i entertained the idea of calling myself a poet for the first time EVER.
in that, i submitted the only three "poems" i've ever written to the school's poetry festival.
wouldn't it be Grand?
just Marvelous, to read at a Poetry Festival!
just think! there there is such legitimacy to pouring your heart out!
just think! you would read along side a published poet,
one whose work the Powers That Be deem similar to your own work.
just think! you would have "work." and it doesn't rhyme! because rhyme is complex.
also, i do not think in rhyme. i think in panic. in inner monologue.
and if i cold read in a Poetry Festival, my inner monologues would be deemed good. made legitimate.
WHY LITTLE GIRL YOU'D BE A STAR. and all the poet boys and girls would take me out and tell me my voice is marvelous.
and we would drink cold beer and smoke smoldering tobacco and take turns reading patti smith and allen ginsberg aloud. stopping to say "me next! i have a great one!" and when we'd had enough beers, after hours in some poet loft (the best kind, because they aren't full of paint and pretentious/intimidating conceptual art-in-progress (i don't know what i;m talking about, but i'm sure i'm right.)) we would read our own poems, from our awkward notebooks and folded sheets shoved hastily into back pockets and backpacks.
but no. i got so wrapped up in my anonymous sexy shitty poet loft fantasy that i forgot to finish my story. i got rejected. which duh, makes sense. and i'm fine with it. completely.
and it was out of my head. until i sat down next to this poetry grad student with whom i'm friendly and she was all like,
"emma, i'm glad you submitted to the poetry festival. i meant to send you a personal e-mail because i really liked what you wrote. we all like vote with points [the grad students/festival committee choose the poets by scoring them with points i guess?] and i gave yours high marks."
she said something about my work reminding her of like, herself, i think, sort of a young woman poet type, i think, i don't know, i just said,
"oh wow! thank you so much, jillian, that means a lot." and it does. i mean i don't get the loft or the fame or the compliments on my excellent reading voice, but i got jillian sitting next to me at a play that wasn't great, telling me personally that she enjoyed what i submitted, and i'm okay with that. hell, i'm fucking great with that. now, i'll go back to writing for the stage.