I showed up at the bar carrying a book I had purchased earlier in the evening while attending a poetry reading. Most of my bar friends don’t know about my flirtations with poetry – that I read it, try to write it, try to find community in it. The book garnered interest and questions from some friends. One or two of them read a page here and there. They said they liked it. In one instance, a friend and I talked talked about finding better balance in life (bar life vs. work vs. relationships vs. the solitude of reading and personal passions). She said she needs to get back to those things she liked to do on her own. She said she didn’t know that this was the conversation she needed and had been looking for. If I add value to the bar, it’s in being a reliable and steady part of the community. It’s in getting people to open up or talk about things they might not normally talk about.
Sometimes, those conversations sit with me or challenge me. One friend had asked what I hope to get out of poetry and writing. I didn’t have an answer. Or more accurately, I said I didn’t really have an objective. I’m never going to make a living from it. I don’t really want attention for it. But even that’s only a partial truth. I value sharing and I suppose I’d like some sense of validation in the form of getting more things published. At least then, I’d feel less like a fraud.
At the poetry reading, I watched as the MFA students chittered and chattered with each other. Poetry and writing is their world and you can hear it in the way they talk. You can see it in the way they listen – eyes softly focused on the poet, earnestness etched on their faces. I’m not sure I give off that vibe, though I remember a time in my life when I did. I’m probably too old, too cynical, or too jaded to be an earnest student. I am neither accomplished nor knowledgeable enough to be the teacher. I’m just a guy who shows up, listens, reflects, maybe buys a book, and then returns to the comforts of his apartment or neighborhood bar.
There were moments during the reading when I thought, I could have written that. There were moments when I felt a sense of relief as though I had been given permission to write about things I might not normally think of as being the material of poetry (those weeks when the pantry was infested with sawtooth grain beetles or the worst Red Lobster on the east coast). There were moments when I thought, once again, that I’ve lived a too sheltered and safe life to be any good at this. I’m often reminded of a Stephen Dunn poem in which he writes about a good fighting bar where you won’t get hurt unless you have to. My shit memory for past experiences doesn’t help. There were moments during the reading when I told myself, I wouldn’t want to do a public reading (flashbacks of not wanting to be called on to read in school). All of these moments are subtle measurements of how I stack up or fit in against/with a more accomplished writer. I usually come out pretty unfavorably in the comparisons: not disciplined enough, started to late, no life experiences, not terribly well read.
Because it’s National Poetry Month, I’m trying, yet again, to get better and be better. To my friend’s question, I don’t know why. Yesterday I wrote a poem. Today I wrote a poem and edited others. I also read quite a few poems, shared one I liked on Bluesky, and read a few writing blog posts. One of those blog posts was from a week ago by Maya C. Popa. It begins:
…and someone starts banging loudly at the door of your mind…
It’s you, here to remind you that the ceiling fan needs dusting.
Only, you don’t have a duster with an extendable arm. So, naturally, you’re getting dressed to go to the megastore.
Only—hang on—your favorite sweatshirt for such outings, the one that spiritually settles you amidst the neon overwhelm, looks dirty. Which it is, because you didn’t get to that load you meant to do over the weekend.
You’re loading the laundry when you remember that email.
Using different words and different examples, I’ve written about my monkey mind multiple times. How I might sit down to write, but then do everything but write. How the simple act of getting up to re-shelve a book ends with me staring at myself in the mirror while brushing my teeth after having done the dishes and made the bed but never having re-shelved the book (or something like that). It was nice to see that this isn’t just a me thing. Popa’s advice, return to the writing. Keep returning to the writing. In many ways this is like meditation. When the stray thought crosses your mind, acknowledge it, but tell it that now is not the time. When faced with the urge to get up and putter about, greet the urge, but don’t give in – return to the writing.
For National Poetry Month, I’m going to try to write a new poem every day. I’m also going to try to not lean on the word “try” too heavily – by which I mean not give myself outs or grace. I’m going to try the practice of discipline (sticking with something beyond the distraction banging at my mind’s door). I’m also going to immerse myself a bit more than usual. I’ve already signed up to attend two other readings, and I may (assuming my shy awkward loner persona doesn’t get the best of me) introduce myself to the poets who will be hanging out in North Beach tomorrow. And who knows, maybe I’ll bring another book to the bar to see if it sparks other conversations or leads to different types of sharing.