I’ve been writing poetry since the fourth grade. Until my teacher introduced the subject, I had not thought of the poetry I was exposed to up until that point: nursery rhymes, pop music, and Dr. Seuss’s books as a genre of literature. Something immediately resonated with me when I realized a person could be not just any author but specifically a poet. As my mind meandered over the possibilities and the school bus meandered down the rural Arkansas road toward my home, a vibrant maple in its autumnal glory knocked me out of my reverie with its breathtaking beauty. So, I got out my paper and pencil and wrote my first poem.
Throughout the rest of my childhood, whenever I was caught in deep emotions or wrestling with tangled thoughts, poetry was my outlet. As I grew into a young adult, I had some transient ambitions of making writing my job. I dipped a toe in when I published in the student poetry magazine Applause at the University of Arkansas – Fort Smith. I also took a creative writing class specific to poetry while earning my B.A. in English and Linguistics at Indiana University. I studied the greats, of course. Although I became enamored with their words, I felt intimidated by Donne, Dickinson, Whitman, Millay, Frost, Stevens (interestingly, the last two hated each other?), Angelou, and even as an adult, Silverstein… the list goes on. I am not as talented as they are. Who would read my work? Moreover, who would buy it?
Capitalism, man. It creeps in everywhere. If you can’t make money doing it, it’s not worth doing. Money is, after all, precisely the value of things, right? One of the greats I mentioned above, Edna St. Vincent Millay, knew the necessity of cash. While her writing is divine, she was human. Everybody’s got to eat, and there’s no free lunch. Her own words say best how real the struggle is:
“Spring is here—and I could be very happy, except that I am broke. Would you mind paying me now instead of on publication for those so stunning verses of mine which you have? I am become very, very thin, and have taken to smoking Virginia tobacco.
Wistfully yours,
Edna St. Vincent Millay
P.S. I am awfully broke. Would you mind paying me a lot?”
Edna St. Vincent Millay, Letter to Poetry editor Harriet Monroe, 1 Mar 1918
I found this quote thanks to Shaun Usher’s newsletter: “I want more money I want more money I want more money…“
What would life as a Poet look like for me if someone as gifted as Millay could struggle? Like her, I did not grow up in a financially comfortable situation. I did not want to be a starving artist as an adult. So, my side gig from college became my main gig, and I put the bulk of my time and energy over the last 21 years into the lofty career of healthcare administration, finance, and insurance. Wallace Stevens was an insurance man. This is fine. I slowed in writing because I labeled my art a frivolous hobby. I “should” focus on practical matters. I have mouths to feed. Nobody “would” want to spend money on the words I could weave together, so they had no value.
That’s where I think, I hope, I have been most wrong. In recent years, an urgent hunger to read and write has crept up on me again. Am I the only person who needs something beautiful to contextualize all the ugliness? Writing poetry helps me process emotions, and reading it has connected me to others, sharing the human experience across time and distance. Could I share some of this experience with you, Reader?
You may read a relatable passage and feel comforted that you are not absurdly alone in a world more populated than ever. A pretty turn of phrase might transport you away from meanness for enough time to feel centered. Even if you get nothing out of reading this, I hope you will at least savor the sweetness in life wherever you find it.