More on Making Things...

Ask.com answers my query with the following: Poem is from the Greek poema, a noun derived from the verb poie-o, to make or do. Poets are often called makers.Thanks to my dear friend Linda Moore for bringing this derivation to my attention originally. 

It is this making that keeps swirling through my thoughts. Too many poets are too much in their heads. We are a solitary sort in our creative process. But learning to allow the environment of the poem and all it is striving to achieve be a welcoming place for me is the work at hand. In writing a poem, I believe myself as the source of the work, rather than the conduit. In making a poem, I am a creative first responder to the moment of noticing, awareness that opens the window for a breeze that is inspiration. It is the mirror that reflects this moment in time. I, as poet, will commit those images, moments, sounds, thoughts, words to breath and into type. I respond to this life we have been dreamed into with my verse.

It is in this making that we poets must be willing to be most honest. It is with the intention of honest reflection that the best poems are written, those poems that reflect the world to itself through the individual lens of that artist who commits to the act of making the poem, establishing contact. It is through the poet's lens that we can see through windows of the places and times where and when others have lived, are living.

We teach a great deal through poetic verse. We see with the eyes of a fly, so many lenses. The poet must be conscious and speak for, to, and with the greater community. We have done this for thousands of years. We teach language through the sound and meter of poetry, even in pre-reading. It is in the pulse of our blood as a people. Poetry is organic, more than the towers and lecture halls of academia may have allowed us to believe throughout the 20th century. More than the media of the age would accept. Poetry is for everyone. We enjoy it more than many admit or recognize. 

The myth of poetry being too elusive for the average person, too challenging, is failing, is waning. There is a poem for everyone, a poem that speaks to that person's individual experience and understanding. A poem with which that reader feels competent in how they interpret the words and metaphor. We will never all like the same poem. But we will each be able to identify with one poem we rely upon or always remember.

The job of the poet is to catalog by using the wealth and lush capacity of language and image, to reflect everything of the human condition, of history, of nuance, of the marvel that this speck of the universe provides, as well as its pain,  or our outrage. 

My job is to create and to share, to communicate and connect. My job is to promote my creative art in all the ways it serves us and to encourage poetry as a viable aspect of lifelong learning as well as personal and cultural expression. I encourage others to make things as well.

Postscript:

From the Owl Publishing web site I fell upon, the following quote:  Prose is when all the lines except the last go on to the end. Poetry is when some of them fall short of it. Jeremy Bentham (1748-1832)

The Free Dictionary on line offers this definition:

po·em

n.

1. A verbal composition designed to convey experiences, ideas, or emotions in a vivid and imaginative way, characterized by the use of language chosen for its sound and suggestive power and by the use of literary techniques such as meter, metaphor, and rhyme.

2. A composition in verse rather than in prose.

3. A literary composition written with an intensity or beauty of language more characteristic of poetry than of prose.

4. A creation, object, or experience having beauty suggestive of poetry.

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[French poème, from Old French, from Latin poema, from Greek poiema, from poiein, to create; see k^wei-² in Indo-European roots.]

Why Working on the Deck Affirms My Conviction (and other summer rationalizations)

Three years ago this week, I was laid off. It was a surprise. I took the news with a considerable dissociative air. It was unexpected and I was not in agreement with the reasons why my position was being downsized but that was ultimately irrelevant. I did not have a job, effective immediately. The work, the agency, the constituents had all been my primary focus for 10 years, as well as a growing financial security.

I loved the projects I was able to help design and implement. I found great satisfaction in being the conduit between two people or organizations that could find mutual benefit that would suit the collective. I was honored to learn so much about the artists in our community and support their journeys into programs and schools as teaching artists.  I loved working in a state of collaboration as a standard operating procedure.

I also had an ongoing teaching gig in a school district that was a supplement to my program directorship, which had always been a part-time position. I had the best of both worlds in building my practice and honing my craft. 

Within hours of being laid off, I had already applied for a job and started a networking effort to let folks know I had a sudden change of circumstance. 

Within hours I had already traversed the soul searching to affirm to myself that, this time around, it was not about a job any longer, it was about the Work.

I spent the next 3 years continuing my work in the school districts that have fulfilled the foundation of my career, teaching adult writing courses, completing a collection of poetry, starting two more, as well as writing and now promoting the publication of Our Difficult Sunlight. I have also deepened my commitment to the Comstock Review as managing editor. I am fully immersed in my identity of Poet. This is quite comforting. I have managed, albeit in an often bumbling manner; I have survived, in spite of the economy and certainly with the support of many, for whom I am ever and always grateful; I have succeeded. That is the most important of the three. I have met my goals and in many ways exceeded them.

Too often I set my sights on everything I have not yet accomplished or have put off for some compulsive procrastinating reason or another. I make incessant lists. I beat myself up for those items not accomplished, in spite of the inordinate length of tasks and to-dos. So I started a new practice: I established an Accomplishment Log. Instead of looking at a list with check marks that always leaves something undone, this is the list of the things I did accomplish to reflect upon with regularity. To qualify for the Log, the task must be something that I have avoided or put off for at least 24 hours. Some log entries have been completion of goals or actions left undone for 10 years. My log is filling up and my life is more manageable day by day by day. It is the accomplishment that I then dwell on, rather than the perceived failure. Small amateur behavior mod trick but it seems to be working. 

I have spent this summer concerning myself with the bleak future I have been perceiving. I am a realist. The economy is frightening and my own pockets reflect it. I am likely to have much less of the school work I have relied upon thus far. I also have new opportunities. I have applied for several jobs. I have not received them for reasons I don't necesarily know. I am allowing my faith to soothe me in trusting that I am still making right choices that best suit me as well as the highest good for all involved. For, please understand me when I share this, this Work is about humanity and the power of language for me. This Work is about love and communication. I have to trust that I am supported to be able to continue to serve with my talents and abilities. For me, this work is about others and finding ways to support them in self-empowerment, however that may take form. These words are the heart of my personal mission statement.

I reaffirm, it is not about a job. It is about the Work. If a position comes along to which I am suited, I will be delighted. I will continue to network and reach out for consulting, editing, and teaching gigs. I will start planning the five different classes I will be teaching this fall. I will persevere. 

And today, I work under the leaf umbrella of the Norwegian Maple canopy of my deck, watching the feral cats sun, glimpsing the red and blue streaks of cardinal and jay, listening to the trance music of summer. Today, I also blogged...another entry for my daily Log.