That Poetry Workshop Moment

You knew that I could not spend a week at a literary seminar and not humiliate myself at least once . . . at least. Count is four, but I will only mention the two most interesting stories:

Last year, I wrote a very personal poem, Famished. I was trying to get to the core of why I was not more proactive in my search for love and a relationship. My conclusion: I wasn't looking for any kind of love . . . I was looking for someone to volunteer themselves. The point being that one can be proactive, acquire relations like commodities, and manipulate a circumstance out of the resources provided . . . but the act of acquisition and manipulation means that one can never believe in that love. The only true love is that which is volunteered . . . no quid pro quo. At least, that's what Famished sought to express (I'll get back to you on the validity of such a philosophy, later).

During the poetry workshop, it came time for me to read the poem to my eight peers and then analyze its strength and weaknesses. I scanned the poem quickly, and realized that I had to vocally express the italicized text at the culmination of the poem as Onomatopoeia. More specifically, when I read the words "I ache" it had to sound like real ache.

Well don't you just know that at that very moment, I verklempt myself. I did in fact ache and I knew it. Suddenly, I could not talk, and felt a pesky tear welling in the corner of my eye. Nevertheless, the tiny room of nine people surrounding me gaped in silence . . . waiting for me to begin. Panic. I was either going to break down in a broom closet with nine colleagues, or I was going to swallow this emotion and man one out for the team. Tick, tick, tick. Oh, no. I wasn't pulling it off. I looked up to the facilitator, Todd Boss and in the only voice I could muster said, "I'm having that poetry workshop moment. Can someone else read."

No problem. We were off. Someone else took over, and I had two minutes to pull it together. But my wavering voice and red face was the elephant in a very small room.

I was filled with self-loathing. I'd spent all this time and money to get to the Key West Literary Seminar, to get feedback . . . and now no one was going to say anything . . . because they were trapped in a very small room with a weepy gay guy.

When the poem was finished being read, I immediately, in as perky a voice as possible, apologized. "Let me have it. Please! I need your honest feedback." They were poets and good people. No problem. We proceeded, and I survived . . . but now aware that Famished had cut me deeper than I ever realized, or would let myself realize.

After workshop, I found my friends and told them as much as I've told you. They did not know the poem or its connotations. Intellectually, they rationalized: Let it go. Move on. It's fine.

So, we all went out to dinner . . . a reading at the San Carlos Club . . . and then for fun, decided to take in one of Key West's many stripper bars.

I don't mention this to titillate. Heavens! If you've ever met me, you'd know what a prude I am. In any event, I find myself, a 43 year old gay man, in a stripper bar on Duvall Street drinking a 4$ bottle of water, and watching the strippers (in this case men) gyrate for their grateful audience. My beautiful friend Lizz, got undue attention from them, and ate it up! It was hard to tell who was putting on the show for whom. They were in love with her. One stripper keeps waving to me to come hither. I wondered if he thought I was Lizz's husband. I was sure he was going to ask me if I was okay with the titillation and benign physical interaction. He, a good looking physical specimen of the Russian gymnastic team - wearing not but silken red underwear, pulls me aside, in a niche in the bar with a drape. "Yes?"

In a thick Russian accent, he asked me if I would like to [censored for your protection and mine] . . . for $20.

$20. I said $20. And remember, I'm FAMISHED!!

I realized that I was living in that moment that I'd only heard about in Sunday School and ABC after-school specials. For a brief flash: What a bargain! $20!

No, no, no. Um. No, no, no, no, no. I could not live with myself if I became that person. But here I was in the position of rejecting the hottest hooker this side of the Trans-Siberian Railroad. I leaned to his ear, and over the regular throbbing of the distant electronica whispered, "You are very beautiful, but I have never paid for that . . . and I cannot start now. Be well."

I slipped out of the drape, back into the bar and skittered back over to my friends. "How are you?" They asked . . . really meaning, what did the Russian want?

I thought to myself. Um, not so famished after all!

My second moment of humiliation came from famed poet Billy Collins. My beloved and flirtatious friend Lizz had secured his complete attention during the social at the Key West Customs House Museum. They'd been talking for about 15 minutes, when I decided that Lizz could be my introduction. Billy Collins teaches during the winter semester at Rollins College in Orlando, and it might be an organic opportunity to introduce myself, tell him we are neighbors and broker future acquaintance. I stepped up to Billy and Lizz, who were laughing and talking about racy stuff (which I will skip - discretion being the better part of valor).

"Hello Mr. Collins, my name is Drew." I smiled and held out my hand. Without a beat he replied:

"Somehow, I believe you." he retorted and turned back to Lizz without further adieu.

I stood there blinking . . .

Not really wanting to meet him anymore, I admitted to myself that I was probably cramping his style with Lizz . . . (But still?)

I left with another story to tell . . . and so did Lizz . . . but not Billy.

Clearing the Sill of the World - Key West 3

Friday evening passed warmly. We were awoken by blustering fronds in the courtyard of our inn. By morning light a frigid rain began to fall . . . and me without a raincoat. We ran to the San Carlos club, for Day 2 of the Key West Literary Seminar. Another day of literary superstars reading for a grateful audience:
Rhina Espillat - The bi-lingual and granmotherly Dominican earth mother. She is a quick and lucid wit in both Spanish and Dutch New York vernacular. She had one of the favorite poems of the morning "Undelivered Mail."
Billy Collins - A part time Orlandoan emerged into my consciousness today. He gave the most successfull presentation of the morning. He is confident, objective, and a skilled performer. I think I liked his presentation best because he offered some wonderful observances as bookends to his work. An example: "Writing is the pursuit of the love of strangers."
Matthea Harvey - The best superstar performer. She's set an uphill battle for herself, by selecting to read poems that were free associated from images, forms, and dictionary keywords. Her feminine high-fidelity voice begs to narrate the next "Living Planet."
James Tate charmed and Rita Dove illuminated Robert Pinsky's panel on the "Poet's Life."
Tim Steele and Paul Muldoon impressed as well.
Finally the afternoon wrapped up with readings from Kirby Condit, Kay Ryan, E.J. Laino, Todd Boss, Dara, and Harvey Shapiro. What's not to like!
My biggest discovery for today has to be Natasha Tretheway, however. She rose and surgically delivered acute and deeply crafted poems that connected to one another, to her persona, and to her audience. I cannot say enough about her. She is a quiet master with much more chi to radiate. Unparalleled amongst her peers today.
This evening, our honoree Richard Wilbur takes the podium to read the keynote address and adjourn us to a cocktail party at the old Customs House on Mallory Square. He is our high priest in the temple of poetry. I can't wait to see what he has planned.
More to follow . . .

Key West Literary Seminar

I spent Thursday evening directing my VW Passat from Orlando to Key West, Florida, despite a pesky check engine alert on the dashboard. Volkswagon assured me that my broken thermostat (repair fee $250) would not impact the operation of the car, just the fuel efficiency. The car it appears has decided to run "cold" during the longest artic cold snap in a decade. Go figure.
I spent the first three hours flying across the pine pampas and cypress land listening to Johannes Sebastian Bach (played by Glenn Gould - delicious!) and when traffic started to ramp up around Miami, I converted to the Emmerson String Quartet w/ Clarinet (Mozart). This lasted until I hit the overseas highway. I do not know what possessed me, but I put on the Bee Gees, and expressed my inner disco as I floated about the tourquoise glass that is Florida Bay. "Tragedy! When the Feeling's Gone and You Can't Go On . . . Tragedy!" I love it. Two favorites are "How Deep Is Your Love" and "No One Gets Too Much Heaven", which I shall not profane on the Blogosphere.
Upon arrival in Key West, I met my roomie Micah - a New York City Librarian - and my room. Old Town Manor. The B&B is a typical bungelow conveniently set at Eaton and Duval (read as perfectly central). The rooms have no heat, and few blankets (as they unnecessary most of the year) and so last night I spent a cold dark in a single brass bed. The thankfully hot shower this morning has revived me for the first full day of the "brain-i-mar".
Highlights last night:
1. Hearing about the Cuban-American poetry community that populated Key West in the first half of the twentieth century.
2. Listening to Robert Pinsky ruminate on memory, forgetting, phonics, and his curratorial interest in obscure poets of all ages, from all corners of the world. He is a phenomenal thinker, but I was at at six hour drive disadvantage. I let the cerebral discussion wash over me like a tide.
3. The late night reception at the Audobon house was excellent. Champagne, Flamenco music, Audobon's botanical gardens and famous poets of all shapes and sizes. I met Judy Bloom (famous author) and joked with her for awhile (suppressing my need to say Hello God, this is Margaret!).
Now I must skidaddle! Stay tuned campers, more comedy is on the way. And if you get bored, check out the online journal "Rose and Thorn". I gave the editor my book this morning.