Risk in poetry.
One wouldn’t think there would be risk, but there is. Poetry is often excruciatingly personal, as it should be. Poetry expresses the ineffable – the hidden. Submitting your personal work, your tender heart, to possible criticism is scary. Understandably, reading that stuff out loud to an audience, no matter how sympathetic, requires courage elevated to another level. But we must speak. It’s part of the art, I consider sharing the final piece of the process: reading the poem, publishing the book.
Which is what I did this April during National Poetry Month.
I submitted a poem to a contest held by my local writing club – Gold Country Writers.
At the celebration party for all the poets who submitted works, we all were invited to share our poems. Everyone who submitted was invited to read, which was lovely. Except as poet after poet was called and I was not, I became nervous. Did I forget to submit? Not press the correct submit button? As poets after poet read, I ate cookie after cookie. Finally I was called! I was the last to read because the poem had won first place.
I read and the audience paused, then applauded. That was enough for me! And I got bragging rights on a Facebook post.
The following week. I participated in a fringe event attached to the Sierra Poetry Festival. That event was more like a slam, with past Nevada County Poet Laureates serving as judges. The prize here was to qualify to read on the main stage during the Saturday Sierra Poetry Festival. Three poems would be chosen.
My goal was to read to another group, one I anticipated to be indifferent. But the bar was populated with many friends, all of whom listened to the readings with enthusiasm.
The call out was random, as the evening progressed, my name was not called. Poet after poet read (shout out to Sands Hall, Michaelyn Louge, and Liz Collins for their wonderful works.). I morosely drank my second Manhattan and muttered disparaging things about the universe and thwarted creativity until, second to the last, my name was finally called, fortunately before the second drink was finished.
I read, expressed and remembered the practiced moves. I made the effort. Which is much like saying I won Miss Congeniality. No second round at the Festival for my work.
Process. attempts, all that crazy shit. It’s part of what we can do or even must do as artists. Sometimes we win and sometimes we do not. But I am pleased took part, that I gave it a try. I wanted to share both the triumph as well as the failure. Because that is art.
Here are the poems.
Lilith (the winning poem)
the second woman was constructed from
previously owned parts without warranty
the first- like Adam – was molded from earth
more solid than ribs
harder than bricks to build cities
she did not bow her head or curtesy
instead ran straight at the volcano
Adam trailing behind – is this a good idea?
She pressed him back into the ground
sharing how the earth sways
the banging surf spume
gulls swoop overhead
the hard shore washed over
and over – yes, yes.
pious men of the church
unable to tolerate a happy ancestor
deleted this first wife,
as is so often the case
promoted the new trophy wife
made of ribs ripped from Adam
Love is pain
Quoted God –
love this one, a better
but lesser version of you.
to serve up transgressions
– Eve’s version
yet, yet, those first days in the fresh world
the surf, the cries, the trembling earth
sent a collective memory
vibrating through all time
drawn to the edge of the shore
women lift their faces to the sky
the rolling sea foam
waves gently lapping in and out.
Why do the gulls cry yes, yes?
Health Class: 1972. (at least spoken out loud, but did not win poem)
Here we meet the innocent egg
drifting aimlessly into a comfortable casino
lined with red velvet couches
so pretty in white, like a bride
the moment comes – release the sperm!
a 1,000/one race to
the fastest, the worthy, the evolutionary swift
no small talk
What if the egg is the huntress – Artemis
a monthly escape to knock back whiskey
stalk a random sightseer
milling about, feeding slot machines
bragging about the size of his Y
punching through any barrier,
dodging a barrage of chemicals
clever, sneaky, she snatches the straggler
at the entrance and drags him back to the couch
no drinks
a doubled down wager
against another blood red apocalypse
Any questions?
Clear on the odds?
You do understand –
The house always wins.
