Fascinating account of being a writer/poet, Peter. Thanks for the link. I have saved passages from what I've read.
So much of you have shared has been among my experiences, though I have not received such accolades or awards, but then I am not one who has published much and then, only vanity publications because I know I would not fare well, as I had alluded to in my post responding to your post at Greg Boyd's Antifictions. I rather like being a nobody. A poet I know who is also nobody wrote a very short poem about what being a poet feels like and what he feels like after he has written a good poem:
46 PERCENT
Less my microbiome,
only 46 percent of me is me
and of that, how much is hoding this pen
and what can it do
but be, the king of the world?
George Burns
My friend, George Burns, writes many poems, and like me, a lot of poems that don't work, but as poet William Stafford once wrote, or maybe it was a comment by Ray Bradbury, about writing a good story, one has to write a lot of bad short stories to write a good one. I can't remember now who wrote "You're only as good as you dare to be bad." It may have been Ray, but I think perhaps it was my mentor, poet Benjamin Saltman, who said that. He has won two NEA Grants and other awards, and has published nine volumes of poetry, but I can't convince the Academy of American Poets or the Poetry Foundation to include at their sites any of his poems, not even a mention of him. I have sent both of these organizations all of Saltman's books of poems including his autobiographical, "A Termite Memoir," that, if I were teaching, I would assign as an example of how difficult a writer's life can be.
When I look back at what I have experienced to acquire the skills to write a poem, I become rather exhausted. I stumbled on what it means to be me. hence why I like George Burn's poem.
I have decided to save to my computer your complete "discussion" about what it means or is like to be a poet (or author of anything). I agree with what Robert Perchan wrote: "The scary thing is I would probably do it all over again." The question is, could I?
Nick Campbell
Below is a poem by Benjamin Saltman. Dana Gioia has characterized my continual support of Saltman's work this way: "You worry too much about Ben Saltman's readership." If I didn't, who would, certainly not his own family.
THE CURVES OF BRIDGES
Sometimes a bridge takes a leap
like the best ball I threw when I was twelve,
when I jumped from stone to stone
in fine arcs hanging from cables of air.
A bridge starts inside, the near shore
shrouded, no way to turn back, and then you’re gone.
A bridge wants to fire over the Bay
where steel points a gray finger at Yerba Buena,
a red finger at Marin. Few things go
across bridges normally, often they get excited
or start dreaming. A bridge stretches its rails
and trembles and takes off flickering at night
away from tired houses, even the good trees
on the near side. People leave the crowded day
hammered by radios, and launch themselves over water.
I am always on a bridge when I realize how far
below the water is, fierce, ribbed. I am on
that bridge like a long bird flying, trailing its legs,
The above poem was divided into three parts. As a prose poem it would read like this:
THE CURVES OF BRIDGES
Sometimes a bridge takes a leap like the best ball I threw when I was twelve, when I jumped from stone to stone in fine arcs hanging from cables of air.
A bridge starts inside, the near shore shrouded, no way to turn back, and then you’re gone. A bridge wants to fire over the Bay where steel points a gray finger at Yerba Buena, a red finger at Marin. Few things go across bridges normally, often they get excited or start dreaming. A bridge stretches its rails and trembles and takes off flickering at night away from tired houses, even the good trees on the near side. People leave the crowded day hammered by radios, and launch themselves over water.
I am always on a bridge when I realize how far below the water is, fierce, ribbed. I am on that bridge like a long bird flying, trailing its legs, and there is nothing in me that will stop.
Really liked: People leave the crowded day hammered by radios, and launch themselves over water. I am always on a bridge when I realize how far below the water is, fierce, ribbed. I am on that bridge like a long bird flying, trailing its legs, and there is nothing in me that will stop.
You're very welcome. Poet Dana Gioia told me I worry too much about Ben Saltman's readership. I wrote in response: "If I didn't, who would?" If you're interest in Saltman's work, let me know. I'll send you a copy of the book in which the poem you like appeared, and which I published. My email address is mikeandnickc@gmail.com. I live in a flat above a fashionable women's botique in downtown Atascadero, California, with my younger brother, hence the email address.
Peter, thanks for this. Also, I'm going to steal this line for the title of a book. "while your here can you tell me something about Hell and Purgatory?
I'm 68 and have written a book of poems, book of stories, and crime noir novel. After seeing how book tours work and how hard it is to be a successful writer, I don't think I want to be famous. Just rich. If not rich, just happy to be writing at my age.
Thanks, Taegan. Having grown up in Buffalo, I'm very fond of Toronto. I remember sharing snails at Ontario Place on a sunny September afternoon when I was 19.
I feel like Buffalo and Toronto have a distant cousin sort of relationship. I have similar memories of driving to Buffalo with my family and buying tax-free clothing at the Galleria Mall.
Thank you, Peter. You hit the nail on the scrotum. And the scary thing is, I would probably do it all over again.
Of course you would, which would be good for American letters.
Fascinating account of being a writer/poet, Peter. Thanks for the link. I have saved passages from what I've read.
So much of you have shared has been among my experiences, though I have not received such accolades or awards, but then I am not one who has published much and then, only vanity publications because I know I would not fare well, as I had alluded to in my post responding to your post at Greg Boyd's Antifictions. I rather like being a nobody. A poet I know who is also nobody wrote a very short poem about what being a poet feels like and what he feels like after he has written a good poem:
46 PERCENT
Less my microbiome,
only 46 percent of me is me
and of that, how much is hoding this pen
and what can it do
but be, the king of the world?
George Burns
My friend, George Burns, writes many poems, and like me, a lot of poems that don't work, but as poet William Stafford once wrote, or maybe it was a comment by Ray Bradbury, about writing a good story, one has to write a lot of bad short stories to write a good one. I can't remember now who wrote "You're only as good as you dare to be bad." It may have been Ray, but I think perhaps it was my mentor, poet Benjamin Saltman, who said that. He has won two NEA Grants and other awards, and has published nine volumes of poetry, but I can't convince the Academy of American Poets or the Poetry Foundation to include at their sites any of his poems, not even a mention of him. I have sent both of these organizations all of Saltman's books of poems including his autobiographical, "A Termite Memoir," that, if I were teaching, I would assign as an example of how difficult a writer's life can be.
When I look back at what I have experienced to acquire the skills to write a poem, I become rather exhausted. I stumbled on what it means to be me. hence why I like George Burn's poem.
I have decided to save to my computer your complete "discussion" about what it means or is like to be a poet (or author of anything). I agree with what Robert Perchan wrote: "The scary thing is I would probably do it all over again." The question is, could I?
Nick Campbell
Below is a poem by Benjamin Saltman. Dana Gioia has characterized my continual support of Saltman's work this way: "You worry too much about Ben Saltman's readership." If I didn't, who would, certainly not his own family.
THE CURVES OF BRIDGES
Sometimes a bridge takes a leap
like the best ball I threw when I was twelve,
when I jumped from stone to stone
in fine arcs hanging from cables of air.
A bridge starts inside, the near shore
shrouded, no way to turn back, and then you’re gone.
A bridge wants to fire over the Bay
where steel points a gray finger at Yerba Buena,
a red finger at Marin. Few things go
across bridges normally, often they get excited
or start dreaming. A bridge stretches its rails
and trembles and takes off flickering at night
away from tired houses, even the good trees
on the near side. People leave the crowded day
hammered by radios, and launch themselves over water.
I am always on a bridge when I realize how far
below the water is, fierce, ribbed. I am on
that bridge like a long bird flying, trailing its legs,
and there is nothing in me that will stop.
Benjamin Saltman
from his book "Alone With Everyone."
The above poem was divided into three parts. As a prose poem it would read like this:
THE CURVES OF BRIDGES
Sometimes a bridge takes a leap like the best ball I threw when I was twelve, when I jumped from stone to stone in fine arcs hanging from cables of air.
A bridge starts inside, the near shore shrouded, no way to turn back, and then you’re gone. A bridge wants to fire over the Bay where steel points a gray finger at Yerba Buena, a red finger at Marin. Few things go across bridges normally, often they get excited or start dreaming. A bridge stretches its rails and trembles and takes off flickering at night away from tired houses, even the good trees on the near side. People leave the crowded day hammered by radios, and launch themselves over water.
I am always on a bridge when I realize how far below the water is, fierce, ribbed. I am on that bridge like a long bird flying, trailing its legs, and there is nothing in me that will stop.
Really liked: People leave the crowded day hammered by radios, and launch themselves over water. I am always on a bridge when I realize how far below the water is, fierce, ribbed. I am on that bridge like a long bird flying, trailing its legs, and there is nothing in me that will stop.
Thanks for sharing.
You're very welcome. Poet Dana Gioia told me I worry too much about Ben Saltman's readership. I wrote in response: "If I didn't, who would?" If you're interest in Saltman's work, let me know. I'll send you a copy of the book in which the poem you like appeared, and which I published. My email address is mikeandnickc@gmail.com. I live in a flat above a fashionable women's botique in downtown Atascadero, California, with my younger brother, hence the email address.
Nick Campbell
Peter, thanks for this. Also, I'm going to steal this line for the title of a book. "while your here can you tell me something about Hell and Purgatory?
Jeff: Having a line stolen from my work is the greatest compliment.
I'm 68 and have written a book of poems, book of stories, and crime noir novel. After seeing how book tours work and how hard it is to be a successful writer, I don't think I want to be famous. Just rich. If not rich, just happy to be writing at my age.
I'm with you on that, Tom.
Love it.
If everyone is a writer, then no one is.
In that case:
Find your niche, find your readers, keep writing, and maybe, maybe, get lucky :)
I couldn't have said it better, so I won't try.
Thanks
Touché
Found you through a restack. This post made my day. Subscribed instantly
Thanks, Taegan. Having grown up in Buffalo, I'm very fond of Toronto. I remember sharing snails at Ontario Place on a sunny September afternoon when I was 19.
I feel like Buffalo and Toronto have a distant cousin sort of relationship. I have similar memories of driving to Buffalo with my family and buying tax-free clothing at the Galleria Mall.
Yes, and I remember driving to Toronto in 1969 to buy Players cigarettes on my way to the Mariposa Folk Festival.
Players and Mariposa, oh man that’s a deep cut!
I’ve been anywhere near either city- but don’t stop. Taking notes.
Never been anywhere near either Buffalo or Toronto I mean. D’oh!