Su brought a poem to a creative writing class when she was in college. The professor “rewrote” it for her. When she suggested that it no longer said what she wanted to say, he said, “What’s important is that I made it better.” Su suggested he write his own fucking poems and walked out, and never went back.
The professor was an idiot, but Su learned something important; you can teach craft, you can teach mechanics, but don’t tell an artist what to communicate. She’s carried this lesson forward her entire life.
Distance,A mere consideration—That is, without the stipulation That absence Makes the heart go wander. For instance,The sun in all it’s gloryWill act to illustrate my story: At ninety-three million miles awayIt never fails to light my day.On this, my friend, you may—| Or may not—ponder.
Her language carved a deep and winding woundacross your psyche. Strong with prayer, she hungyou by your tenuous will. She left you drawnand quartered, with insinuations flunglike wet confetti tossed to celebrateparades of sorrow, marches of regret.Then I arrived, too little and too lateto halt the steady flow of harsh…
There is no comfort for those shornOf love, of laughter’s sweet caress.Like sheep in spring, we bleat when tornFrom vital warmth, from life’s dear breath. We move in lines bewildering,In queues too solemn to be borne.We wet parched lips, remembering,And, as survivors left to mourn,We blindly herd across the green,Our…
Originally written in 1998. Most non-poets shun contact with the P word like the flu. And what is the oldest, most noble and most legitimate of art forms, poetry, has been severely disrespected to the point where people seem embarrassed for you if you openly admit to being a poet….