April 18: Kid's Notebook, Poetry Binder, Feeling Accomplished

I sat there on D.B.'s desk and read the whole notebook.  It didn't take me long, and I can read that kind of stuff, some kid's notebook, Phoebe's or anybody's, all day and all night long.  Kid's notebooks kill me.  Then I lit another cigarette--it was my last one.  I must've smoked about three cartons that day.  Then, finally, I woke her up.  I mean I couldn't sit there on that desk for the rest of my life, and besides, I was afraid my parents might barge in on me all of a sudden and I wanted to at least say hello to her before they did.  So I woke her up.

This passage is one of the happier moments for Holden in the book, sitting at his brother's desk, reading Phoebe's school notebook.  He's in his element.  There is the threat of adults barging in and ruining the moment, but, for the most part, Holden simply enjoys Phoebe's innocent world for a little while.

Ever since I assembled my new chapbook of poems on Monday, I've been carrying it around in a three-ring binder.  Having it close by gives me pleasure for some reason.  I even take it to class when I teach.  Every once in a while, I take it out and read a poem.  As I read the poem, I can remember why I wrote it, how I wrote it, when I wrote it, where I wrote it.  I can picture the pen in my hand, scribbling down the words.  I can feel that hum in my head that tells me I'm in deep, writing something of meaning.  I can see my living room at midnight, my school office on an October afternoon, the place where the poem first came to me.  I recently read an interview with Sharon Olds in which she described her writing process, how, when a poem takes hold of her, she has to write immediately, to capture its similes and metaphors down on paper.  That's what I'm able to regain when I read my manuscript--the initial fever that drove me to write.

That's my blessing today.  It may sound conceited, self-centered, and egotistical, but I don't care.  Having that poetry binder gives me a sense of accomplishment and purpose.  I know, in a week or so, that I'm going to send it to a chapbook contest.  For a few months after that, it will fill me with hope until the letter finally comes, telling me that some other person has won instead of me.

For now, though, that binder is full of promise for Saint Marty, like a bird singing in the dark on a cold April morning.

I am filled with hope....