At the Fine Arts Work Center

August 15-20 in Provincetown 9 of us participated in Marie Howe's poetry workshop. Instead of the standard critique format, this workshop focused on all new writing, including some writing with our non-dominant hands!

Hot Poetry in Provincetown

Who turned up the thermostat in New England last week? Wasn't me. The apartments at the Fine Arts Work Center are without A/C, but let's face it. Nobody's in her room at FAWC.

The workshops, on the other hand, do have A/C. Unfortunately, because some of us are soft-spoken, the A/C is often sacrificed so we can hear each other.

We're talking 100 degrees in an upstairs room with the windows closed. I think this is a new theory of creativity. Roast the fledgling poet until something breezy and lyrical appears on the page.

Did not work for me. I think workshops are wonderful -- certainly a workshop with an inspiration like Jean Valentine. She's generous, thoughtful, honest, and kind to each and every poem that comes to her.

But I always get a little nervous when somebody says, "I like your poem. If you don't publish it, I will." I've heard this more than once in a workshop. My answer, "Well, it's not your poem," doesn't seem to rouse any remorse either.

All in all, I'm rethinking workshops. In truth, the only opinion I value is the poet's. So there's a gnarly branch to stumble over when I'm trying to explain my "snobby" attitude.

Let's take my poem, "Sleeping with Tigers," for example. I wrote this fanciful poem more than a year ago, but I'm still plagued with it being too long and not quite right. But no matter what I may want to change, the poem is about tigers. Thus the title. Duh.

Two people in my workshop said they were disturbed that I was focusing on animals and not on the human suffering (slavery) that white traders caused on the coast of Africa back in the 17th, 18th, and 19th centuries.

I suggested that was their poem to write, not mine. I mean this poem is about saving an old tiger. I don't actually think that's possible in real life, but it's lovely to consider.

As soon as "tigers" is published, I'll post it on this blog.

The Little Boat . . .

A little boat's waiting for me down at the shore in P'town right now . . . but it's still days 'til I get there.

Three days to be exact. I should be grateful for the short wait, but I'm not. Laundry, packing, changing oil, selling two goats to buy enough gasoline to get up there.

And what about my surfboard? I haven't used it in 30 years, but I just might, so I better tie that to the roof of the car. Not to mention the industrial-strength fan, bedding and cooking utensils, Comedy and Tragedy masks in case someone decides we need some theater . . . A Greek chorus perhaps?

I'll pick up my children in Philly, my aunt in Poughkeepsie, and my sister's cat (see the sad story about Buzz the Rocket Cat's untimely demise last week).

There's something about driving into P'town and seeing the dunes all around. That's when I get out of my car and start walking. It happens every year.

Up early for my workshop, long walks with an old friend from high school, writing late into the night . . . I'm there.

P'Town & the Fine Arts Work Center

Soon it will be summer and that means off once again to the Fine Arts Work Center in P'town. This year, I'm taking a weeklong workshop with poet Jean Valentine.

My first semester in the MFA program at American U, I studied with Jean. She was thoughtful and kind. An inspiration. When a student handed something out, she'd say in her soft voice, "Well, how do we do with this one?" People were careful with their criticism as if they knew the muse was easily scared off.

That class was my first attempt at writing poetry. Agonizing sometimes because I didn't know the easy, simple words in my head were worth putting down on paper. I looked for difficult words, inexplicable imagery, sticks and stones from the side of the road.

I forgave myself for that a long time ago. As a matter of fact, I'm grateful I had the courage to take that chance. I was a single mother with two small children, and I sold my house to be there in that program. Proof enough my heart was in the right place.

I wrote my very first poem, "Leaves," when I was 9. I wrote it out in longhand on tan tablet paper with lines I drew with my little pencil-case ruler. I made about $3 selling the poem to my relatives for 25 cents a copy.

Know what? That was a lot of money to make for one poem.

Thanks to my Uncle Rollo and his thoughtful way with children's treasures, I still have an original signed copy. I'll post it one day when blogs become little goldmines of memories. Or has that already happened?

On the Road . . .

Well, this coming week, it's on the road up to Provincetown and the Fine Arts Work Center for a week of poetry with poet Cleopatra Mathis and many other writers and artists.

Don't tell anybody that I picked the workshop because her name was "Cleopatra." I figure when I'm 90 I can freak out my great-grandchildren by telling them I studied poetry with Cleopatra. Think glittering barges on the Nile.

I got a little nervous when I found out we were supposed to bring a copy of the Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry but my friend Cynthia assured me that this won't really be a "class."

I sure hope so.

Cynthia is my best friend from high school. We reconnected when we both decided to skip Classical High School's multi-decade reunion, and we found out that we're both writing poetry.

And yes, of course we have day jobs (for now).

She and her hubby actually have a summer house right in P'town. And this will be our first class together in years and years and years since we were both working on the senior play, "What a Life!". I'm lucky I have friends who love poetry.

Last year at FAWC, my workshop was with Gail Mazur, a poet recommended by my dear friend and brother in spirit Richard McCann. I wrote a long poem one morning about my dad's passing that April.

That class included 8 or 9 other women who wrote wonderful poems that week, including my long-time pal, Riggin.

I love being in New England, and I'm looking forward to driving up there with Riggin, an amazing writer and long-time pardner in literary crimes. She published three of my stories in an anthology she edited in 2003. Actually she's working on getting her Web site up sometime very soon.

Riggin thinks my family tried to poison her on one trip up there for my dad's 80th birthday bash in June 2000.

We arrived late, and she ate some steamers from a bowl on the big picnic table in my sister Vanessa's backyard. Unfortunately those clams had been out there in the sun for a while.

We won't talk about what happened in the next 4 hours. Ick.

That year we were heading for a week of writing on Block Island with a bunch of writer friends. One of those dear ones has since passed on -- Joan Dickenson, a brilliant writer and columnist from upstate New York.

Now there's a woman who should be famous . . . and she will some day.