I did it.

I made it over to the town Cultural and Music Center where creative types meet.  And I got there on time, too.  There were no dramatic entrances on my part with long scarf trailing behind, sheets of paper printed with poetic brilliance flying out of overburdened arms.  We were having none of that today.  

The Center is a comfortable, medium sized old Victorian with just the right amount of worn out gingerbread and a comfortable, kind of faded feel.  I entered, a bit nervous, but calmer than I was this morning when I was doing my five thousandth revision of poems I thought I'd better bring.  

(They had requested one, but being my OCD ADHD AH self, I brought two.  It could have easily been three, but one had a typo and my mind screamed at me as I ran from room to room with copies of my poetry, stuffing it into folders and then big envelopes and then folders, doing god knows what - TYPOS WILL NOT DO - while slapping myself in the head a few times.)

I looked nice.  Every one looked nice.  Everyone was bathed.  No stinky poets.   There were seven including me. All could have come from a casting call:  the curmudgeon, quiet young, quiet old, sweet white haired, hippy type, liberal arts and the non speaking dissassociative type you'd expect in a group of poetry makers.  And then there was Miss jagged edges, shimmery, shaky, rattley old me.  

I found the process fun, even helpful.  You distribute copies of a poem to everyone, then you read it to everyone.  Then they talk about your poem as if you're not there while you are permitted to sit on your hands, twitch, speak out of turn because this is the BEST conversation - YOUR poem, get told to be quiet, blush, then listen as people comprehend something but not necessarily what you intended they comprehend.  Then come those blissful moments when someone else reads your words incorrectly or perhaps correctly but with the wrong emphasis and your ears start buzzing and your head becomes lighter, etc etc.  (should I have used a bigger BIGGER font?)

And only after the group has their fill of red meat to munch on, are you permitted to speak,  make explanation, say what you've been dying to say, like how or why a poem was written, what you were thinking, feeling, etc, etc.  

Someone asked why I don't use punctuation.  I hope she didn't notice, but I didn't care for the question.  It seemed beside the point.  Then I did what any artist would do - I internally kicked myself, because I realized I failed.  If punctuation or lack of it was a distraction, then my words or the feelings I intended to present were not successfully brought forth.  A few hours later, I realize while this may be true, I like the poem as is but I can see how it may need work and clarification.  

Then I secretly wonder being the smug asshole I can be if this person likes or gets "Hysteria" which is probably my favorite Elliot poem.  So there's a part of me that is ridiculously defensive, in spite of telling myself I'm so receptive to criticism.   

I do not use certain elements and while I sometimes play with them, I don't particularly care much about them at this point. To me some seem like flourishes in a painting, a bit too much.  Or to be honest, sometimes they are beyond my present capabilities.  

On the other hand, I find certain elements that may appear superficial to someone else to matter a great deal to me.  Like spaces or spacing, fonts and capitalisations.  And where you use punctuation.  

Because I am a visual artist, placement of words, as well as their meanings and juxtipositioning are important and are tools I'm trying to formulate.  I don't know if I succeed, but they are important, none the less. 

So I tried to explain why I do not use punctuation often: that in my eyes a punctuation mark restricts the flow and rhythm of words, and that I love when one sentence becomes another and another or each word influences the next sentence and/or thought.  

I rambled on like that, trying to explain the inexplicable.  But this is what talking about poetry is I think - turning a big wad of strangly woven cloth inside out and back again.  Then folding it neatly.  

I dont know if they got me or my poems, or if I made myself clear or if I seemed to be as crazy as I seemed to be in my own mind, at times during the meeting.  Still, I was very happy, explaining away to them and to myself, what in hell I am trying to do.  

 I think they were okay with me.  This group enjoys their process and seemed to enjoy me joining in with them.   So it may be a good fit.  Time shall tell.  

The following poem is the one to be critted by the group (and was ultimately the recipient of the "no punctuation" comment). As an aside, both poems were first published on this blog in slightly different form.

here

an ordinary man

sits unaware of the pending

baptism that comes

in hues of azure

(last rites on a breeze

(on a wind

a calamity made to turn pages

                too quickly

for all at once

warm will become cold become the world

where there is no mystery

no surprise

no time at all

and what was once as sure as morning

now gone to the place where naked bellys of trees            

are shown in starkest black and white 

and air is an asylum of entanglements and madness

               but for only for the briefest moment

and then like clockwork

the sky begins again

*   *   *   *

moving brightly he catches the eye

this tiny white spider

who dares to scurry

through this dominion

his

mine

a sudden swipe of the hand

a hot breath

and he and his shadow

gone

no time, no goodbyes

This next one was read but no crit.  As an aside, for a person like me who never reads any of my poetry aloud, this was a very difficult thing to do.   I thought I might choke as I read, being so nervous I found it hard to breathe.    And I read both poems too quickly. 

After the second poem someone requested I read it again!  This time SLOWER please!  (laughing)  So I read it again.  It was almost a bit better.  

 waiting for the suitable

which arrived just then

&was quickly missed

thus she neglected to remember

light & surrounding air will change suits

from fortune to something else again

no longer will dawn

break soft or warm on her skin but

heavy & cold & in its wake 

when she briefly considered

that glowing lapse

between breaths

that one perfect space

a moment so quick

ly now among

others a mo

ment like no other

then came anoth

er and an

other an d 

I was thinking as I walked home, this is going to be a GREAT story to blog.  :)  I hope you enjoyed it.  Thanks for reading and encouraging me.  Really.  Thank you.