My second semester of grad school ended last week, leading me to reflect on my academic experiences from the last few months. I would love to explore my grad school experience in great detail, but since the semester was punctuated with toxic moments, especially inside the classroom, I do not want to risk alienating myself by revealing too much.
Needless to say, I have realized more passionately than ever that I need to take the extra initiative outside of class to read and write poems that resonate with me, and to grow as much as possible without feeling inclined to rely on others, including my peers and teachers, to push me in the right direction. My peers and teachers, however, have helped me grow as a poet in several ways--in fewer ways than I had hoped, to be frank, but that is the point: I need to take greater control over my life as a poet, revising my poems more strictly, even if that means omitting swaths of needless descriptions and similes in my work. Now, the semester is over, and I looking forward to enjoying this summer break even more. In fact, I have written several new poems--the kinds of poems my peers in grad school may tore to pieces, but that is life, after all. I, at least, like my latest work. Below I include a list of "writing takeaways" from my last poetry writing class. I have applied and will continue to apply the takeaways in my work.
Some of these ideas repeat in different ways, but that goes to show that key takeaways often reappear across different situations whether you like it or not. I love these "writing takeaways," and I likely learned more last semester. If I think of more, maybe I will write about them in a future blog post. Here's to a great summer!
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Since I enjoyed writing about the first chapter in Dale Carnegie's hit hit book How to Stop Worrying & Start Living, I've decided to write about another chapter in the book, "How to Analyze and Solve Worry Problems." Below I summarize and quote from the chapter, which also features final reflection questions that I'm going to answer here as well.
--> Carnegie starts the chapter arguing "that we must equip ourselves to deal the different kinds of worries by learning the three basic steps of problem analysis," which are as follows: "(1) Get the facts. (2) Analyze the facts. (3) Arrive at a decision--and then act on that decision." --> Carnegie insists that before we can overcome worry, we must first understand the situation at hand as impartially as possible. Consequently, in the words of Dean Hawkes, "if [one] will devote [one's] time to securing facts in an impartial, objective way, [one's] worries will usually evaporate in the light of knowledge." This is, of course, much easier said than done, and since progress is rooted most constructively via one's actions, Carnegie offers general tips on how to remain impartial when gathering the facts: "When trying to get the facts, I pretend that I am collecting this information not for myself, but for other person." Carnegie continues, "While trying to collect the facts [...] I sometimes pretend that I am a lawyer preparing to argue the other side of the issue." In other words, one must emotionally distance oneself from the problem if one wishes to remain level-headed during the fact-gathering process. --> One way to analyze the facts, Carnegie offers, involves writing about and organizing, not just thinking about, the facts. For example, Galen Litchfield addresses his worry by doing the following: "(1) Writing down precisely what I am worrying about. (2) Writing about what I can do about it. (3) Deciding what to do. (4) Starting immediately to carry out that decision." --> Lastly, after gathering and writing about the facts, one needs to act. Waite Phillips says, "I find that to keep thinking about our problems beyond a certain point is bound to create confusion and worry. There comes a time when any more investigation and thinking are harmful. There come a time when we must decide and act and never look back." --> The chapter ends the following questions, which the reader is meant to answer. My answers are provided. Q. What am I worrying about? A. I have been worried about grad school for months now. I ask myself, "Am I good student? A good poet? A good teacher?" I answer, "I think so... No, I am good... Well, maybe not... No, I am good." And the cycle goes on and on, effecting needless stress and worry. Moreover, I have been worried about having my car fixed, worried about paying bills and other expenses on time, and worried about my mental health. Extreme anxiety runs in my family, so I don't want to worry about my genetic proneness to worry itself. Q. What can I do about it? A. I need to continue to write about my anxiety and not think, "My worry should mean nothing since most strangers don't know or even care about my anxiety." But this logic is flawed for many reasons, and going through them would be counterproductive. Why? Because my anxiety matters to ME--and that is what counts. I do not exist simply to prove to the world that I have anxiety and deserve to live well, especially for the sake of my mental health. I need to remind myself, "Each day is a new life. Your life matters because you say so, not because you fear how others may think about you. So, review the facts, analyze them, and take the best course of action, knowing that you are loved and that you do believe in yourself even when doubt says otherwise. Again, each day is a new life. Each day is a new life." Q. What am I doing about it? A. Besides reading Carnegie's book, I speak to my family over the phone and rationalize my worry alone to myself. Q. When am I going to start doing it? A. I've already started, and I hope on continuing to live my best life with Carnegie's wisdom in mind. I spent large chunk of my day today watching many TED-Ed videos about famous myths. Each video is expertly animated, directed, and narrated. Some of my favorite videos from TED-Ed can be found below. Enjoy!
--> In a story about Ted Bengermino, a patient dying of stress and worry, his Army doctor tell him, "When we start in the morning, there are hundreds of tasks which we feel that we must accomplish that day, but if we do not take them one at a time and let them pass through the day slowly and evenly, as do the grains of sand passing through the narrow neck of the hourglass [of life], then we are bound to break our own physical or mental structure." To counteract worry, therefore, one needs to compartmentalize one's emotions and goals. Ultimately, this will lead to greater awareness and calm as one continues to live not for tomorrow and certainly not for yesterday, but for day at hand. "One of the most tragic things I know about human nature is that all of us tend to put off living," Carnegie remarks. "We are all dreaming of some magical rose garden over the horizon--instead of enjoying the roses that are blooming outside our windows today." In fact, as one source notes in the book, "Every day is a new life." Getting plenty of sleep and staying hydrated have especially helped me see each day as a fresh start. --> Montaigne quips, "My life has been full of terrible misfortunes most of which never happened." Besides the humor of the quote, Montaigne's wisdom reminds me that worry casts illusions of suffering that become real if left to their own devices. I wonder how much time back I would get back had I not lingered on all my past mistakes or fantasized about negative experiences that never came true. But such contemplation pales in comparison to a much greater reminder. As Carnegie writes, "Today is our most previous possession. It is our only sure possession." Carnegie also poses the following the following questions at the end of the chapter. To get the most out of the book, I answer them in the order they are presented in the text. Q. Do I tend to put off living in the present in order to worry about the future, or to yearn for some 'magical rose garden over the horizon'? A. First off, the answer to most of these questions is "Yes, I get your point." But if that were the end of it, then the chapter would not resonate with me--and millions of others--so much. I never thought about it this way before (or at least in a blog post like this), but thinking too much about my peers' approval and focusing too much on whether or not I am a good or bad poet/student/teacher/brother/son--all of it has prevented me from truly living. I can compartmentalize my life by spending plenty of time each day decompressing and by rethinking my priorities when I stress to much about problems that I know deep down are non-issues or just mild inconveniences. Q. Do I sometimes embitter the present by regretting things that happened in the past--that are over and done with? A. Yes. I might need to learn to transfer all my regrets and fears into my poetry. Writing poems is not usually a cathartic experience for me, but I might learn more about myself if I open myself more to the worries I try to ignore when no one is around. Q. Do I get up in the morning determined to "Seize the day"--to get the utmost out of these twenty-four hours? A. I wish this were true. Lately, though, when I wake up on Friday or the weekend, I feel a wave of calm reminding me that not everything in my life is bad; in fact, my life is coming along well for the most part. I need to overcome my worry during the week by asking myself, "What do I need to do today? How can I satisfy my goals so that I become a smarter, more confident person?" Q. Can I get more out of life by "living in day-tight compartments"? A. I need to remind myself what I cherish most in the world and strive toward excellence for my own sake. Two things I cherish are my growth as a writer and my mental health--both I need to protect from worry, which is today myself. Q. When shall I start to do this? Next week? ... Tomorrow? ... Today? A. Right now. I have considered uploading videos to YouTube in the past, videos featuring me reading wonderful poems. Assuming uploading such videos would be hard and expensive, I decided against using YouTube...until minutes ago, when I overcame my trepidation and uploaded to YouTube a video of me reading a poem from the Crab Orchard Review. I hope to film more videos of me reading poems. In the meantime, check out the video below. It is short and plain, with no editing. But this might be the start of something wonderful. Hello, everyone. When I was an undergrad at Loras College in Iowa, the Canadian poet and critic Carmine Starnino came to my Introduction to Poetry Writing class (taught by the incomparable James Pollock) to talk about poetry writing. My mother Jodi and I also had the pleasure of listening to Starnino read his deeply lyrical work at a public event. To celebrate that time in my life, I have included a batch of his published works below. Enjoy! *** HOMEMADE Not blackberries, cherries. Not picked, packed in sugar. Jam jar wrung tight, left outside forty days. Sugar goes soggy from sunlight’s glassed-in excitation, congugates into something spumescent, weather-churned, barely-seeable-into. And the cherries? Not fresh, but improved into a ruder bloom: blood-bright skin snuffed during the boil of its soakage, flesh an ossified-pale pink. My whow-balls, my tipsycakes, my little amber apples. I spoon up a few. Here, you taste too. * DID YOU SAY YOUR PRAYERS? I did. Hands clamped, kneeling, I radioed my S.O.S. into the coldest reaches of my six-year-old cosmos and waited. They were simple prayers, standard distress calls. Afterwards my bed became a listening post homing in on every sound around me, the night’s ceiling sickle-mooned and starless. If it was a “step” that led me closer to God, there was an evanescence to the feeling prayer left behind: a wet footprint that soon started to fade. Older, I learned to use the rosary, each tiny bead I tweaked between my fingertips a spiritual dollop I could measure. I prayed for friends, for family, my every concern calculable, although miniscule in its unit scale. I stopped that too. Each night I fussed with a metaphysical ledger -- how much I’d asked for versus how much I’d given back. The rosary, an abacus I grew tired of. But I’ve begun to miss it, prayer, or maybe not exactly prayer, mostly just the suspense of an answer. I like to think those childhood signals still travel through deepest space, and if not his absence, God’s silence the reason I now count these syllables. * SONG OF THE HOUSE HUSBAND Cherish it most when it steams-- “steam”, though, fails to praise its seethe of vapour, or, propped upright, the suspirating hush as it catches its breath. Flanks like the shins of a ship or open halves of a mussel, and, on its brow, the spirit-level’s impressionable bubble. Fructifying flatness, it takes my trouser’s frown, gives back pleats. Takes my tired, tucked-in shirt, makes it newly dapper. And really, nothing’s like the hiss of its hull kissing a dampened dent (releasing that rich, road-side scent of rain on dust). Hope for the linens freckled with folds. Hope for the crimped, the crumpled, the crinkled, the crushed. Hope for the rippled, the ruffled, the rumpled, the rucked. O coffer of creaselessness! I do not know how to cut a straight furrow. I do not know how to drive a batch of nails. But grip your handle as I would a spade, your heft the heft of a hammer. * OUR BUTCHER I could bone up, be the right man for that one-man job, hang by its hocks a rabbit shucked from the jacket of its black-bristled fur and still talking in twitches. As well, I might grasp the particular way he swings a cleaver, brings it down on a neck, like a primitive. More to the point, I’d learn to move the beak of my blade into the fragrance of a flank, or browse apart a chest’s cardiac leafage, my white apron a blotchwork of blood. I’d like to pickle ox tongue and pig feet, screw lids on sheep tripe and calf brain, set out jars like indices to carcasses unpacked like suitcases. Striated and plush, crewelworked with fat and grosgrained with gristle, meat is not semblance, meat is baroque. That said, I’d love to break back the pages of a shank and read all day. Tales about the flex and kick, the squawk and gack of things in pens: grass-nipping goats, had-been hens, hogs which nuzzled mud and snorkelled its odors until their plug was pulled and the spinning gears stilled to small organs, organs I’d like to disinter and wrap, risen again inside the pinkness of new paper skin. * PUGNAX GIVES NOTICE He’s done with it, the tridents and tigers, the manager’s greed, the sumptuous beds of noble women who please their own moods. He’s done with dogging it for the crowds, the stabbing, the slashing, the strangling, the poor pay, the chintzy palm branch prizes. Make no mistake. Pugnax is a real fierceosaurus. Winner of 26 matches, a forum favourite. Yet his yob genes have, it seems, gone quiet. Fatigue has called his soul back to his body. Circles under his eyes; he sleeps badly. Late-night cigs lit from the dog-end of the last, cutwork of the clock nibbling him small. In the barracks around him his friends snore, lucky returnees of the last hard hacking, dead to the world, free of a weapon in the fist. Priscus face-down in the crook of his arm. Triumphus flung open, caught on a bad turn. Verus collapsed, whacked, against the cot. Flamma, doomed by down-thumbing shadows, lies in a stain of his final shape and size. Pugnax loves them all, chasers and net-fighters, fish-men and javelin-throwers, carefree despite punishing practices, screaming orders, despite limbs trained to turn lethal for mobs unable to bear the thought of two men clinging to life, but here it’s only the thock of wooden sword against wooden sword, the racket as they fall on each other’s shields in joy. Pugnax’s heart breaks for them. Understand, he has inflicted pain and felt pain, but now wants to go native, move into a flat, experiment with fashionable clothes, dawdle at the baths, tame his nights with tea, be spellbound by the smell of soap, find a wife. Our boy dreams of joining the crowd, shouting himself hoarse as some bonehead gets knocked down and the blade pushed through his chest, stapling him to the ground. At intermission, he’ll watch as the blood is raked over with sand, thinking chore thoughts: yard work, paint jobs, weekend projects. Hello, everyone. Recently, I learned about Andrew Hemmert, an alumnus of Southern Illinois University Carbondale, where I am currently earning my MFA in Creative Writing (Poetry). Hemmert writes spectacular poems. Below is a hyperlink to his Website, along with links to several published poems of his. Enjoy! Hemmert's Website "Accidental Prayer" "Under Peninsula" "Future Theory" "Signs and Wonders" "Father, Son, Ghost" Hello, everyone. Recently, I learned about John McCarthy, an alumnus of Southern Illinois University Carbondale, where I am currently earning my MFA in Creative Writing (Poetry). McCarthy writes spectacular poems. Below is a hyperlink to his Website, along with links to several published poems of his. Enjoy! McCarthy's Website "Noise Falling Backwards" "North End, 1997" "Self-Portrait as Home Run Ball" "Scared Violent Like Horses" "Flyover Country" Hello, everyone. Recently, I learned about Emily Rose Cole, an alumna of Southern Illinois University Carbondale, where I am currently earning my MFA in Creative Writing (Poetry). Cole writes spectacular persona and self-portrait poems about fairy tales and myths. Below is a hyperlink to her Website, along with links to several published poems of hers. Enjoy! Cole's Website "Leda Takes Manhattan" "Daily Planet Exclusive" "Self-Portrait as Rapunzel" "What Makes a Pearl" "Premonition" |