Linda, as always, was great. She speaks from a deep place. The title of her talk was A Spiritual History of the Living World. I took almost no notes, but Niki
did, and perhaps she will post from them at some point; if she does, I
will link to it. Also, public access television recorded it, so I will
post when it airs.
Linda spoke of language, and how it influences the way we see, and live
in, the world. She reminds us that the whole land has stories, and they
are not all told in English.
She read some poems, some I know, and some new ones — a new book of poetry, and a new novel, will be out soon.
She said: We are all a part of this endlessly creative universe.
She spoke of spiritual ecology. She says that poetry is helping us get there — to a new way of being in and with the world.
This reminded me that the work I do — the work I try to do — is important.
And yes, I have noticed the synchronicity with what we are doing in this Artist’s Way group.
The questions after her hour plus presentation went on for another
hour — lots of earnest, mostly young people. Just an aside: many of
those young people stepped right out of the late 60’s/ early 70’s —
witness the photo below. We saw tie-dye t-shirts and
macrame necklaces. If not for the high-tech room and the plastic water
bottles, we could have been back in our own college years.
Later, at dinner, as I tried to evade questions about what I do, Linda said: She’s a poet. She’s a really good poet.
Which brings me back around to that spot on the spiral where I keep bumping up against myself. I claimed my domain (sbpoet) almost defiantly. Yes, I am too a poet. As if someone were saying otherwise. Well, someone probably is, but perhaps not anyone whose opinion weighs heavily with me.
I have lots of ways to discount the support I get, of course. They are just being nice; it’s just that they like me (and why do they like me?); they mean I’m good for an amateur;
and so on. I can’t discount the expertise of those who encourage me —
they are writers I admire. So why am I so . . . what am I, exactly? Resistant? Frightened? What?
I am going to record here (this feels like stepping off a cliff) for my own sake what John Haines said about my early poems. The poets out there will have heard that John Haines is not known for making nice. And he didn’t know me, so had no reason to be kind. He said: Send these out. This work is better than most of what I see published these days. Every one is different.
Why
does this keep haunting me? I know perfectly well that this kind of
affirmation really can only come from within; and I know that none of
us (poets) will live long enough to be certain of the value — or lack
of it — of our work.
I don’t feel particularly defensive any more about rarely sending things out; I probably get more eyes on my poems online
than I would if I had books out there. But I could put together a
chapbook, and self-publish. Partly, of course, energy is a problem —
often, just posting uses all of it that I have. But I could begin; I
could do it a bit at a time.
And I don’t like rejection; I
don’t like competition. In fact, I’ve avoided competition in most areas
all of my life. Unless it was required by my job, in which case I was a
lion.
I’m not being clear, I know. That’s because I’m not
clear. I just know that it keeps coming up for me, again and again.
That when Linda said I was a poet — a good poet — I nearly wept in
public.
Speaking of in public, I was. In public, I mean. I sat
for Linda’s presentation with only minor discomfort, and then went to
dinner — six hours altogether! Six hours of good thinking and good
company and good talk. And good food. I had several days to prepare, by
doing nothing. Which I did. So I was tired yesterday, but not nearly as
tired as I expected; and today I was fine until I tried to move.
But
that could just as easily be our viciously cold weather as anything
else. Really cold. Wind that sneaks in when you’re not looking.
Well, I’m still confused; I had hoped that writing about this might clarify it for me. More later. Stay warm.
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