September 12: "Flock," Community of Poets, Nandi Comer

I think everyone needs to feel like they are part of a group.  We all want to belong, be a part of something bigger than ourselves.  That's why we gather friends around us in school and why we attend church.  We go to movie theaters so that we can laugh or scream or clap together for a movie.  I write this blog for my virtual disciples.  My poetic posse.    

Billy Collins writes about a community of sacrificial lambs . . . 

Flock

by: Billy Collins

               It has been calculated that each copy of

               the Gutenburg Bible . . . required the

               skins of 300 sheep.

               ---from an article on printing

I can see them squeezed into the holding pen
behind the stone building
where the printing press is housed,

all of them squirming around
to find a little room
and looking so much alike

it would be nearly impossible
to count them,
and there is no telling

which one will carry the news
that the Lord is a shepherd,
one of the few things they already know.

I spent a good portion of this afternoon and evening surrounded by poets and poetry.  At the library, I hosted an open mic and got to see some people I hadn't seen in a while.  Heard some great readings.  Read a poem in honor of my late brother, Kevin, whose birthday was today.

Then I drove over to the university to listen to a discussion about inclusion in poetry.  The panelists were Nandi Comer, the current Michigan Poet Laureate, and Beverly Matherne, the current U.P. Poet Laureate.  It was a great conversation about the power of words to unite disparate groups of individuals.

I really do believe that one of the jobs of a poet is to provide connection and understanding.  We transform the personal into the universal.  When I sit down to write a poem, I always start with my own experiences.  I try to capture what it felt like to be me when I was sitting in the hospital room while my sister was dying.  Or when I'm mowing my lawn on a Saturday morning.  Or when I'm eating pizza with my daughter.  You get the idea.  And then I hold my hand out to readers, invite them to join me in my grief or exhaustion or hunger or love.  Because, regardless of what a certain orange-complexioned politician says, we're all more alike than different.

Saint Marty came home tonight with his poetic cup overflowing.  And a couple new books.