Back to (Grad) School: The Foresaken Poems Revisted

I am not sure about posting any of this, but I made it public that I would be working on the reject poems I wrote in grad school, so it seems appropriate that I should continue the struggle in the open.

I decided to cheat my first time out with one poem from that study that was not only used for the Self-Portrait In Fire thesis (not the chapbook) but was also published in the outside literary world, much to my dissatisfaction after a back and forth with the editor. I was originally grateful for any input, but the end result of his suggestions was even an even duller version than the one submitted. As it stands, I'm putting the copy below, rather than the reworked "better" one.

Back when I was doing early workshops in graduate school, one instructor was impressed by my output--not so much with the material, but more for the fact that I was producing so many poems. I'm sure all the teachers would have been more impressed if I took time to write better work. But back then, it seemed evident to me that if you were in a writing workshop, it's not worth showing up unless you have a new poem or an amazing revision. Even in later years when I took workshops with Tom Daley, I considered it a partial failing if I brought in revision I wasn't 100% sure of or a poem I worked on months prior.

Around the time of these grad school workshops I was going through a lot of emotional issues related to moving to Boston, breaking up with a girlfriend, losing friends, the overall sucking at my poetry after an ego boosting final creative writing study with Framingham State's Alan Feldman (where I completed a large body of work, the majority of which I've also never tried to submit anywhere. Hmmm...), and having a hard time adjusting to the service sector of the employment world (one Coffee Connection/Starbucks job, and two waitering jobs spanning about six years). In retrospect, it's safe to say that a lot of the times I was in workshops, I instinctively wrote about the most pressing emotional matters in my mind rather than play with craft, to guarantee that I had something that could be finished by the next class. The results were pieces more raw than good.

Case in point: A poem written for the last Emerson workshop I did before the final semester, when I took required courses and buckled down for the thesis committee.


Our Only Dance

At the sports bar with the dance floor
in the corner, I only barely swayed
while facing you, out of inexperience,
out of taking 70’s music too seriously,
out of hoping for eye-contact and a smile
as you looked past me. Your presence
was a charity, out of not wanting anyone,
not even a non-drinking semi-recluse,
to celebrate his birthday alone.
How much did I realize it?
Well, as I stared at you
while you swayed and sang along
to Prince’s “Erotic City,”
I never dared to try and hold you,
not without a blunt invitation;
and even now I take that image of you dancing,
mold it into an ageless fantasy,
and make it shake to other songs,
but I never allow the self in my mind
to reach out towards it.
The truth is that strong.


Bill Knott, the workshop teacher, all but beat this poem to death with a stick. Can't blame him. This is only one of two poems I saved from his workshop. I have no recollection of any other work from that class and apparently threw out the folder and notes from that time. A big deal, considering that I have on file all my critiqued work saved from every relevant writing class I've ever taken. Bill Knott felt a little bad about the browbeating I took (however deserved) and tried to make up for it when he headed my thesis committee and ended up recommending it to other students. When I included the above poem for the thesis (which, I now remember, is a slightly better version of what I submitted to the workshop originally), I'm sure I did it less because I liked it and more because I really wanted something positive to come from that experience.

Over the last couple of weeks, I played around with this poem to get the version you see below. The language is more than a bit harsher than what you will find in most poems I write, and I feel the need to say that the anger you may feel in the poem is not really a reaction to the events or the subjects (yes, both were factual) but more out of my frustration as I tried to break away from the poem's original mold. I think I was more successful once I broke away trying to incorporate a different "truth" related line. Maybe I should have changed the title too, but I can't think of a better one just yet.


Our Only Dance

Failed fag hag,
freelance muse who catered
to many poets and sports writers
before the gay male lovers
who made sure the rumors had
your stamp of approval
revolted to upheave your network.
In that sports bar
with the obligatory dance floor
for the college crowd,
it was almost too much effort
to feign eye contact by positioning
your barely secret, soon-to-be
controversial fuck buddy
to dance with your friend behind me,
a transparent act of pity
making me lament
my unrequited lust,
Prince’s “Erotic City” mocking me,
unaware that the two of you
were shielding me from
the slings and arrows
of aspiring society columnists
(on campus)
I was too inexperienced to survive
but you two merely absorbed
for later excision
while you rested in respective counties
learning new ways to say “I love you”
to rebound lovers.


I'm wondering what those of you reading this post think of the old and new versions, but I'm also afraid to ask. I'm also afraid I might have more soon. We'll see.