Today I attended poetry boot camp day 3. I am seriously questioning my intentions/expections in coming here. It's been a long time since I've taken poetry "seriously" or been held accountable for my writing as serious. It's terrifying! This place is like poetry boot camp: 9 am to 9 pm with only breaks to eat dinner and for the occasional softball game which they also take seriously. My adviser, David Baker, is a pretty intense guy, an NEA / Guggenheim winner to boot, and our conferences feel more like therapy sessions than poetry workshops; he says things like "Well, what makes you that way?" and "Why, are you afraid?" And then just gives you this soccer-coach-beside-the-bench stare. Which causes me to gulp and reassess in a bad moment or to cough up something unexpectedly true and honest in good moments. I'm nervous and excited to see what the semester brings. I have in the back of my mind a very long poem sequence I'd like to try.
I've realized what a philosopher I've become and also how much I miss writing. I don't talk the talk here; at a philosophy conference / conversation, I know enough to know what I ought to know (but usually don't) and thus when to keep quiet or when it's reasonable to ask a question ... here, people are mentioning names right and left that I don't understand so I don't even know when I can pipe in without sounding ridiculous. On the other hand, it's rather nice to feel like a beginning student again and not responsible for knowing, if not everything, at least a little something!
This even I heard an amazing poet recite *her own* 30 minute poem aloud ... it was somehow about the flood in New Orleans and it blew me away. I can barely recite Emily Dickenson...
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