November 17: Too Much in My Head, Essay, "Web" Dip

I'm still struggling with my Christmas essay.  I know what my problem is:  I'm over-thinking everything.  I'm trying to throw everything AND the kitchen sink into it.  Irving Berlin.  Bing Crosby.  Marcel Proust.  Merriam-Webster.  Baked ham.  Death.  World War II.  It's just a mess.

When I get too much in my head, I can't write.  I have about five or six pages of false starts and mind vomit in my journal.  I keep waiting for that moment when I know I've finally found my voice.  It feels like I'm almost there.  Like a breakthrough is within my grasp. 

Which brings me to a little announcement:  until I've finished my Christmas essay, I'm only going to be posting once a day.  The Poet of the Week will return next Monday.  Stick with me guys.  I have to concentrate on another writing project for a little while.  I will be back in full Saint Marty mode in seven days.

My Web dip question this evening is pretty simple:

Am I going to be able to finish my Christmas essay by next Monday?

And the answer from E. B. White:

"It is true," said the old sheep.  "Go to the Fair, Templeton.  You will find that the conditions at a fair will surpass your wildest dreams.  Buckets with sour mast sticking to them, tin cans containing particles of tuna fish, greasy paper bags stuffed with rotten..."

So, whatever I write is going to surpass my wildest dreams.  I like that answer.

Saint Marty's ready to dream big.

Looking for my breakthrough

 

December 2: Cheese and Peanut Butter

Yes, that title is my dinner this evening.

I'm sitting in my office at the university, enjoying a little quiet time.  I have another two-and-a-half hours to kill before I pick up my daughter at the dance studio.  I'm attempting to be productive.  After I'm done typing this post, I'm going to work on my Christmas poem a little more.  So far, my vague idea has remained vague, like the mirage of a car on a highway in the summer.  I can't quite make out its shape, make, or color.

I have some Christmas music cranked on my laptop for inspiration.  Currently, I'm listening to "Evangelium:  Liber Generationis," which is a medieval Hungarian Christmas song.  It's absolutely gorgeous.  Haunting, like Gregorian chant.  It's the kind of music that drives my family crazy when I listen to it at home.

I have learned not to wait for inspiration when it comes to my Christmas poem.  Poetry is about one percent inspiration, and the rest is just friggin' hard work.  I'm in the friggin'-hard-work stage now.  I don't mind, though.  Eventually, I'll have a breakthrough.  The words will crack open, and a poem will peck its way to life.  That's the best part of writing poetry.  It makes all the frustration worth it.

Well, I've finished my cheddar and peanut butter sandwich.

Time for Saint Marty to get his poet on.  Either that or stare at a blank page for the next two hours.

Rough draft by poet Natasha Trethewey