Overlooked
as a gold coin
buried in the dirt,
as the primary leaf of
a crabgrass plant
in the garden.
I feel sad and angry,
questioning my worth,
knowing I shouldn’t care
if I don’t get chosen
for that residency,
or that other residency,
or the last eight residencies
I’ve applied for.
I ask myself: what is it about my work
that makes it get passed over?
is it mediocre , slipshod, shallow?
Or is it me, the old lady,
Who lacks a promising career?
Several weeks back I received an email from the man at the Glen East
administration. I didn’t get a
scholarship. That means I cannot
go. Later I received notice that the whole Glen East Workshop was scrapped this year because of low enrollment. Glen West is still on, but I am not even trying for that one.
As old as I am, I am still so vulnerable to the
acceptance/rejection of the poetry community.
I have now been rejected for scholarships to at least ten
summer residencies:
1.
Yaddo 2013
2.
Dejarassi 1999?
3.
The MacDowell Colony 2011
4.
The Millay Colony 2005?
5.
The Vermont Studio of the Arts 2011
6.
The NEA (
twice: 2006 and 2014)
7.
The Sewanee Writers’ Conference (twice: 2012,
2013)
8.
Hedgebrook 2013
9.
Glen East 2015
10.
Collegeville Institute 2015
I think I am giving up trying for residencies. I think my age militates against me, and my
poetry is not of a fashionable style, either. And in some cases, as in the
Glen, I think the director just plain doesn’t like me. Is that paranoid?
Anyway, this evening I received an invitation from a couple
who are old friends, and who have a house in Sea Isle City. We have been trying
to get together for several years, and this year it looks like we have a
weekend that will work, in mid-May. So I
will look forward to that.
In my superstitious Irish soul, I also think that God
doesn’t want me to be winning awards or fellowships or grants because publicity
would not be good for me.
Salon des Refuses,
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