The Secret Life of Poets

Everyone is born with ability, but a kind of membrane exists that seems to restrict aspirations. I have reasonable ability, but I'm aware of mental restrictions that prevent me from becoming what I'd really like to be, such as a theoretical physicist or cosmologist. With lots of effort and a little luck, I might be able to advance somewhat in these directions, but I would be average at best. I'm also too old now, so different pursuits are in order. And I'm tired of throwing myself against this particular membrane.

Anyway, I'm pretty good at making people think I'm smart and in some ways I am. I am a renaissance man, knowing a little about a lot of things. I might describe myself as a lake a mile wide and an inch deep. This has resulted in my formulation of the ten-minute principal: learn enough to hold your own for ten minutes around anyone, then excuse yourself while they still think you're brilliant--sooner, if people quickly get into the details.

Many if not most people are content within the realms of their own limitations--able to tolerate the mundane and repetitive. Thank goodness for them all, for they make it possible for people like me to dabble and fail most of the time. Once in a while, however, dabbling has precious results. The world belongs to the dissatisfied, and I am, if anything, dissatisfied, always seeking a new and simpler way to do things. It's part laziness and part resourcefulness--especially if I can get someone else to assume the bulk of heavy lifting.

But I digress. I'm at about a 93 out of a hundred while all the fantastic stuff is done by those 98 and up. My ten minutes seldom provides anything of use to them. So I keep looking for my niche.

Along the way I've discovered things for which no limiting membrane exists, such as love, compassion, courage and desire. Many more of such ilk could be mentioned. No certain level of intelligence, wit, knowledge, wealth or experience is necessary to wield these skills. It probably has more to do with being than doing. Consider for instance the difference between the statements "I tell the truth" and "I am honest." The first is what I do. The second is what I am. One can tell the truth and not be honest.

I've pondered whether poetry is such a guileless thing that ranges across the abilities of plain and precious folks. Unfortunately, I am forced to conclude that bad poetry exists, along with average, above average and excellent verse. I had written a few things before joining the Soup and had taken a few poetry workshops where my work was generally scorned as anachronistic. Classmates and the teacher would take turns liking it to whatever archaic poet came to mind--whether Shelley, Keats, Yates, etc. How would I know? I am not a student of poetry and simply write as it comes to me. Here on the Soup I was delighted that archaic poetry was welcome.

I've been generally gratified at the response to my poems here and am pleased to have gained a few fans, and your comments and friendship have kept me writing. I really began to apply myself to the best of my ability and worked hard for a couple of contests with disappointing results on two that I thought had merit. Take a look at "Diamond in the Sky," a Shakespearean Sonnet, as well as "A Poet's Constanza Lament for the Night." Read the comments for each and then consider that neither poem even placed. This has been difficult for me to deal with.

I weary of having to beat other peoples' poetry bushes all the time in order to get comments on my own work. Of course, the messages I do get are wonderful and supportive, but the placement of my poems in contests is not consistent with the warmth of the remarks. Thus, the process seems disingenuous with the few exceptions of those who persistently stop by. It appears that I have answered the question as to the merit of my poetry: above average with an occasionally brilliant spasm of skill. I aspire to greater prose, and I think that my sense of rhyme and meter cannot be improved. Technically, it's there, but I don't my poetic sense is commensurate with these. And it is unlikely to improve. I am condemned to be above average, and this is seldom memorable.

A skill I have is star mapping. A few items I've published so far can be seen at my web site: www.starglobalmapping.com. I am now drawing an Atlas of the Constellations, a reference level work requiring supreme focus, dedication and tenacity. If I apply myself completely to this project, it will still take years to complete. The emotional ups and downs of poetry, and its level of time commitment are difficult to reconcile with what is required to complete the atlas. Thus, I wrote my current poem "Farewell" with the intent of saying goodbye in order to return to the heavens. Still, it's saddening to leave my friends here behind--people I've never met but whom I feel I've known my entire life.

It may be that a poem will someday insinuate itself into my mind, and, if so, I'll share it. But I'm abandoning the effort to be competitive. If a few enjoy what I might compose, that will suffice. And, of course, I'll pay attention to yours. I treasure your work. Continue to give expression to the longings of your heart.