Dabbling with ink

This weekend I attended for the fourth time the creative writing conference put on for teachers every year by SUU and had a ball. The conference centers on ways for teachers to incorporate creative writing into the classroom. I center on having an excuse to listen to professional writers who teach at major universities and getting to do my own writitng. Yesterday there were two writers that were particularly interesting to listen to: Simone Di Piero from Stanford Univ (poetry) and Alison Deming from the Univ of Az (creative nonfiction). Today we got to hear Nola Lodge from the U of U, an Oneida Indian from right outside of my hometown of Green Bay, WI, who discussed reacing American Indian students through creative writing.

I've been in a writing black-hole since December when I submitted some poems to a writing competition. I felt like they were the best poems I'd ever written, and not being picked (though I knew it would be a long shot anyway) as even a top 50 finalist was, I guess, more discouraging than I expected it would be. I didn't lose sleep or shed tears or anything, but I haven't written anything since. Until yesterday. And I only wrote what was asked from all 30 of us attending the conference. But it felt good. I'm not done with the creative nonfiction piece yet (which I will share), but here is the poem. Interestingly enough, Mr. Di Piero didn't seem to like it that much. But it didin't faze me like I thought it would. I told myself in the shaking moments before I volunteered myself that he was the published expert and it was an opportunity to find out what I could do better. But Danielle Dubrasky, who was my peotry teacher at SUU and who puts the conference together, and who was Di Piero's student at Stanford, did. Rejection from one, validation from another. I hate Emily Dickenson. Others say she is the best America has to offer. So what does it mean? I can't easily do tricks with words the way others, including the college students sitting behind me, can. But I have something to say. You may or may not like it, but saying it is the important part. What do you have to say? If you started a poem with the same first two lines as mine (the assignment all in attendance were given), how would your poem turn out?

Odysseus told his men

to plug their ears with wax,

keeping for himself

the song worth dying for.

I would have done it,

resented him for asking

because he would have known I

would be the one to concede,

my ears stuffed dumly,

sitting on the wooden deck waiting.

I would hate him right then

for my future later

without that song,

telling myself I could

remember better,

deserve more those notes

though my resolve to stand

tied alone

would have jumped before

we had lost sight of the shore.