Happy Birthday, Mister Frost

In junior high, we read and watched The Outsiders. I don't remember the book at all, but of course, I'll always remember the movie, chock-full of 80s heart-throbs. I was 13, and I had already begun an intense love-affair with reading. I couldn't understand why all the other kids would sigh and groan when it was time to talk book reports. I read whatever our dinky little Catholic school library could provide. Jack London was a favorite. But it wasn't until I watched The Outsiders that I fell in love with poetry. And this is why:

Nothing Gold Can Stay

by Robert Frost

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay. 

After hearing Ponyboy recite this poem, I was mesmerized. Where can I find this poem? Where can I read more poems like it? The sound was so beautiful. And the meaning, so poignant.

Many years later, Robert Frost still has a very special, tender spot in my poet heart. My Maya Angelou obsession happened around the same time, but it was a different kind of love. I loved her for her urgency and social commentary. I loved Frost for bringing beauty in to the world in a way no one else could. Here is my favorite Frost poem:

The Oven Bird

by Robert Frost

There is a singer everyone has heard,
Loud, a mid-summer and a mid-wood bird,
Who makes the solid tree trunks sound again.
He says that leaves are old and that for flowers
Mid-summer is to spring as one to ten.
He says the early petal-fall is past
When pear and cherry bloom went down in showers
On sunny days a moment overcast;
And comes that other fall we name the fall.
He says the highway dust is over all.
The bird would cease and be as other birds
But that he knows in singing not to sing.
The question that he frames in all but words
Is what to make of a diminished thing.

He may have his critics, and so what? Frost is timeless, yet classic. A master of language and a peddler of emotion. I love you, Mr. Frost. Happy Birthday.

World Poetry Day

Today is World Poetry Day, whatever that means. Coming up next month, we will celebrate National Poetry Month. It's nice to have these labels, but it's not necessary. You don't need a day or a month to remind you to read poetry. I think the real reminders are life's ups and downs. When something good happens, you want to find the right poem to put your happiness into words. When something bad happens, diddo.

Something bad has happened. I know that something bad has happened to all of you at one or more times in your lives. We can all relate. At these times, it's hard to find the words for our feelings. Poems help me make sense of the sadness and give me hope for recovery. Today, I share this poem with you. I share my grief.

I found this poem by Dorianne Laux in the book ten poems to say goodbye by Roger Housden. It hints at the loss of a romantic partner, but I think it applies to any great loss. It certainly captures my thoughts better than any other poem I have found.

How It Will Happen, When

by Dorianne Laux 

 

There you are, exhausted from a night of crying,

curled up on the couch, the floor, at the foot of the bed,

anywhere you fall you fall down crying, half amazed

at what the body is capable of, not believing you can cry

anymore. And there they are, his socks, his shirt, your underwear

and your winter gloves, all in a loose pile

next to the bathroom door, and you fall down again.

Someday, years from now, things will be different,

the house clean for once, everything in its place, windows

shining, sun coming in easily now, skimming across

the thin glaze of wax on the wood floor. You’ll be peeling

an orange or watching a bird leap from the edge of the rooftop

next door, noticing how, for an instant, her body is trapped

in the air, only a moment before gathering the will to fly

into the ruff at her wings, and then doing it: flying.

You’ll be reading, and for a moment you'll see a word 

you don’t recognize, a simple word like cup or gate or wisp

and you’ll ponder over it like a child discovering language. 

Cup, you’ll say it over and over until it begins to make sense,

and that’s when you’ll say it, for the first time, out loud: He’s dead.

He’s not coming back, and it will be the first time you believe it.

Be Simple

If I've said it once, I've said it seven hundred thousand, five hundred and sixty-two times. The point of poetry is not to sound smart; it is not to use big words; it is not to be shocking; it is not to get your name in print; it is not to convey your agenda. It is to share humanity. It is to share emotion. It is to be both personal and universal. It is to avoid cliches and say something old in a new way (think Shakespeare, the master of telling the same old stories about the human condition in new and interesting ways). It is to be observant. It is to be honest.

I'm reading Lovers of the Lost  (David R. Godine, 2010), by Wesley McNair, which is a collection of new and selected poems. I love how his poems seem random and effortless. Here's a poem about a farm. Here's a poem about bank robbers. Here's a poem about telephones. So ordinary. So common. Yet, these glimpses into ordinary life are more poignant than any poem that strives to analyze politics or explain the meaning of life. When it comes down to it, we are just people, and the things that move us are the moments when we realize that everybody else are just people, too. And so it will remain until our extinction. Those are my words, not McNair's. He would never be so exalted or preachy. He would simply say:

Sleep

The young dog would like to know
why we sit so long in one place
intent on a box that makes the same
noises and has no smell whatever.
Get out! Get out! we tell him
when he asks us by licking the back
of our hand, which has small hairs,
almost like his. Other times he finds us
motionless with papers in our lap,
or at a desk looking into a humming
square of light. Soon the dog understands
we are not looking, exactly, but sleeping
with our eyes open, then goes to sleep
himself. Is it us he cries out to,
moving his legs somewhere beyond
the rooms where we spend our lives?
We don't think to ask, upset
as we are in the end with the dog,
who has begun throwing the old,
shabby coat of himself down on every
floor or rug in the apartment, sleep,
we say, all that damn dog does is sleep.

More Submission Tips

Okay, so we're getting a bit off the poetry track, but since submitting (and getting rejected) is a big part of the poet's life, here is an interesting article about cover letters by Becky Tuch, founder of The Review Review.

Determination & The Art of Rejection

This past week, I was at AWP in Chicago. Besides the numerous panel discussions, readings, and receptions, the writer's conference boasts an enormous book fair. Several ginormous rooms filled with row after row of tables set up by presses, university writing programs, and the ever daunting literary magazine. Sometimes I think there are more lit mags than there are people on this earth. As a poet, it's overwhelming. As an avid reader and editor, it's pretty exciting. What I realize every time I visit an AWP book fair is that editors are people, just like you and me. An editor myself, I should know this. But it's easy to forget after your 5oth or 60th rejection. These people are dang friendly, and they want you to submit. The most important lesson my poet self has learned from my editor self is this: Don't take rejection personally. Remember:

1. Volume - When an editor receives hundreds of poems and only publishes a handful, the odds are against you. The sheer volume of submissions that literary magazines receive is your biggest enemy. This is why you shouldn't take it personally. It's a numbers game.

2. Style - Sometimes a fabulous poem is just not the right fit. I know, this one used to bug me, but it's true. A poem can be good but just not feel right with the particular magazine or the specific issue being published. Again, it's not personal. You should read old issues of the journal, though. If the poems don't seem anything like yours, try a different journal.

3. Subjectivity - What I think is a good poem someone else may think is crap, and vice versa. While there is a craft involved in poetry and certain tools of the trade will undoubtedly increase the quality of your writing, it all comes down to preference. If I don't like poems about fruit, I probably won't publish poems about fruit. Weird, but not personal.

4. Quality - This one you don't want to  hear, but you have to. We all write bad poems. We all submit bad poems. Sometimes, it takes several rejections for me to realize that maybe the poem is the problem. Poems are our babies, and we don't want to hear that they aren't good enough. It's hard not to take this one personally, but try. Revision is a writer's best friend. Isn't it awesome that you can turn a crappy poem into an amazing one, just by revising? If you receive rejections for the same poems over and over again, go back to the writing desk. Use it as an opportunity to improve your writing.

5. Guideline Errors - If you don't read and follow the guidelines, you risk having your work rejected without being read. This may seem unfair, but editors and readers put a lot of time and effort into reading and thinking about your work. Do them the honor of reading and thinking about theirs. Though they may seem unnecessary, guidelines are there for very specific reasons.

What I want you take from this post is that more often than not, rejection has less to do with you than with every one else. Most writers receive countless rejections before receiving an acceptance. And then they repeat the cycle. I've often looked at writer bios and thought Wow, look at all those publications. They must have had thousands of rejections. You come to appreciate that kind of determination.

So, don't give up. Try different places. Revise. Try more places. Let every rejection be a reminder that you are a professional writer. Your work is out there, not in a shoe box. That is a great feeling, knowing that you are living your dream.