I am 9 years old, sitting in my bedroom in Fort Hood, Texas, at a card table that functions as my desk. I have just completed my first poem, and I feel like Madame Curie with a little bit of Albert Einstein thrown in. I am pretty convinced that this is a work of genius, a launching pad that will propel me into the world of published authors. I intend to send the poem to American Girl magazine, but first I decide to show it to my best friend, who lives next door, and whom I admire very much, not least for the fact that she wears a brassiere.
Sherry comes over and sits at my “desk,” and reads my poem, and I sit barely breathing, feeling as though my heart suddenly has a tight peel around it. My poem is called “Dawn,” and because I am an animal lover, it has references to a dog, a cat, and a bird (a bird made her nest on into the hours, weaving among it beautiful flowers, if you will). The stanza about the dog has him sniffing the air, sniffing a stone. (I thought that was really a great line.)
I gather you know what’s coming. I am about to have my first experience with that most discomfiting of things: editorial input. Sherry, after taking what feels like a hundred years to read the poem, does not wipe tears away and gasp that this is just about the best thing she ever read in her life, ever.
No, she kind of shrugs, then says, “Don’t you think the dog should be sniffing a bone?”
Well. It becomes instantly clear to me that Sherry is a terrible editor whose sense of aesthetics is all wrong, plus who cares anymore that she gets to wear a brassiere.
“A bone?” I say. “A bone?”
She nods.
“This is a poem about nature,” I say. “This is about appreciating the beauty of sunrise. Do you think a person wants to visualize a greasy bone?”
“I think it should be that the dog is sniffing a bone,” she says, and that is that.
I make no changes to my poem whatsoever. I put it in an envelope and mail it to the magazine and then try to wait patiently for them to send me back an enthusiastic acceptance as well as a check for about a million dollars; it said in the magazine that if they published you, you get paid.
I do not get an acceptance letter. I get a rejection letter. I get it really fast. And after I get it, I run up to my bedroom, slam the door, fling myself upon my bed, and weep. And then I don’t submit anything anywhere for 25 years.
Cut to many years later, and I have become a writer, publishing novels primarily, but also short stories, essays and non-fiction. I’ve had a lot of good fortune in my publishing life, but nothing surpassed the time I was asked to write a poem for an anthology, and then got to read it to a live audience at The Poetry Center. Yes. I got to be viewed a little bit as a poet, at last.
I don’t really try to write poetry these days; that was just a wonderful one-off. But I do read it. I read it for the absolute beauty of the language, for the naming of things that I too feel but cannot express, for the way I can resonate to the emotions a poet conveys and thus feel less alone. More than anything, especially these days, I read poetry for comfort. I look upon it as the buttered toast of literature. I fall into bed at night with a head full of worry, read a little poetry, and feel calmed. Heartened. Renewed. I come to remember the worth of being human. I am reminded of what beauty surrounds us all the time, if only we will look. I come to a kind of hope, to a kind of renewed faith in humanity.
There is one poet I return to over and over for feeling soothed, a man named James Crews, whose work is unfailingly kind, gentle, and accessible. I don’t want to have to work when I read poetry. I want to sigh and nod in appreciation.
James Crews will be doing a reading on Sunday, March 24, at the 19th Century Club. I will be introducing him (well, I’ll be fawning all over him), and he will read selected poems and take questions. After the presentation, there will be a reception with many delicious treats (my mom’s recipe for toffee bars and Mrs. Fields’ recipe for chocolate chip cookies) and there will be an opportunity for you to get a signed copy of one or more of James’ books. In addition to his own books of poetry, he has edited anthologies focusing on kindness and connection that include fabulous poets such as Ted Kooser and Mary Oliver.
Please come to this event, and bring your friend. They’ll thank you. It is free and open to the public, but donations are encouraged. Sunday, March 24, 3 p.m., 19th Century Club, first floor.
Elizabeth Berg is an Oak Park resident and a best-selling author.
