When I was in graduate school, I was working really hard to be both a lesbian and a monogamist. I was pretty successful-- one can do anything when one really puts her mind to it. And while there can be no denying that I loved-- and still love--my ex-girlfriend very much, I am not, nor was I ever, above developing crushes. Both bodily and brain-derived crushes. In fact, I find I'm desperately bored--bored to the point of mild depression--when I find myself sans-crush.
And so, there was a boy on whom, during grad school, I had a somewhat embarrassing, yet totally manageable crush. He's real cute. Beyond that, he's so swooningly talented that, in the reading of his work, I found that I wanted to eat the paper on which the poems were printed. And seeing as I wrote a fat lot of nada during my first three semesters of grad school, I was pretty much intimidated by ALL of the other poets in the program. But, I found I particularly responded to this poet's idiosyncratic word choice, eroticism and explorations of body-consciousness.
So, I just read his recently-released chapbook. And godDAMN it, it's hot! The work has evolved quite a lot from the earlier work that I saw way back when-- and I'd seen a good bit of it published in other venues. But really, with this kinda poetry in the world, who needs a vibrator? His full-length book is due out any minute and I'm perfectly breathless about it.
Also amongst my recent readings is the book of another grad school cohort to whom I may have referred previously. While Spring and I were never close enough friends for me to know all the aspects of her that gleam through this text, it's full of all that I couldn't help but intuit about her. I find that there is something funny that happens when you know a poet. In general, I assume that at least half the work of some piece of art coming into existence is the responsibility of the reader, and therefore, once the work is out of the artist's brain, it belongs to the audience. However, when the audience has a personal acquaintance with the artist, it is difficult to see the work as anything other that the product of the soul of a friend. And that's what Spring's beautiful book is to me. And that why I also have a crush on Spring. And that crush is why I'm prevented from offering any particular insight into her work, beyond a vehement recomendation that everyone should read it, because it really is a fascinating piece, full of the searching through of at least a couple different souls. Oh, and buy it! Support kore press! They're good people, publishing great work by phenomenal women.
And on another note, I learned today that one of my grad school professors, Jon Anderson, died recently. My experience with him was curious. He led my first graduate workshop and, man, I was scared. As I mentioned, I was pretty convinced that all the poets with whom I went to school were significantly more talented than I was... and that first workshop was a big part of the reason why I felt that way. Fairly early in, another poet, who's since published a handful of knock-out little books, brought in a poem that contained an image of a 12-year-old boy cutting a hole in a mattress and masturbating into it. When his reading was complete, the lot of us sat their silently for several beats-- after all, we didn't yet know each other well enough to feel comfortable jumping into that sort of discussion. So Jon goes, "Yeah, you know, I, for one, like to use a galosh!" And just like that, our classroom comfort zone was established!
And so, this is a post of pining for poets and poetry and reading and language and grad school. And one of excitement for all this great work. And there's more coming! How lucky am I to have known all these people before they made stuff for which I need clear space on my shelves?
Good god. Why am I getting all mushy over the good ol' grad school days? Something strange much be affecting my body chemistry today. I've been eating a lot of sweet potatoes lately. Yes, clearly, the onset of autumn root-vegetable season turns a brat sentimental.
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