Scared

As I was posting an e-mail, last night, I realized that I was scared! Afraid! Terrified! I tried to figure out why. After all, it was only a poem. A revised poem, at that. You may know that I write. This blog. Stories for children. Minutes for meetings that I attend. And, poetry. So, that makes me a poet. What, I wondered, was making me so frightened of sending that poem out into the world?

It started back several years, some time within the past seven years. I don’t remember the exact date. My favorite poet lives in the middle of the country. Nebraska, to be exact. So, does my journalist friend Mary Jane. She lives in Kearney, Nebraska, and works at the HUB. As I remember, my favorite poet was having a book launch in my second-favorite book store located close to where she works and close to where “my” poet lives and works. So, I wrote to the poet asking if the three of us could go to lunch. “Yes,” was the answer.

This poet has twice been the poet laureate for the United States, as well as a Pulitzer Prize winner. To say that excitement was in the air as we approached the appointed time would be a vast understatement. We talked through lunch. Learned some about each other and, then, went to the poet’s studio where painting, in addition to writing poetry, is also a pursuit. A long wall of shelves held books.

Coming down from that “high” took most of the way driving back to my home in Colorado. Since then, my poetry book collection has added every volume of the poet’s work. Among the books of poetry are books for children and how-to books written for wannabe poets. The shelves also hold Mary Oliver, Billy Collins, and other poets, as well.

“My” poet retired from teaching at the University of Nebraska in Lincoln, which meant that I would never be able to take one of those classes. In the meanwhile, I got to know the owner of Chapter Books; Carla is a good friend of “my” poet. I asked her if she thought I might become a private student, since I was never able to take a class in Lincoln – one of the biggest disappointments of my old life. Carla replied that “The worst that can happen would be a ‘no’ answer.” I reminded her that someone can only say “yes” if you ask.

She forwarded my request. The response came back that a full-time private student might be too much, but one poem a month would be reasonable. I was directed to send what I considered my best poem. And, so, the work began. I sent a poem in January. Got a response. Revised the poem. Sent it as my February poem. Got a response and revised it again. For March, I sent my favorite poem. And, again very quickly, received a response. This month, I thought a poem a month? Maybe, that would mean more than one discussion about the month’s poem. After the first revision, I sent it along. And, again, received a very quick response. So, Once more, I revised that poem.

Last night, about midnight, I was ready to send the second revision. It’s hard to put my feelings into words at that moment. I was afraid. Terrified, actually. What if I hadn’t paid enough attention. What if it was all wrong. What if … what if … what if … I felt clammy. I felt unsure. I felt like a high school kid turning in a research paper. And, that is something I have not felt for a long, long, time.

I should have realized that the critique would be gentle, yet exact. Rather than saying – do this – the comment is “if this were my poem, I would say ….” Daughter #3 and her husband who also read the poem before it was sent cautioned me to remember that, I am in a learning situation. I don’t know everything. That’s why I’ve asked for help. (And, wouldn’t you think that as an educator, I would know that?) I do have to say that with all of this, when I realize that a poet laureate and a Pulitzer Prize winner is reading my work and helping me to become a better poet, it actually makes me cry. I am so thankful and appreciative.

So, the question is: When was the last time you felt like a high school kid standing in front of a teacher with your assignment in your hand? For me, it was last night at 10:50 pm.

Be Safe and Be Well
The Cranky Crone
Thoughtful comments are appreciated.