Poetic Feet to the Fire

I’ve won a poetry contest before, once (granted I’ve entered only about 4 or 5 total), and I entered one recently. For this live performance competition, I collected a group of poems I thought to be of reasonably high quality for the upcoming event (end of July). Before long, I started narrowing down the candidates, returning to that process again after two things changed: The “tournament” became a showcase due to insufficient competitor entries to make the brackets work, and the accompanying call for literary magazine submissions opened up to entries from more writers than just would-be contest winners.

Thus, the pressure was lifted for content on one platform (stage) and transferred to the other (page). The result was to extend the time available for each writer’s decisions on what to submit (deadline moved from June 2 to July 1). With the change in deadline came more detailed guidelines as well. I suppose the crisis of faith that followed for me simply happened sooner than it might have, which is probably good since you don’t want to panic right before going on stage either. Whatever the cause or contributing factors, doubt has crept in.

I had already shuffled the order a few times, relegating poems to alternate status and back again, when I learned the news of the event’s structural changes. Before the tournament became a non-competitive showcase, there was to be a series of time limits for contestants at the mic. However, with a dearth of entries, stage time has expanded for each participant. By contrast, with the new goal for the literary magazine being to include more participants than before, page space per writer has shrunk.

The new submission guidelines for poetry (the event includes storytelling, comedy, and music as well) specify a limit of 30 lines per poem, including lines between stanzas, and this has added difficulty to my decisions. It’s appropriate–only your best work. Of course I would submit only my best! If I could.

My trouble, as I see it, given that I do not write poetry prolifically, is that my shorter poems, the ones eligible for submission, tend not to be as good as those just out of range.

The consequences? My collection has thus begun to dwindle further (not inherently bad); I was forced to revise structures to make a few poems more horizontal and less vertical in appearance (no biggie); and I started to feel the overall quality ebbing away (kind of a biggie). The bubble of my collection of poems seems already to have burst.

For this event, I’ve focused on nature poems, but so does my overall poetry collection. Due to my infrequent verse writing activity (up to a half dozen poems a year), the total collection of possible candidates also spans a period of decades. The oldest poem in the group is 24 years old, the youngest a couple of months. My verse children were born in different personal eras (adolescence, college, working world), geographical places (France, Ohio, and Massachusetts), and moments in my poetic development (confessional, abstract/obscure, nonsensical word play, formalism, free verse with internal rhyme, terse verticality, and so on). A diverse brood. Ironically, the oldest poems tend to be the most underdeveloped–sometimes that’s the nature of literary babies (and some humans).

I have not officially, i.e., formally, published any poetry in my career, if one can even call it a career. So, finding myself on the cusp of large-scale live audience action, if not publication, I’m sitting up a little straighter and feeling the lick of flames under my toes.

In desperation before these emergent, combined realities, I found myself scrounging for additional works to use. One poem I had discarded, or set aside, a few years ago as birth defected and beyond repair has become an object for resuscitation, remodeling, and renewal. You can do that with some writing. I journaled about it, scanned the meter, and color coded my pen marks for the strongest aspects I could isolate and reshape into something new. Now the poem awaits rewriting. Who knows? Maybe it will be the saving grace of the family.

Putting yourself out there is a healthy thing, I must remind myself, even if doubt lingers. It forces you to keep moving forward, find a way to make things work, and start new projects. With the imminence of the showcase, for which I’m officially on the schedule, I gain new motivation to work, to improve, to learn, and to try again. Sometimes, when idea inspiration doesn’t come, when desire to express doesn’t win out, the external pressure of a deadline and an audience can provide the needed incentive.

What is it? Disguised blessing? Healthy challenge?

There are more ways than one to get things done, and opportunity need not be a crisis. So courage, creator! And carry on toward adventure.

Five-Phrase Friday (20): Eliot’s Ironies

Happy New Year! Welcome to another round of posts celebrating that peculiar space in the English language between word and sentence–the phrase.

In this edition, I’ve sampled full clauses from sentences in a book I’m currently reading. These sometimes facetious truisms (per the narrator’s point of view) in George Eliot’s classic novel Middlemarch arrive in a variety of contexts: ironic description, suspect character mindsets and motivations, and subtly clever admonitions that also seem to treat characters with the utmost generosity of spirit.

I’ve affectionately marked the following excerpts with my pen while reading the book, which I bought after reading just a few pages of my library copy.

  1. “the most glutinously indefinite minds enclose some hard grains of habit” – narrator, Book I, Chapter I.
  2. “wrong reasoning sometimes lands poor mortals in right conclusions” – narrator, Book I, Chapter III.
  3. “when a woman is not contradicted, she has no motive for obstinacy in her absurdities” – Mrs. Cadwallader about Dorothea’s refusal to marry Mrs. C’s match for her, Sir James Chettam, Book I, Chapter VI.
  4. “the world is full of hopeful analogies and handsome dubious eggs called possibilities” – narrator, Book I, Chapter X.
  5. “correct English is the slang of prigs who write history and essays. And the strongest slang of all is the slang of poets.” – Fred, Book I, Chapter XI.

So why choose these examples? It took a little thought, but these are my best justifications.

(1) I was amused by the synchronicity in the way the first one’s metaphor indirectly speaks to the gluten-free craze of late. Gluten certainly has not come up as a subject in any other classic novel I’ve read so far.BookCover_Middlemarch_Norton

(2) The dilemma presented by the truth of the second example is intriguing–is it more important to strive to think right or end up right? “Road to hell” and so forth.

(3) Given its source and her motivations, the sexism and staunch beliefs of number three’s character made me grin.

(4) I admire the elegance in the thinly veiled cynicism of the fourth one.

(5) The frankness of number five and the irony of sharing it as part of celebrating the English language feel like the perfect way to start the year. Plus, it’s good to eat a little humble pie every once in a while (barring any gluten allergy or sensitivity, of course).

The rhythm, word choice, flow, sophisticated ideas, and spirit in Eliot’s writing overall have been a pleasure to experience. I hope to find the story just as enjoyable as I make my way through it. This is my first time reading the book, or any Eliot, and I have more than half of it still to read before the book club meeting in February.

Wish me luck–and stay tuned!