real jumping off place to work out scenarios. I have turned to fiction as a way to reconcile my thirst for a good zombie film. World War Z is great! I can’t recommend it enough. It has limitations, but it is easy to see that an outbreak can occur simply because so many people refuse to believe that an outbreak could occur in the first place. Don’t believe it if you want to, but I’m telling you, just as anything can happen, it probably will, and I, for one, am not taking any chances. So for the few believers out there, here are some things I have figured out: 

1.      Always have a gun around (with bullets) and know how to shoot. The rumor is that zombies can only go down permanently if you shoot them in the head.  

2.      Make sure you have a network or circle of friends (safety in numbers and all that), but make sure at least one of those friends has a large assortment of medieval weapons: swords, axes, a baseball bat with nails in it. This will really come in handy if you don’t have a gun.

3.      Stay away from major cities, and as tempting as it may be, stay way from malls and churches. Head to the mountains. Head to Canada. There won’t be any zombies in Canada.

4.      Never say you will be right back and investigate a noise you heard alone.

5.      Just because some may look the part, do not assume that every one is a zombie. High school students are not necessarily zombies; homeless people are not necessarily zombies; republicans are not necessarily … ok may be they are, but still don’t assume.

6.      When all else fails, everyone is a zombie … including yourself. Use this only as a last resort. It may be tough, but sure beats watching someone eat your entrails. 

Is all this silly? Perhaps. But at least I know I can sleep better at night knowing my wife and children are aware that the world is full of sick, twisted creatures who by some way shape or form will continue to go to great lengths, even unimaginable lengths, to do them harm and they have to do whatever they can to protect themselves. Awareness never hurts. And they can sleep better because they know that I will use any measure necessary (and perhaps unnecessary) to protect them. We’ll be in Canada if and when an outbreak occurs. Come find us, and bring cigarettes, please.  

Daddy needs a new pair of shoes

When some one asks me how I’m doing, I usually say I can’t complain. But unlike most folks out there, I mean it. I really can’t complain. I never saw a use in it. Never saw where it did any good. I know it sounds cliché, the whole “I complained about having no shoes” business. I never liked that cliché either.   

But every body has to complain about something, right?  The list of complaints is infinite. Or so it seems. In fact, what most people label as “complaining” is really just “venting.” When things do not go the way we need them to, or better yet want them to, it is only natural to get mad about it. Most of the time it leads to unnecessary aggravation, and who wouldn’t get mad about being aggravated?   

Venting is a necessary, and some times vital way for us to cope with the world. It can be a great motivational tool to overcome the initial disappointment in order to (hopefully) generate something positive as a result. Of course, this is only for those who are venting. Those who listen get something else—something funny, perhaps priceless. Eventually, the fire dies out and the one who vents and the one who listens can go on to what could be a more productive enterprise.   

It takes a special person to listen. You can’t just go off venting to anyone.  My graduate directors and mentors, Ed, Christy, and Kwame, have listened to me vent for years, and yet still smile when they see me. (That, by the way, feels good). My best friends have endured hours of venting at a time, and sometime we taking venting to epic levels where some one is ready to fight and a lamp gets broken. Lindsay is a godsend in that she has listened to me vent for the past three years, and she still loves me. (That feels even better). These are all educated, thoughtful, and caring people, whom I feel comfortable with. They listen, offer advice, or simply find a way to calm me down. I wish I could thank them properly on behalf of everyone within a fifty mile radius of me. All those lives saved.  

But to vent requires a massive amount of responsibility. I would never impose a vent session without the proper decorum and respect of time. (Ed might get a chuckle out of that last part.) A good vent always goes bad when one just barrels in an office or house and starts yapping about the government and the price of pork. The opportunity has to present itself. I like to ask, “do you have a minute?”. Maybe even just feel the conversation out and see if an opportunity comes up. And there have been some occasions where I have offered folks an escape route  by starting of the sessions with “please allow me to vent awhile,” or “I just need vent for a second here.” In your vent, maintain a proper inflection. No need to shout, but be strong. No need to grovel, but ride it out until you have nothing more to say. Be witty in the approach, and chances are your audience will not hold pepper spray when you come around the next time.   

I like to say things like, “ I’m sorry, I have been in  woods with my dad all day,” or “I’m sorry, the medication must be wearing off.” Then, (now this is the most crucial part), I listen. Some of the best advice I have ever been given came after I vented…properly, as described.  

Venting gets the stem off. But, more importantly, it gets us talking. It makes us act, and react, and in the reaction, act again. Complaining doesn’t get us anywhere beyond talk shows and sensational news programs. It doesn’t move us forward. It just keeps us in a rut, complaining about the rut, and dragging everyone down with us. If you are mad because you don’t have shoes, keep it to yourself. Find a way to get them yourself. And if you still can’t get them, find the ones closest to you. The ones you know. And vent strong. Vent proud.    

In other news: I plan to pick this up a bit. More on the way.  

So that was Christmas?

So that was Christmas? 

Thank God it’s over. 

It is all I have heard. At the gas station, from a lady with three kids in tow, one on her arm and the other two dismantling a Sprite display. At my son’s karate practice, from a man wearing a sweatshirt with “He is the reason for the season” painted across it. From the cashier at Kohl’s. The tone was the same, punctuated with the same sigh. The same condemnation. The same defeat. In between local murders and bizarre kidnappings, the news seems to share the sentiment. Target is not happy. No one can find a Wii. Obama is trailing in the polls, leading in the polls, trailing in the polls. Dread and more dread.  

(One positive note I heard: it turns out that there is not necessarily a direct correlation between holidays and suicide.) It seems that the older I get, the more I am confronted with the sad fact that when you are a kid you live for Christmas, the excitement that there was a chance you could get whatever you wanted and not what you needed, but when you grow up you look forward to getting socks and underwear. And apparently there are a lot of people who don’t like socks and underwear. 

I remember Christmas very vividly as a child. We made a big deal about it as far as there was a tree decorated, lights of the porch rails, and Bing Crosby, but we didn’t have any tradition where we went to stores and yelled at people or made them feel stupid because they didn’t know where to go or how to get there faster. I can’t recall the family ever getting together to tell each other that we were miserable being together so lets get drunk and make the best of it. And I am quite sure that during the countless Christmases my sister and I wallowed in decorated paper and cardboard while my mom and dad wondered how they would eat lunch for the next month, I never heard my mom say, thank god it’s over. 

My mom and dad would go to painstaking lengths to hide presents. Every year they would find new places, then I would find those places, carefully peeling back tape and shaking packages for a peek, and I honestly cannot remember a Christmas where I wasn’t surprised. Sure there were some disappointments. I didn’t always get what I wanted. I hardly ever got what I wanted. And in hindsight it is probably a good that I didn’t get everything I wanted. But that isn’t the point.  

The point is that my parents made it a point to give my sister and me a good Christmas. Even if they didn’t have a lot to give. I grew up like most southern Irish working class families; we had what we needed and we didn’t have much. It wasn’t about competitive commerce, or God points, or parent of the year awards. It was just about being together, being alive, and in some cases being drunk.  

I’m keeping that tradition alive. (The part about being together and alive and not necessarily drunk.) Lindsay and I have a blast with Christmas. When it is all said and done the kids have overdosed on yuletide blessings, our friends and family are close by, every body gets that one thing they always wanted, and we are happy damn it. Happy to be alive. Happy to be together. I never want it to be over.  

Ok, I’m ready now to get started

I can’t put this off any longer. I’m going to finally blog. Expect to hear from me every Thursday morning in 2008.  I hope you enjoy.