We workshopped some more of my poems today, and it appears I have garnered a fan or two. The same gentleman who liked my poems last week has graced me with the title of poet. I am girding my loins to present the three best to the poetry workshop in the very near future. It will be interesting to hear what others think of my use of an archaic form.
One of the poems I wrote for this week was another pantoum, this time addressing the issue of reading poetry that one thinks is inferior. I am told it is a near universal complaint, this doubting of oneself. I was once again stunned by a comment both of the men at today’s workshop made. They think I speak in a cadence that has its roots in poetry. Coulda hit me with a sledgehammer. I believe I talk the way I always have, and certainly no one before has made such a comment. I have been told by my fiction compatriots that I have a distinctive voice. My response is that and a buck might get me a cup of coffee. And not very good coffee at that.
So I am once again in an awkward place. I have always thought my metier was fantasy, and those who have read my first story (still at the editor) believe it is a very good story. But what if I’m really a poet? I know those who claim to be both. But I don’t seem to be able to do both at the same time. When the poems arise spontaneously, it seems to shut off my narrative stream, and vice versa. Maybe I should give over my mornings to poetry and my evenings to fantasy. The afternoons can be whatever is pressing harder. I may have to quit all my volunteering if I am to make my way in both genres.
Where was all this creativity when I was younger and more able to adjust? Bah, humbug.