On being told you are already a grown-up

Long, long time ago, still hiding under cover of being a student (personal belief: I'm a hobbit, and wouldn't be mature til I was 33. . . ), I was delighted to discover that my favorite living poet, William Stafford (Library of Congress Poetry Consultant, 1970/71, title later changed to Poet Laureate), was teaching a creative writing course at the University of Utah that particular summer (when my kids had stayed the summer with my mother.) I signed up, most particularly because of the promise of a one-on-one meeting with the poet. . . One submitted a number of poems, which he would then critique and discuss with you for a half hour. That alone was worth the cost of the whole week.

The morning came, and I timidly approached his door, and was greeted warmly, and with the suggestion that we go outside and sit in a nearby campus grove. His hand carried the small sheaf of my poetry. Oh, heart be still!

So we walked til we found a comfortable granite bench with a beautiful view of the valley, shaded, and surrounded by great firs. We sat. He opened the folder. He closed the folder. Then said: Well, it's clear that you know what you're doing. Let me ask you a question. . . How do you decide where to send your poetry?

I said, Well, generally to those places who actually pay, first.

He laughed, and said: Me, too.

And we talked like contemporaries. I'd been "forced" into the fraternity.

And bless him for dragging me out of my student status. We never did discuss my poetry, per se. And I've never attended another Creative Writing Workshop.

Below are three of the poems. And yes, NOR does pay.