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 |   All that remains: here in my afterlife as a 'mainstream' blogger, with what little I know. |
| Raw and unedited....my feelings on my first writing mentor...an instructor at a community college in 1984...she lived a wealthy, charmed life...I believe her husband was a paper mill executive. She doesn't pen environmental poems...but loves her flowers. What's Going On With Elinor (A Cryptic Poem of Suffering) He wanted to write lines like Elinor -- break them, cut them up just so, crop precise symmetry -- leave a preposition on that cliff, but What followed below didn't flow like his Stream of consciousness. He realized they thought Differently Never saw eye to eye. He was taught to respect A future poet laureate (nominee), his writing instructor At a community college Her accolades wouldn't come until white came To her hair. He was gray now, too. But wiser? Crafting thoughtful those sharp edges So elinor could see? No. He wrote what was in his heart, about The rejecting fire that consumed him The endless pursuit of respect, moving on To the next one, find walls of indifference Arrogance, unable to ignore the shame That consumed him, for trying something Original at a poetry reading she coaxed him to attend A young poet of 25 in suede jacket, a rainy night Rusty, foul-pipe smell of an antiquated library To recite words he just penned about loss and His darkest secret, cryptic, told to strangers In front of a mic -- dark blend of blocked memory Mockery, turning away from Elinor, her modulated Southern admonishing accent punishing a name given to him by his mother -- one fellow instructor spared further tongue lash. Brian had a new secret. He failed the woman Who encouraged his writing, encouraged him To risk his love of words. He would hide 20 more years. Heart repeatedly jabbed by Her blue editing pen years after. Couldn't construct Any more visions on his closeted journals. Couldn't see the point of the publishing dream Maybe fiction? Her white hair make her forget Him? Is her dark secret also a forgotten memory Of the last time they would share a molecule of air Together? Elinor is celebrated for words that Bend just so on even lines, and she wonders Naively about the world and future at 78. The Woman who reminded him of his mother, outlived her, still thriving at 86. As of three years ago, according to Poets & Writers, Elinor travels to Give readings, splits time between her homes In Upper Michigan and Florida. Is photographed Spending time with her well attended flowers But does not return emails from a former Student still waiting for approval of his latest Poems. Not her style? She could never see the World through his eyes. Though, she wonders About it. We will all die, except Elinor who will Muse and we will sigh at her thoughts of white Birch and blue waters from their shared origins Calling her, unlike Chattanooga, Tennessee, Her birth home. She must like trains? Or Has she rejected engineers, hot, dry weather, Hill people, racists and rapists because they Do not exist in Elinor's world? I wonder, too. Her use of 'turned' was uninspired I reveal: http://elinorbenedict.com/excerpts.html https://twitter.com/glaedrfly/status/911252808124518400 |
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