When I do a reading, it sometimes seems I've put a notch on the old briar-wood, left a dash of yellow in the snow. There is something unseemly about it; I am not a natural-born performer. And, I am well aware that the poems that are sometimes the ones I love the best are not the ones that others necessarily love or relate to.
I was thinking that Emily Dickinson may have had the right notion about it all, living as hermetically as she possibly could, just reaching out to get some feedback from Mr. Wentworth Higginson. I do like having a writing group and value my fellow poets' opinions, sometimes. But all the fuss and bother that goes into getting published, or "performing" seems very narcissistic to me. (And, bloggin' ain't so, honey? Well, the truth is I doubt many read my blogs, and could actually care less.)
I love the writing and making of things--poems and art and songs--and I do like exploring what other creative types are making out there on the planet. It's all about the "making," which is what a poet is, a maker, not a performer, not a business-woman, not a legislator (sorry Shelley), and certainly not a commercial writer.
Poets are the forgotten and the constantly noting, the sociologists of words.
We are the ones taking in what is said and thinking to ourselves, "well, that's an odd way to look at it," or "that's a curious expression" about even the most cliched statements. We are always learning our language: "elbow grease," "flash in the pan," "chicken-wing arms," "ducks on the pond" (as in baseball), "revenue stream," "roll it out," "down-size," "putting on the breaks," "heart on a sleeve." You get my drift.
But I'll buck up and go do my reading and enjoy myself for the few minutes I'll have being "on," then I'll come home and feel nauseated and drained and it will take a week of mindless crime-shows and nights of making artist-trading cards to get myself back to normal. At least I will feel that I have gone out and explained myself a wee bit to the world.
