Post-Poetry Reading Ponderings: Trying to Write About the Bigger Picture

Last night, I had my first poetry reading in the area since moving to Boston nearly a year ago. Though it still might have been premature, as I just really started getting out there in the poetry scene and making myself known, I think it was a good thing to do. I needed to remind myself of my passion and put myself among people who share my interests. I also needed the discipline of a show to write a couple of new poems.

For me to persist as a poet, I need to be surrounded by good poets and poetry, as well as a bit of affirmation from people I respect that I am not wasting my time. I also have to say I was really touched that people I only recently met came out to support my work. It gives me hope both as a human and an artist.

Right now, I am embarking on a new chapter of my life as a poet, one that makes me both excited and nervous. In the past, most of my poems have been about my family, my love affairs and the boys who broke my heart, and about the craft of writing itself. All good in their own right, but marked by a stubborn self-absorption that really no longer defines my character. Since working in Washington D.C. and going to graduate school, and being confronted on a daily basis with the enormity of havoc we've created in this world, I can no longer dwell too long on the supposed profundity of my small life. I wrote something a few months ago, and tacked it on the wall above my bed. It stated, "Inject more journalism into your poetry, and more poetry into your journalism." What I want for my poetry is for it to function as part art, part commentary, and a great part reporting on the sorry state of the world.

And we need that! Considering climate change: we are dealing with an unprecedented environmental calamity that threatens the long-term survival of not only more than half of the species we share this planet with, but our own species with extinction...possibly by the end of this century! Where are the paintings, the poetry, the rock 'n roll rantings to remind of this...to protest this? In the 60s and 70s of the last century, the social change that ignited progress on the fronts of feminism, civil rights, and the first environmental movement were fueled, and perhaps even incited, by the music and art scene of that generation. I am not the only one to wonder where the art is now opining our warming world and the wars abroad. Journalist and deep ecologist (and arguably our largest environmental icon), Bill McKibben, wondered the same thing...five years ago.

Unfortunately, not a lot has changed, and actually public opinion has turned so that most people do not believe climate change is happening at all, or that if it is, we humans are not responsible. I would like to do my part to address this, because the lack of public knowledge leads to a lack of political will, which dooms our children to a hot, crowded planet short on water, clean air, and food and saturated with oil spills.

I have come to realize that the best thing I can do is work through the medium of my strengths and talents, which is writing. I tried to turn to science and become somewhat of a scientist to save the world. But I am simply not a scientist, and the world has enough of those concentrating on this problem. What it needs now, is the artists to come out of the woodworks and address this issue with the powers of their pens and paintbrushes.

I know that part of the problem is that art is primarily self-reflection. And until we begin to see ourselves as part of the issue, or develop an empathy for it, it's hard to be motivated to the point of setting aside the time to paint or type. I'll admit even for my own poetry, it's hard too place words on what I feel or think about something as abstract in my mind as climate change. Even as I sit sweltering in my apartment, it's hard to believe we could just blink out. Species loss and exploding mountains are a bit easier as they are more tangible, so I am beginning with that. And even so, I admit I am still a character in these poems, that my perception pervades: the words "I" and "my" still rearing up, often. But it's a start, and still, we do need a human voice on these things, so I think it works.

Getting to the other half of my self-command, I think journalism sometimes is too dry and soulless in its interpretation of our global crisis. What happened to the old-fashioned narrative journalism that wasn't afraid to tell a compelling story and even relied on tricks of language, visual imagery, or even emotional appeal to paint the picture? We need more descriptive, poetic journalism. We need to prick the hearts of readers. Journalism has become so prudish, that we are afraid of truly translating the pathos and heartbreak of loss and death and degradation. Even the pictures are more censored...this needs to change. We need naked reporting, reminding our Internet-addled audience not only of the humanity of our subjects but our humanity as reporters/writers. Basically, we need more features stories that have the freedom to accomplish this...

I would love to collaborate with any writers/artists who are interested....let's get together and make a chapbook or zine on climate change, have an open mic for Haiti or Darfur...let's write lyrics and sing songs about the impending water wars so that the tunes get stuck in the heads of teenagers who will use them as ringtones on their cell phones and protest their parents prolific squandering. Let's mold the minds of this new generation. Let's invade this warming world with the passion of our poetry....letting the politicians and apathetic know we really do care too much for its beauty to just let it go without a fight.

Reflections on Juggling Survival, Saving the World and Star Gazing

I wonder often what I should prioritize and what I should be. Yesterday, I went to a happy hour networking event for people involved in sustainability and social justice causes. I did it in the hopes I could maybe make some fruitful professional connections, and maybe some friends. I did actually meet one woman who had a potential opportunity for me.

I could say "fingers crossed," but they are blistered with so much crossing. In the past few months, I have been tentatively offered two exiciting writing positions that would bulk up my resume and help pay the bills. Both times, these fell through, for reasons not entirely clear to me, though usually due to budgeting constraints. Journalism is a dying business and I must be a masochist to continue treading its waters. Last month, a veteran journalist told me at a NWU (National Writers Union) networking event that she felt sorry for me as I was "just jumping in the pool as it was drying out." But I feel more sorry for society, that good journalism is seen as something we can sacrifice. It sure is not obsolete. And yet, watchdogging our government and the industrial sector is not at the forefront of our wants, even as the oil spill in the Gulf continues to obliterate the ocean ecosystems, our wildlife and the livelihoods of our Southern neighbors. Or, rather, we do want journalism, but we don't want it at a price. Like everything else on the internet, we want it free, just like we want our gasoline cheap and always readily available. We want people to work for free to do some very hard work, or at least that's what the market and my own experiences suggest.

In theory, I want to get a decent paying part-time job with benefits to support my writing as though it's some sick, stay-at-home child I am nursing back to health. I know that if I work full-time, at least in the doldrums of a traditional 9-5 office job, my writing will wither into obscurity. I know because it's happened before. It's hard to come home and eat and shower and know that at 10pm you must choose between writing or sleeping, even as your eyelids are already heavy and your head is pounding from eight straight hours of staring at the computer screen under the glare of flourescent ceiling lights. Sleep usually always insinuated itself before a conscious choice could ever really be made. Then weeks of no writing became months, until I felt like part of me was dying. If that sounds melodramatic, then so be it. My fingers became twitchy, and I would grind my teeth, like some junkie dopesick for a fix that only pen put to paper could provide. After awhile, something weird happened to my mental state. I had no more libido and food lost its taste. Even music couldn't move me. I guess you could call it depression, but it was something more primal, less clinical, than that.

And then there's this other passion I have in trying to save the world. This actually often ties in quite well with writing, but when I then think of 'work' on top of that, it crowds the room of my mind. Why can't writing be my work? I am good at it and trained for it, and don't we as a world need it? Teaching or grassroots organizing/advocacy are perhaps the only other jobs (other than something in the communications field) that I think I could work on a full-time basis that I don't think would work against my writing. If I can't write, I need to have a job where I can speak freely and often about important things.

While living in D.C., I worked a half-time position as a communications assistant at a highly respectable environmental non-profit, and also taught adult ESL at a community college two evenings a week. I enjoyed these jobs and I had enough money to pay the bills and enough time to write and even to live. I was happy. But then I moved to Burlington, Vermont to go to graduate school and pursue a Master's in Environmental Policy. I went because I thought the opportunity would afford me more professional and financial security, but it seems that it might have actually robbed me of more time to work on my writing, changed my way of thinking to something antithetical to creativity, while also placing me in some more debt.

So, here I sit wondering if there's a way I can make money, write, and still do my small part to save the world. Can I wrap them all up in one package, or will it always be a struggle...some juggling routine that leaves me tired till again, sleep wins and nothing gets accomplished?

I sometimes wish I could be an insomniac again.