"Hellish" and "relish."
Will keep in mind for my next sonnet (although it seems to call for a limerick.)
OK, so, yeah, I was having a really bad week. But now that the weekend's here, I feel quite un-hellish. Quite good, actually.
Last night I started the first phase of planning for an online lit journal, something I've been mulling over for about a year (and thinking about in a "someday" way for much longer.) Will take a while to get it off the ground... generating interest for quality submissions will probably be the hardest/most expensive part -- how much is a classified in Poet's and Writers? -- but it's fun to think about.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Monday, October 1, 2007
Poet's Mantra
It's probably no accident that, among recent Western adherents of Buddhism, a large number are writers or artists. The bare-bones psychology of Buddhism is a lot like the artist's (ideal) way of being. Mindfulness might be translated as very rigorous observation.
My artist's mantra would be that, wherever I am at the moment, I would aim to be perfectly there, perfectly hot or cold, but keeping what some Buddhists call the Buddha in the Center. An artist might just call this the observer, taking notes, equally serving art itself and the sanity of the artist.
And in the Western tradition, Socrates, in probably his most famous line, had high praise for the value of observation as well.
I think it was the personal credo of the poet Anthony Hecht, whom I've been reading for class, regarding the crucial role of faithful observation in the life and work of a poet, who inspired these musings.
I met Hecht when he was a guest in the first course I took in the writing program. He signed my book (well, everyone's book.) I was feeling callow and nervous, aside from my usual shyness, and hadn't been able to come up with a perfect question to ask him, as the instructor had requested (well, he hadn't said "perfect," but I had hoped to impose that requirement on myself and failed miserably.) I think it was after he read from a poem of his about Flannery O'Connor, watching the trees through the window as she was lying in bed dying of lupus, that I scrapped whatever I had come up with and managed instead an off-the-cuff but heartfelt question that included the word "rigor." His eyes sort of flashed for a moment and he said, emphatically, "Yes."
It was a moment of hope for me, even though thus far I had produced nothing satisfactory at the level I was aspiring to, that I might have an inkling of what it was all about, and therefore something to guide me and to hold onto. And it was indeed a rocky road from the first couple workshops until these last two, so that hope was a valuable gift. He died later that same year, and I felt so lucky to have had that opportunity, even though I hadn't been ready for it.
P.S. And some belated good news: That habit of submission which I mentioned earlier (of poems to lit journals... what did you think I meant? ;) has paid off with some actual publications. Some rejections, too, but, so far, in fairly equal measure, so it's definitely been worth the effort... sending some more stuff out today.)
My artist's mantra would be that, wherever I am at the moment, I would aim to be perfectly there, perfectly hot or cold, but keeping what some Buddhists call the Buddha in the Center. An artist might just call this the observer, taking notes, equally serving art itself and the sanity of the artist.
And in the Western tradition, Socrates, in probably his most famous line, had high praise for the value of observation as well.
I think it was the personal credo of the poet Anthony Hecht, whom I've been reading for class, regarding the crucial role of faithful observation in the life and work of a poet, who inspired these musings.
I met Hecht when he was a guest in the first course I took in the writing program. He signed my book (well, everyone's book.) I was feeling callow and nervous, aside from my usual shyness, and hadn't been able to come up with a perfect question to ask him, as the instructor had requested (well, he hadn't said "perfect," but I had hoped to impose that requirement on myself and failed miserably.) I think it was after he read from a poem of his about Flannery O'Connor, watching the trees through the window as she was lying in bed dying of lupus, that I scrapped whatever I had come up with and managed instead an off-the-cuff but heartfelt question that included the word "rigor." His eyes sort of flashed for a moment and he said, emphatically, "Yes."
It was a moment of hope for me, even though thus far I had produced nothing satisfactory at the level I was aspiring to, that I might have an inkling of what it was all about, and therefore something to guide me and to hold onto. And it was indeed a rocky road from the first couple workshops until these last two, so that hope was a valuable gift. He died later that same year, and I felt so lucky to have had that opportunity, even though I hadn't been ready for it.
P.S. And some belated good news: That habit of submission which I mentioned earlier (of poems to lit journals... what did you think I meant? ;) has paid off with some actual publications. Some rejections, too, but, so far, in fairly equal measure, so it's definitely been worth the effort... sending some more stuff out today.)
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