1976, Looking out on Lake Superior
Carl Sandburg lived on a goat farm in western North Carolina, so it’s difficult for me to believe he actually said “I doubt if you can have a truly wild party without liquor.” If he did, it was with a twinkle in his eye. After all, what truly excellent party doesn’t include a few goats? While I doubt my party will include that beast, I have to tell you it’s going to be a “good riddance” soiree this year for me. Goodbye, 2011, you lousy bastard; bring on 2012.
I’ll remember 2011 for one reason: in May, my mother died. I’m 52 now and should be intellectual enough to accept that whole “circle of life” routine (thank you Disney and Elton for managing to ruin a perfectly well-worn phrase). I have come to terms with the loss, but in an offhand way. Remember 18, when you assumed older people put loss of life in proper perspective? It isn’t true. Older people are 18 right up until they look in a mirror, when they think “holy shit, I’m not 18 anymore,” and for that reason I miss her like I would have as a teenager. Nothing has changed from 18 to 52 other than my hair color, these wrinkles, the glasses, and the concept that I now need a colonoscopy ever five years. Nothing. And so I accept her death begrudgingly and with a certain amount of confusion. It will nag at me for the rest of my days.
I did manage to have some poetry published in 2011, but haphazardly. I chose instead to amalgamate all the various work I’ve written over a few years into a manuscript. What a bitch that is! It’s terrible work, especially because my style has changed in those years. I can’t seem to find that elusive message thread that should weave its way through any strong poetry manuscript. The only constant (at this point) is the working title, Around the Sun Without a Sail, though even that seems suspicious to me at times.
It was, then, a slightly-below-average-but-fulfilling poetry year. Hobble Creek Review published three of my poems, only one of which I thought would make the cut. In March, Stepping Stones Magazine (online) named me their poet of the year for 2010. In April and November I participated in Robert Lee Brewer’s 30-day poetry binges.
And yet, in 2011, I had to face one startling fact: while 30-year old experiences are still worth the poetic effort (unless sentimentality blows in), the best work in 2011 belonged to the up-and-coming crowd, those younger poets writing in that Zen concept of the NOW. I fell in love with some very gifted poets, and when I opened new venues, like Ilk Journal, I became a voyeur watching ongoing experiences, not old ones. The poetry in Ilk’s first issue was beautifully crisp, brash and lively. It’s all about now, what’s happening in and around the poet RIGHT NOW. This group has no time for the past yet, it’s all about today. I fell in love with all of them for this very reason.
So: I suppose I belong in Hobble Creek Review but not in Ilk Journal, which is fine. There are places/audiences for all poetry, I think; let’s hope in 2012 I continue to find my way to them all. I’ll say it again: good riddance, 2011, you son of a bitch. Hello, kind and loving 2012, you sweet and loving mystery meat.
Of course there’s good news, and that comes with writing. I’m involved in a piece now that refers vaguely to Knut Hamsun’s great novel, Hunger, I’m submitting to journals again, and I’m in the throes of manuscript development. Still. Let’s run together into 2012 with eyes wide open. Let’s put on our Lamaze gear, take the epidural, and bring in the year with lots of class.
Love your poems, happy you’re working on a manuscript
have no vpn so no access to facebook but may be a good thing
my Dad died 5 yrs ago and life seems empty without him
I’m sad to read about your mother’s passing and am sorry for your loss. All best to you in 2012. Keep plugging away at your manuscript…I think the title you’ve chosen is lovely.