Unique encounter with poetry

Believe it or not (though I suppose you wouldn’t have a basis either way), I dappled in poetry back in the day. Junior year of college, I enrolled in an Introduction to Poetry course–essentially workshop-based but far less intense than this graduate school workshop. The professor was…eccentric–to say the least. He stood at the front of the windowless classroom every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon that semester, wearing layers upon layers of ridiculous attire. A leather vest over a vibrant dress shirt (which I always seem to remember being yellow–mustard yellow–though I imagine there were other colors), maybe even a short-sleeved button-up over the dress shirt, always in extraordinarily baggy jeans draped with chains, and tremendous combat boots–black and loosely tied. A beanie atop his bald head. He rambled in the most nonsensical but fascinating manner as he agonized over the meaning of a student’s poem. Conjuring up fantastical scenarios and surreal images to shed metaphorical light on what tended to be a fairly straightforward poem as the student would later confess. But we would watch–a lesson in psychotic creativity–as he curled into himself on the cold tile floor beneath the desk at the front of the classroom. As he stood upon the chair accompanying said desk, towering over his wide-eyed students. As he slumped into the front left corner of the room and pulled his knees to his chest, speaking with such fervor that one could not help but be captivated and maybe a little bit frightened. But his genuine interest in what we had to say was nothing less than flattering.

 

I’ll admit I’m not much of a poet. Brevity is not my strong suit. I half-assed a lot of the poems because it didn’t seem to matter that much. They were simply exercises in creative thinking. And everyone would get an A as long as they wrote something every week. I countered these poor excuses for poetry with some attentive and thoughtful efforts. And until tonight, I had forgotten all about them. And as it turns out, some of these are rather inspiring in the way that sometimes I read something I wrote months or years ago that seemed unimportant at that time but opens up opportunities for me in the present. Opportunities to explore connections between my past and my right now and maybe create something worth reading. (Though I suppose that worth would be decided upon by the readers themselves.) Anyway, my brilliantly bizarre poetry experience back then might end up saving me now as I try to put pieces together in my writing and in my life.

 

I’ll leave with a little bit of this uncovered (amateur) poetry.

 

Anxiety

Frenetic thoughts collide

and ricochet in my mind.

Foot taps

to the rapid rhythm of my heart.

Handwringing.

Jaw clenching.

Knots in my stomach.

Wool in my veins.

Sit back and exhale

a futile breath.

 

Silent

The most important words

are the ones I will never speak.

The consonants and vowels

will get caught in my throat,

stuck in my teeth,

evaporate into a sigh.

But never will they tumble

off of my tongue,

slip through my lips,

be audible to a single soul.

I compensate

with a pen in hand.

The First Critique

From the moment I awoke on Tuesday, it seemed my gut had been turned inside out. And the tension in my shoulders felt visible, as I held them up a little higher than normal to support the pressure. I had to sit through my first critique that night. And it was nauseating to think that I had volunteered to go so early in the semester. Even more awful was what I chose to write about. I tend to be a very vulnerable writer. Sticking very within myself. Rather introspective. Reflective. Analytical about the way my life progresses–or regresses. We weren’t required to write something new, so I went with something I wrote during my last semester of undergrad–a piece that my professor at the time really liked and a piece that I was hoping to develop. Almost three hours elapsed while I sat silently in workshop, trying to be an active listener as two other girls sat through their critiques. I needed to distract myself. Several students praised the second girl’s manuscript. And I admit that it was well-written and interestingly ambiguous. Damn. I then realized that I was probably doomed for failure.

I have a tendency to expect the worst outcome in most situations–particularly those that involve me solely–and that mindset is always in opposition to the high expectations I have of myself as a person. I went into this workshop, preparing to be ripped apart but trying to counter my pessimism with the knowledge that I can write well–that is one thing I have confidence in. Trying to articulate this thought process even sounds conflicting. Regardless, Tuesday night happened to be a night where what I expected to happen actually happened. The piece–intentionally unfinished–centered on a relationship (a term I use loosely and not necessarily romantically) in high school and would also expand to other relationships in my life. The point of which is to speak to more universal ideas of morality, self-respect, and intimate relationships (with anyone). While some could sense the manuscript’s potential, others were rather unimpressed. And rather than criticize the actual writing style itself–which my professor and another peer consisted of an incredibly strong and refreshing voice–my fellow aspiring writers seemed to be criticizing the content, which just so happens to be my life. One person said she didn’t know why I even wrote it. (A gigantic slap–a writer’s purpose is supposed to be very clear.) She believed that my story lacked originality and simply relived high school drama that everyone experiences. “Everyone hurts each other in high school,” she said bluntly. I could feel my face flushing, but I kept my head bowed, eyes on my manuscript, making notes of everything she said. You know, in case I wanted to torment myself later on. There were several similar comments. And for those who did recognize the potential, they failed to recognize that the piece was intentionally incomplete, and tore me apart for my lack of clarity, conclusion, and coherence. I left it blatantly open-ended with the intent of hearing this critique and figuring out where I wanted to take the piece. Unfortunately, we aren’t encouraged to counter their criticism until the end, so I was forced to sit tight-lipped for half an hour while being repeatedly told that I left too much out, the piece was boring to read, and it didn’t end neatly. I couldn’t wait to burst out at the end and finally say, “Just so you all know, this piece is very obviously not done. I did not intend for it to end that way. I was seeking your opinion on the manuscript’s potential as a larger piece on morality and relationships.” Nobody said a word. Except my professor, who keeps quiet and lets the students run the workshop: “It definitely has potential.” That was all I needed to hear.

I couldn’t wait to get out of there. I walked through bitter September air to the T station, and waited impatiently for my train. When I got into my apartment half an hour later, I laid out the marked copies of my manuscript and my peers’ two-page critiques. Completely overwhelmed. I felt like I had failed miserably. I questioned why I was even here. And I still feel that way days later. But I know that feeling comfortable with critique on that level will come with time. And it will take a lot of acceptance on my part. I could say that it’s all because I don’t take criticism well, and that might be true. But I think I can handle constructive criticism well, especially with writing. In fact, that’s exactly what I was looking for. And those who offered it will be taken into great consideration in my revision process. But for those that simply found this to be an unimportant and useless piece about “typical” drama, I…don’t even know what to say. I own my work. I own my life. And, as a friend said, I will “rock it.”

Things I realized today

1. Sitting at the table in my apartment as opposed to my bed makes me feel more productive and generally better about life.
2. I’m grateful that I have taken the time to write so much in the past because it helped me pound out an eight-page piece to hand-deliver to my workshop peers tomorrow. So that they can all take it home and read it and then tell me everything that was wrong with it the following week. Shit.
3. I need to start keeping beer, wine, and/or liquor in my refrigerator at all times because I think that I could maybe probably write a lot easier if I could just loosen up and let it flow like the warm, bitter alcohol inside of me. (“Write drunk; edit sober,” said Ernest Hemingway–except I think I read somewhere that he didn’t actually say it, but I like thinking that he did.)