How It Should Be

Harrison was a prolific poet who lived for a time in Washington, DC in the seventies before moving to Providence, RI where, among other things, he became a kind of Poet in Residence for the public-school system. I was one of his students for a short time. I liked him. He was the only actual living writer I had ever met, he had a very grown up sense of humor, and he didn’t behave like a normal teacher. I had the feeling that at any moment he might pull a joint out of his pocket and begin smoking it while leaning against the blackboard.

He also didn’t like anything I wrote. I was reading high fantasy fiction exclusively at that time, which offended his ironic, postmodern sensibilities. No one had ever criticized – or, rather, made fun of my work before, which he did relentlessly. At one point he told us to write a poem about an experience we’d had, so I wrote about running the hurdles, which I had recently learned to do. During the workshop, he pointed out how the poem sort of sounded like I was describing a bowel movement. When he was done trashing it, he said, “Sorry, Bill. But they’ll do this to you.”

Who will do this to you? I wondered. Whoever they were, I didn’t want to meet them. Still, I found him oddly charming. He was just so damn erudite, talking to us about the Vietnam War and drugs and one-night stands as if we weren’t just a bunch of kids. He moved on after my sophomore year, settling in Albany, where rumor had it he had fallen in love. I wondered if that would be the end of his poetry writing. I had gone to one of his readings and there was something about his stuff that suggested love was just one more thing to make fun of.

Several years later I went on a poetry-writing binge, during which I gave some readings myself and eventually published a few poems in a local literary journal. Those were the first pieces of writing I had ever published, and when I received my single, complimentary copy, I flipped through eagerly to see my work in print. Halfway to my poems, I stopped. There was a piece by Harrison. I read his poem, then found mine and reread them. His sounded like Harrison, and mine sounded like me.

I wondered briefly if, when he got his copy, he’d remember the kid whose work he’d mocked. I realized I didn’t care. No one reading this journal knew anything about us, knew how old we were or where we’d lived or where we’d published before. All they’d know is what they liked and what they didn’t, and in this way every single poem was exactly equal. This is perfect, I thought. This is just how it should be.

If you like the ideas and perspectives expressed here, feel free to contact me about individual coaching and group workshops.

Fearless Writing: How to Create Boldly and Write With Confidence.
You can find William at: williamkenower.com