Erin's Poetry tips #'s 1 - ?

I have been writing poetry tips. I read them and they seem like blather, but everything I write seems that way to me. Others are apparently finding them helpful, and worded simply enough that they're easily understood. This is a good thing I suppose. I worked on one for nearly 2 hours tonight. I am completely unsatisfied with it. Everyone else always appreciates my writing more than I do. I have begun to judge my work by other people's opinions at times though - and that is a frightening thing.

I have to work on that.

I wrote an article a long time ago that I posted as one of my tips - it was about internet poetry forum politics. One of the things I didn't stress as much as I probably should have is the way familiarity and friendship causes people to be less objective, to forgive some things based on a poster's personality or past or style. I think that has happened for me at Moontown. They are family. I would never trust my sister/mother/brother/friend's opinions of my poetry in real life - no objectivity. Same applies here, they love me too much to tell me I suck.

Vickie is normally honest with me about my mistakes and weaknesses. I appreciate that very much. But when she says she had to work to find a problem, well, I still feel as though 4 1/2 years with the same peer group has vaguely tainted the level of critique I'm going to get. Besides, even if she isn't biased, the rest are. So I posted at Wild Poetry Forum, to get an outside, unbiased, completely objective crit.
Then their damn site went down.
Just my luck.

I have no interest in finishing my web site. I forget how time consuming it can be - particularly when I'm so out of practice with Dreamweaver, (not to mention that what I have now is 2 versions newer than what I was used to) and any knowledge I once had about HTML has left me.

I think if I lived closer to Erin, it would make for a very interesting life
I keep trying to tone it down for fear of freaking her out, and she says the same thing to me.
We fear alienating each other. If she were my neighbor, she'd be sick of my face. I think though that we'd have one helluva time getting to that point ;)

I was afraid I'd be worried about MTCers finding this blog. That I'd be so uncomfortable saying all the inner ugly things that needed expression. I was wrong. I'm glad my friends have found me, and know the things that matter about me now. I have to admit - that post about my past wasn't easy, but at least it isn't some creepy weird skeleton in my closet.

Dance bitch DANCE!

Oh there are probably more in there, but they're quiet for now.

Fart Knocker

What exactly IS a fart knocker? If you call someone a fart knocker, what the hell are you saying?

I think fart knocker sounds like a horrible word for a gay man. I just heard the word used on a movie on Disney. So what does fart knocker mean? Did that little girl just call the ice cream man gay? If she did, old Walt would roll right over wouldn't he? Or maybe not, hell, he didn't have a problem with Snow White shackin' up with 7 men. Maybe he was a visionary -- ahead of his time. What the hell do I know? I don't even know what a fart knocker is. I wonder if the 7 dwarves were fart knockers?
~
I wrote some yesterday. Some, meaning plural, more than one. It's unprecedented. Well, at least for the last year and a half anyway. I used to pump the shit out like, well, like the shit it was.

I'm going berserk wondering what the hell JAW magazine is going to say. I'd prefer a quick rejection to an agonizing wait. Besides what the hell am I doing starting to make submissions at a time when I'm not really writing?
~
Talked to L for the first time last night. She's fucking great. I've known D for so long. They want me to come to their wedding next year. What an amazing concept, I'd really love to go. I won't hold my breath though. It in't exactly the kind of thing that actually happens in my reality. We'll see. I need to check airlines for prices, start prepping Ma for a weekend of babysitting all the kids, budgeting out whatever it would take for me to get there. Therein lies the problem. It's always about money.

Cross-Limbed

Cross-Limbed

I sat cross-limbed, thin-lipped,
elbow to knee, and ear to God.
I listened and feared
His word; above all,
I believed.

You quizzed me
about a floating zoo.
Remember?
You made me feel
stupid for not knowing.

I was eight,
tight-lipped,and afraid.
In Christian School,

I wore red, white and blue;
I told you I never knew
God was patriotic.

My ignorance was reflected
in the disdain on your face.
I know now that red symbolized
The Blood of the Lamb,
white was Truth,
blue was Loyalty.

You should have dressed me
only in red, smeared it across
my silent lips.

His little whore,
I listened and feared
but you lied.

I remember.

Poetry

Email Recall

Know of any way to do that? To take back an email after it's sent? Yeah, me either, and I suppose I'm glad. I submitted to JAW Magazine a few minutes ago -- they're one of very few print publications that take email submissions, and I'd regret snatching back the submission I suppose. But until I get some sort of response from them, I'm going to be a bit nervous. I'm not really a patient person. It's been 15 minutes already, and I don't understand why they haven't emailed me back!

OK that was sarcasm for those of you who don't get that sort of thing, don't go leaving me any comments about that comment!

I've printed out my poems for Ploughshares too, and the cover letter. Tomorrow (assuming I still feel brave) I'll get some stamps and mail them off. I figure if I'm going to be nervous, I may as well do it all at once, right? Ploughshares says to wait 5 months before sending a query. Good grief!

Keyword Search: Erin Monahan

So, Scotty got me a present. A secret present. I now own a domain name. I used to own www.poetic-acceptance.com but it expired while we were offline. This is the sad replacement for that, and there was never anything there anyway. I had intended to make it a forum board/support group site for grieving parents. It never happened, because I can't do .php

Now I own

drumroll please. . .

www.erinmonahan.com

It feels a bit egomaniacal, owning a site with my name. Especially since I really don't know what I'm even doing with it yet. I suppose at first it'll be basically an archive of my poetry, at least until I find a use for it that actually serves a purpose. It won't be a bereaved parent message board though. That's just too damn emotionally draining. I'd be all caught up in the stories of others who'd lost children, and constantly reminded of my own grief. I've finally gotten to a point in my life where I don't feel guilty for not thinking of her every minute of every day.

Vickie sent me the link to JAW Magazine. She thinks I should submit. I told her I would, and I will. I suppose if I'm never going to be anything more than mediocre, I may as well know it and accept it now. If I'm going to be rich and famous and the new thing to take the world by storm, I may as well get on it eh?

What a load of crap. But I suppose I have to start somewhere to get to wherever it is I end up. JAW Mag is as good a place as any. At least it's actually a hardcopy magazine, which is a sight better than a web based Ezine eh? I'm thinking about Ploughshares too, maybe not quite as seriously though, baby steps Erin, baby steps.

I have been unbelievably bored this evening. Moontown has been down, database upgrades or maintenance or some such thing. Doesn't Kyle know he's supposed to do that between 5am and 6am? Sheesh, these non-poet types!
However, that means I spent a lot of time on AC today, reading and commenting. There are a lot of cool people there. If the format were more personal/interactive, I'd love it a hell of a lot more than I do. There's a few folks there that are really talented, and a few who aren't so, but are awesome people, with a great attitude toward C&C, which is a good thing, a very good thing.

I spent a lot of time with Trish today -- who, for those who don't know her, which is all of you -- is my best friend, and I don't care if that sounds like elementary school. We've known each other since we were 11, and have been through hell and back together. She has a 4 year old with Cerebral Palsy, and just found out that she's pregnant. God bless her, I'm convinced she's insane, but she's an amazing mother, and I have no worries about her making it work. Anyway, she's always had a hard time with pregnancies, and has had several miscarriages, so when she fell this morning, she was pretty concered about the baby. She spent the day here, if for no other reason than to know she wasn't alone if anything happened. It was nice, other than being worried for her, and chasing Terra and Ethan (her nephew that she babysits, he's 1). We don't spend enough time together anymore.

Lost Among Friends

I lost my writing, years ago, before I really knew what poetry was. I used to write about the things teenagers, lost in the woes of teenagerdom, write about. Then, I didn't appreciate the act of writing, I used it, as my own ever-ready whore. Then I met my first husband and dumped her like the whore I considered her. Too bad I didn't know then that I'd need her more than ever over the course of that marriage.

When I did rediscover writing, I treated it just as poorly. It took a long time to really appreciate poetry the way I do now, and I'm sure I have a long way to go, considering I've only just begun to disover contemporary poets who have already passed away. I'm afraid I'm still a bit hung on the old-fashioned beliefs regarding poetry, and I'm OK with that, which I'm sure will be my own poetic downfall.

I'd love to be a published poet. Of course I would, wouldn't I?

See, I don't want to just be 'published' at all. What I want, if I were to be honest, is to be famous. When I die, I want teenagers and unseasoned writers to discover my books after I die and re-evaluate their beliefs. If I'm going to be published, I want to be great. I can be mediocre in the comfort of my own livingroom thank you very much. So I suppose what I'm saying is that I want to be a poet. A Great Poet.

And I have little doubt that I'll never become that, because somewhere inside, I dread the idea of having the responsibility of being a great poet. I don't want to see my face at the bookstore, or have book signings where I shake hands and say nice things to strangers. I have no interest in speaking at any literary conventions, or writing poems on themes that some publisher chooses. I am selfish. I want to be great, but I don't want to lose my strangely comforting sense of anonymity. I'm a very private person, I don't like dealing with people I don't know, or kissing asses of people I don't like.

So many people tell me I'm so damn good. Maybe I am, I don't know, I lack the ability to be objective. Most poets worship every word they write, I am the opposite, I hate them all. I think of every poem I pen to be another bastard child I despise. They are a constant source of pain and embarrassment. And yet, I cannot stop giving birth.

Regardless of how I feel about my own work, I can't deny that others call me talented. What does that mean? The only people to comment on my work are considered friends. None of them tell me I suck -- and the only publisher ever to offer to publish me was a vanity press.
I will probably die not knowing whether I am right, or they are, and that's what bothers me I think.
The only real way to find out is to submit to publishers, which is to take the chance of becoming a mediocre published poet, because I know without a doubt that I'm not Great. I'm too shallow for that, or at least, my work is.

So instead, I sit, reasonably comfortable, among friends, and write.

Christmas, So Soon?

It's the evening of March 12th. March TWELFTH! Already. In 2 months, summer vacation starts. We're already 2 1/2 months into this year, and it has flown, which means that summer vacation will start, roughly speaking, tomorrow.

We better start Christmas shopping!

The rent's behind. Seems like we're always behind, and when we get really behind, we fight. I hate the fighting. I just get all freaked out and start yelling. I know what I'm saying isn't the problem, it's how I'm saying it. I'm not sure how I figure pissing him off is going to pay the rent, but at the time, it all makes sense.

People I know are hurting, physically, emotionally. I hate to know that, and be so unable to help. I wish J would email me back. I wish there was something I could do for Erin. I wish Vickie would let me, and others for that matter, in. I wish Scotty would let me in for God's sake, but then, I haven't exactly given him much reason.

I suppose if I had to describe my recent mood pattern in a word, "helpless" would do it.
I liked last weeks "introspective" better.

Playing With Words

You see, I never read anymore, not even Stephen King, whom I adore.
You see, I have never been a reader of poetry, other than on the web.
I know this is a failing. I can't write poetry without first reading it. I preach it, but I don't practice it, but at least I don't pretend to. I just sit around feeling bad for not doing it.

I've been writing a sort of handbook to the internet poetry poster lately. I don't even know how I got started, boredom I suppose. I post a tip each day, and I feel so arrogant doing it, preaching the ways to be a good poet when I have never laid eyes on the words of Jack Kerouac or Charles Bukowski.

Tonight I made an effort to change that and discovered a few things:
A.) I don't like Bukowski.
B.) I'm not all that big on Kerouac.
C.) I was right to fear that if I read the contemporary poets it would threaten whatever "style" it is I have now. After just a few hours of reading, I am re-evaluating everything I considered 'right' for my poetry.
D.) Aside from all of the above, poetry is a good place to hide from marital discord, even poetry you don't like.

So. It looks like I'll be playing with words again, assuming I can find any to play with.

I wonder if I can find a woman named "Words" and just play with her instead?

Bullshit

Ugh.

How's that for clarity?

Just one of those days. It's bullshit, all of it. I care too much. That's the problem, I care too much.

I like to pretend I don't have an addictive personality. That's a damn lie I can't even convince myself of.

Finite (and Endless)

Finite (and Endless)

The night gasps, swallows
the silence, while the juice
of collapsed stars seeps
down her gibbous chin;
it gleams
with their waning breaths.

Her throaty laugh reeks
of black holes, grief,
and greed.

She raps on my window
lest I forget, with raucous raindrops
that liquefy the world beyond
and leave it distorted, drowning.

Beyond the blink of midnight,
a baby cries, frightened
by the obsidian absence
in her mother's eyes.

But Mama just wipes her lips
on a sullied sleeve
and whispers

goodnight.

Poetry