I was just milling about in my Squaw Valley poem file and thought I’d share with you the last poem I wrote. Well, truth be told it isn’t exactly a poem–unless you chose to call it so. It was one of my goals (although not one that I was married to) at the workshop to try out new forms, writing a different kind of poem each day. I had done pretty well with a prose poem on Monday, an abecedarian on Tuesday, Wednesday I did an ode (in a “primative sound”), and Thursday a list poem. On Friday I read a “conversation” poem” in Sharon Olds’ group that had really been a tough one to write and even tougher to read. Sharon urged me (more like laid down the gauntlet, in her oh, so, gentle way) to take the poem I had written and go deeper into the subject, let it rip, find out what I really wanted to say and write that for my Saturday poem. This was a daunting task considering there was a dinner party that night and I could barely stand up straight and keep my eyes open as it was after the poetry blitz of the previous six days.

I did try. Oh, I sat in front of my computer until midnight but it wasn’t going to happen, no matter how much I tried to dredge up the fury from within. I did want to come with something to Saturday morning’s workshop so I thought I’d write a letter…take a lighter approach and just let myself get silly. It was fun and I felt the pressure lift as I gave myself permission to take what Sharon had said with me and let it settle in. I would write that poem another day. Sometimes I (feel free to insert “we” here) just have to accept my limitations–and maybe they aren’t so much limitations, but opportunities to go easy and let myself slide. Nothing wrong with sliding now and again. You never know when you’ll get a good laugh out of it.

(The “C.D.” in the title is C.D. Wright as she was the group facilitator that morning.)

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Dear C.D. & Respected 12 Poets of Squaw Valley Poetry Day 7,

It is my sad duty to inform you that today is the day I have failed. I have not brought a poem of any means, have not finished my week with a roar, rather I offer you a whimper. I didn’t mean to disappoint. Ah, kept at it until there was little left of me but acid. But, my dears, it was not to be this day, this sun drenched morning in Bar One. I must look into your soft eyes and say to you that there is nothing here that will light them up or (most desirably) evoke a tear or moment of deep introspection to swell the chest and provoke an almost indiscernible nod of the head, sway of the torso, inner glow of epiphany.

No. I must disappoint. And no one (least of all myself) wants to disappoint but it seems my fate to do so on this our last morning, our last poeming around this table. I do so with my head held high and my integrity in tact as I know you would want me to, as I know you will, with your immense empathy be kind, say not that this does not qualify as a poem—remark that it is neither abecedarian nor sonnet, that it would be far better a work of art to cut the first line, scrap the title or point out that the syntax does not match the tone.

It is my fervent wish that today’s offering does not, in your generous and kindly eyes, diminish the esteem I have so ardently striven to engender in this last week so much so that you consider striking me from the blue-sheeted email list as an outsider, one who didn’t rise to the moment, failed to do the assignment given to follow up yesterday’s poem where I had reached down my throat, ripped out my heart and thrown it on the page, the oh, so gentle suggestion that I do it again, only this time go deeper, go for the gut, dragging the kidneys, pancreas and spleen along with it. I do hope that you will understand, in your benevolence, why, instead I chose to obfuscate, to defer, to wave the white flag of surrender.

And so dear ones, fellow poeteers, we must part on this fine day to return to our abodes across the land. I wish you well in all your revisions and may your submission acceptances be many. I hope to meet you all again one day, one bright and clear morning in this fine valley where bears eat Hagen Daaz in the kitchen, ants milk aphids for their sweet poop and poems grow like lichen on every rock and tree.

Humbly,
Hari Bhajan

July 29, 2006