Reading

My first memories are tied up with poetry. Poetry was a staple my parents read at bedtime. Walt Whitman was my father’s favorite.

My mother was more diverse, eclectic. Most often she read from our set of Junior Classics; The Young Folks Shelf of Books, Volume Ten, Poems, Guide and Indexes or Heart Throbs. I've mentioned these before: The Duel, Wynken, Blynken, and Nod, The Shut-eye Train by Eugene Field, The Owl and the Pussy-cat by Edward Lear, Little Orphant Annie by James Whitcomb Riley, The Spider and the Fly by Mary Howitt were standard fare. And then there was Poe’s, The Raven.

After I married and started my family, my writing and reading changed. Between short stories, essays and novels I still managed to write a little poetry, but rarely read it. Never enough time. Instead, I concentrated on romance novels, my time better spent reading what I wrote. Time was hard won and rare in those days. Still, I finished nine novels, many short stories and essays, even some poetry. I had small successes, too.

Finally and again, I’ve wanted to take a poetry workshop. Scheduling was the first difficulty I ran into. Then money, but eventually I had saved enough for an online workshop. MPGN hit.

Anger and self-pity swamped me. You know the old—why me, mentality. That is until that (sane?) voice (probably the same one that does my editing) whispered—Why not? You think you’re too good to get problems? You think everyone else is supposed to do the suffering? You have had it good, you know. Is this really not your turn?

After a good self scruff-of-the-neck shake and talking to, I stopped feeling sorry for myself (for the most part) and put my energy into getting better. As I began to recover, my desire to write grew. Yet, (as I’ve mentioned before and probably too often) my mind didn’t follow. Whether it was medication or illness, I don’t know. I only kn0w I couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t get my thoughts to make sense. Worse, it seemed I couldn’t get them from my mind to my fingers and onto the screen. I floundered and worried. Grieved and persisted. (Too hard, I think.)

Often, I would wake up hunched over my desk, the whole morning gone, the computer on screen saver and my thoughts lost. Other times I would have dozens of beginning thoughts and no follow through. It wasn’t the time for any kind of writing workshop, much less a poetry workshop.

I fee; poetry takes more concentration and thought than other forms of writing. Also, it takes freer, maybe even, wilder thinking. I just didn’t have it in me. I felt mostly vulnerable, lost and unsure, unable to make the simplest decisions or choices.

My health improved. I worked on a memoir (whether for therapy, or for publication, or just to have a hand in writing something. Who know yet?) using my own knocked together ‘workshop.’ I was afraid my mind wasn’t sharp enough take a class, any class. Certainly, not poetry.

I picked two books for a memoir ‘workshop,’ of sorts: Writing Out the Storm by Barbara Abercrombie and Writing Life Stories by Bill Roorbach. Diligently I worked through both books simultaneously, page by page.

One of the assignments mentioned in both books was to read memoirs. I followed the advice. It helped immensely as I took notes and made rough outlines for my memoir. Reading other memoirs kick started my mind, held out a carrot for my foggy mind. A blind guide, a map for my own terrain. Something I needed. More than I even knew.

It was a way back to my writing. I needed that.

As I try to renew my poetry writing now, I’m using that same assignment for my poetry writing. I’m revisiting the joy of reading poetry again. I’m getting better. The fogginess has left. I can concentrate much better, but as I slowly come off prednisone I’m uncertain how that might affect me. So, I’ve cobbled together my own poetry workshop, using two good poetry instruction books: The Mind’s Eye by Kevin Clark and The Art and Craft of Poetry by Michael Bugeja.

More importantly, I’ve began to read poetry again. What an experience, a joy. I’m finding new poets I love and rediscovering old poets: Mary Oliver, James Applewhite, Jewel, and Taylor Swift (I know she is a lyricist but her songs are poetic. I love her little twists, her slant rhymes, etc. I actually read a lot of lyrics. Try it.)And, of course, Rod McKuen. I subscribe to Poetry Magazine and 32 Poems Poetry magazine so I can read my contemporaries. By the way, visit the Poetry Foundation website, too.

Read. Read what you write. Read something different. Read what inspires you. Read.