I had the opportunity to sit and talk with a master Poet somewhat a wordsmith. It was scary and tantalizing at the same time. I wanted to lean in and peel back the skin on his forehead and scoop the soft brain matter and put it in my purse to taste later when I was hungry and less afraid. I sat there in awe that this being would take time from life and share sweet secrets like lumps of sugar in my cup of coffee I was getting drunk on caffeine and it felt good.
We talked about my desire to pen books of poetry and his having done so. I don’t have an MFA, the closest I have come to a literary activist or curator of such was that day and between the pages of the lit mags that cover my living room floor. I am scared.
This icon reminded me that one of my favorite poet’s Leroi Jones or Amiri Baraka as he would always be known had commented the same this need to have an MFA to be declared “legitimate” in some literary circles. It makes me think of a bastard child looking the same as your brother’s and sister’s but somehow different. You won’t inherit anything from the estate even though your blood runs through it. I suppose the proliferation of self publishing in some way is the fulfillment of Baraka’s idea of an alternative superstructure.
Another Sunday with something to think about.