Thursday, February 18, 2010


The goal this morning is to send some work out. I went through poems last night and kind of have an idea of where to send them. I wrote a few poems for the List Anthology that I'll be sending out. I was editing a couple of them last night; they're oddly sad and I cried after working on them. I will probably send work to journals I haven't submitted to before. I'll go through the books of poems I like and see where the poets have published their work and I'll send the poems there. I also have to finish my Breadloaf application. May the financial aid gods smile upon me, may the flying spaghetti monster of talent be with me.

I applied for a scholarship to study in San Miguel de Allende this summer. It may be a longshot but I would love to go back to my old stomping grounds and reclaim that wildness. I miss those days, crazy and uncomfortable as they sometimes were. In my mind I am still that free-spirited young thing that took all sorts of risks with an open heart. The gradual closing of my heart has been a bad thing. I often feel like I'm standing inside of it looking for the doorway, or a window out. I'd like to get to trusting people again and trusting myself. Scary. I was lamenting my old self yesterday while walking through the marsh with Cecil, he said youth is wasted on the young. Is it? It shouldn't be. How incredibly lame. I'm feeling like I've moved from young into "still young." What a difference those five letters make, still.

Going through some boxes earlier this week I came across the Anthology of Poetry by Young Americans and found a poem I had published in it. I'd completely forgotten I'd written or published it and I was kind of impressed at my young mind. Many of the poems in the collection were cute, sweet poems by children. I wrote a poem called The Ocean, in abab rhyme. Here it is, straight from my 12 year old self:

The Ocean

Endless stretch of mass confusion,
fathoms of life and time.
Awesome world of complication
so often said in rhyme.
Life and death so simply stated,
in our friend and foe.
'Tis so crass and beautiful,
with the more we do not know.
Endless waves and waveless ends,
collide in this simple motion.
Free your thoughts and thoughts run free,
in this spectacle, the ocean.

Twelve year old Lizz may have something to teach me. In my office I have the first poem I ever wrote called Poetry, in a frame. I'll post it here one day. I was seven when I wrote it. I consecrated myself to this art early. I've never stopped. There is probably no turning back now. I wonder if any other life would make me happy. I'm not going to try and find out.


Chris said...

Either I am the only one who reads your blog or your other readers are just too intimidated to post a comment! I am way impressed by 12-year-old Lizz's poem. No surprise that you stuck with it. I also just read the post about your folks' business. My thoughts are with you all. I hope something turns up.

Lizz Huerta said...

Thanks! Great picture. I'm sorry about Phoebe, she was a sweetheart.