Poetry First and Last

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.

 

 

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 

 

 

 

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.