A Good Thing--Calming my Inner Martha:
So, it's Monday. I have a huge project I'm ignoring--yes, it's a home project. Hardwood floors in our bedroom. It involves me admitting I own too many clothes and finding a home for them before the clever man with his nailgun and large box of wood comes to my bedroom --wasn't Eduardo in search of double entendres, well, there you go.
Poetry News--
I have 3 poems in the current issue of Prairie Schooner, which I'm thrilled about.
I also learned that my poem was an honorable mention for the North American Review's James Hearst Poetry Prize.
The Whisper Club--
Can I tell you a secret though-- when I learned it was an honorable mention, I actually felt a little disappointed that I didn't place. NAR is probably in the top 5 of my favorite journals and I was feeling "slightly disappointed"-- what's with that? Later, when I rec'd the actual results and learned that there were 429 entrants and 1914 poems, I felt good.
I was a little bothered at myself for feeling that way, for not being appreciative for honorable mention in the first place or seeing that it was much more competitive than I thought and that making me feel better. I'm so annoyingly human sometimes. It's as if I'm in 5th grade and beating the popular kid for student council makes me feel better than beating Stinky Dan.
Marvin Bell said in his 32 Statements about poetry that "Viewed in perspective, Parnassus is a very short mountain."
I remember when I began writing poetry how magical everything was. I celebrated ever acceptance, appreciated every poetic nod, no matter how brief. I cried once when I was rejected for the 3rd time for the Seattle bus poem people. When I was accepted the next year, I celebrated. The year after that, I was accepted again and the taste was sweet, but not Borracchini's sugar frosting sweet, just sweet. I didn't celebrate. I was less concerned if I missed the reading.
At my old job, my boss had to break into the computer using ex-employee's name and password. She guessed and guessed and couldn't get in. Finally, she thought about him and typed in the word, "jaded." The accounts opened up and we were in.
I'm not ready to take over someone's password for my life.
I've heard many poets talk about the "let-down" after publishing a book. Is this just our humanness? We work and work for something and when we achieve it the sweetness of the moment doesn't last as long as we like? Or doesn't live up to our expectations?
Did your mom ever tell you to "expect nothing and you'll never be disappointed?" My mum did.
I was the gloomy girl with the rainstorm and the broken umbrella. But I'm not ready to believe that you can't make love in a rainstorm, that a broken umbrella is just the gift that allows you to travel lightly. I'm not ready to become the poet sitting on the bench with a pocket of seed cursing the beautiful birds.
