On Tuesday, I finally got the nerve to ask the poetry professor if he had read my poem, "Hospital's Hallway." The rest of the students had filed out as it was the end of class.
"Yes," he looks at me and smiles. "I thought it was great. You should definitely submit it to [the community college's contest], and elsewhere....It was very brave."
During office hours today, he explains that perhaps getting my poetry published (he encouraged me to write more and often) would help me find meaning in my struggle with mental illness. Certainly, I've always felt when it came to my prose, this was true. If you can somehow manage to find others who will connect to these experiences, then the world is a smaller, more humane place to live in. Also, it will alleviate the suffering of people who deal with the same because they will have another voice to get them through the night.
"It's amazing," the poetry professor says about "Hospital's Hallway." He reviewed it again, and offered some suggestions, and then asked that I bring it back so he can look at once more.
Throughout my life and my unofficial writing career, I've always imagined that poetry was one step beyond me as I highly idealized poets (including the English instructor in this), and then as I grew older, I envisioned incorporating the elements of poetry into prose, to step up the language in creative nonfiction--as a way to set myself apart from other writers. Sometimes, although it is rare, I actually meet that goal. I write a few paragraphs of prose that I feel has the power of poetry. But most of the time, I am content with explaining matters in a much more direct manner.
"You really should write more of this," the poetry professor says while placing his hand on his heart.
No comments:
Post a Comment