Revise, Revise, Revise.

That’s the big secret. 

Whether you hear it from McClatchy or former Poetry editor Joseph Parisi, poems are seemingly the last intangible thing whose rules can’t ever be set in stone. Similarly, the words that create them never seem to fully harden--that one last tidal wave of oil paint curling into defiant un-dry-ness that entices you to touch it.   Nothing is ever set in its ways. If you think something you've created is good, let it incubate in your hard drive or desk drawer a couple weeks then engage it in observation again.   If you think something you've created is really, really good, put it away for even longer, let the flavors fully cure in each typeset sinew.  Hence: revise, revise, revise.

Everything I have been capable of in poetry I owe to three specific people.  And the next time the bill rolls onto the House floor about the importance of teachers and the impact of their abilities on "the youth of tomorrow,"  hopefully Robert and all his Rules of Order won't hesitate to bat an Aye.    Every fundamental that I learned about how to read and how to write I learned from:

• Dr. Pamela Childers, Directoire of the Caldwell Writing Center of the McCallie School.

• Kemmer Anderson, Philosopher Poet with the wet sand of Patmos Island still in his sandals.

• Bill Boyd, Master of Grammar, admired by all grown adults, feared by all seventh grade English students.

And it is thanks to their continued support over the almost 15 years that I have known Pam, Kemmer, and Bill that I have been able to maintain some sense of direction or creative momentum.  I’ve been fortunate enough to have my poems appear in some terrific small presses and poetry journals which, like independent film, thrive off survival tactics stemming only from a desire to be interacted with and an audience to enact those desires.  

Poets don’t just write poetry, but they read poetry as well---both are equally challenging in their own regards, but the literary growth in these "two-ended" experiences are so beneficial---beyond any quantifiable amount.   Without strapping on my black beret, I'll just close by saying poets write in forms that are truest to themselves and they aspire towards honesty only because they must, to find something new.  And follow literary critic Adam Kirsch's advice as closely as you can and leave the funny business at home: don't confuse novelty with "new-ness".

Perhaps A.E. Stallings said it best in an essay in the April 2005 issue of Poetry, "...the advantage of an art in which there is no money is that there should be no reason to sell out."