From the Pile

Today's entry is an old story. A story I took part in, to be exact, that involves a fight. This fight unfortunately was over the silliest of things.. . the word "as.".

Actually to be specific. This fight started over "poetry," something about 8 years ago, I was as eager to fight over as i was to live as a hermit.

What I will post for you is an event, which is narrated by one of my mentors--A poet named Phebe Davidson.

Shortly after going off to McNeese to study poetry and writing, I returned home to a weekly poetry workshop, hosted at that time by Doctor Phebe Davidson from her home in Aiken,

For Weeks, Davidson had invited several prestigious or and well known poets to her house to discuss, and critique and work with poetry.


Home for the Holidays, I called Jannette or John or maybe was contacted, i can't remember exactly, but was told, that i should do this, cause its a poetry workshop and it was at Phebes. To which I responded "Damn Straight," or as the Internet might record. "Hellz Yeah."

Ya see, i lived for poetry back then. (I still do.) And when i wasn't writing, i could be bothered to do minimal work until such time as i could be in poetry workshop again. I'm only recently learning how much bad stuff i wrote. Two books full of bad poetry is currently being sifted through, and that was when i found this write-up by Phebe.

I actually howled with delight, because i had been looking for this writeup a while. I save a lot of paper, and only recently has Hollie asked me to edit said paper. into a manageable form. This said paper is the dreams and work of many friends, who are all special to me. So, i found the story and started to immediately type it in. What I then found was the understanding I might need to relive my thoughts on the matter first. To be fair, it has been 10 tears since this incident. Most of the players are still alive, and yet i wonder if it will offend them. I may end up changing some names.

So, excited as I was, I couldn't wait to show off my new poetry skills. Needless to say, i got the invite, and printed up all my best stuff, which i had work shopped over three semesters.

At this time, i had finished four really slam bang poems, which i had work shopped the hell out of, and needful to say, I was a right little cocky young pup.

See, I had spent two semesters in the dirt, and one semester in the pit, to which my poetry skill, was highly in question so much that perhaps it was regarded as a mistake to bring me to Lake Charles to write. I felt this way, indeed, i felt that i had nothing on the other poets who were being published, and who were winning prizes and who were regarded as utterly brilliant.

I had shown almost nothing compared to them. And I had wanted to show I could write. And then after a dismally made move, the "Corwin Sequence," a dismally written poem sequence, to which John Wood, my 3rd Mentor called, "Nothing but bad sci-fi," or he may have used the word "Shit sci-fi"
which didn't matter because the truth was, he was right. I had read so much Dylan Thomas, that I had yoked my brain into a supreme understanding of sound, that what came out of my next was great. So, when I say the "pit" I'm supremely serious, that I had to move through shit to find the Shinola. And I had four awesome Shinola poems.

And I was ready to workshop those bad boys.

Also, I was cocky. I was cocky about telling other people how to improve those poems, and maybe, maybe Marion sensed that, and he didn't like it.

Start the Second: By Phebe Davidson


******

THE WORKSHOP NARRATIVE
Wed. August 5, 1998

Marion arrived with friend, was invited in, said he would sit in the middle (music^up a level) room so that is wouldn’t be crowded in the family room proper.

Position of participants. Beginning in the middle family room. On stairs, Vincent ********** who came as Marion ****** guest. In a rocking chair next to him, thus two steps above the rest of the group in the lower family room.

In family room: easy chair by fireplace, me. On floor in front of fire place, John Lowery. On floor in front of deck doors, James Enelow. On couch: Ilshe Mikos and Monica Dees. On love seat, Linda Lee Harper.

Roughly 9 p.m, James suggested adding the word “as” to a line of my poem. Marion disagreed strongly, challenged this idea, demanding to know where James got that sort of thing. James responded with something g like “I’m going my little tricks of the trade I’ve learned from poets I’ve studied with who have become established…” and Marion (whose complexion had become very flushed) reacted/interrupted with “I suppose that makes you the only one whose ever fucking learned anything, you psycho asshole.” John Lower said “That’s a little strong. . . we’re here in someone else’s house…” I said “Perhaps we can get back to the text.” Linda Lee read the line. “Sweet air blows…” James said to Marion. “Really, I meant no disrespect, I have the greatest admiration for you…” Marion stood (to gather his papers? Started to turn) & said Let’s get out of here, we don’t have to put up with this psycho bullshit” . . . John said something that might have been “yes, why don’t you go” and Marion literally leaped across me to the crouch almost in John’s lap, pushing him back to the hearth, shoving his finger in John’s face. John said “Get your finger out of my face.” I stood behind Marion & put my arms around his chest saying, “come on, Marion, Let’s just go. Let’s go outside. Come on Marion, please.” At the same time Marion was throwing/shoving John (who was a little off balance, Having just risen from sitting legs akimbo on the floor) into the stone wall above the hearth. John grabbed the fireplace shovel to defend himself. At this point, John said something like “If this is what you want, I’ll take your psycho ass out.” Vincent came into the room and took one of Marion’s arms for a moment, I think, or maybe he just stood there. Marion with apparent reluctance walked with us (myself and Vincent) to and out of the front door. Then he turned and said to me. “I’m sorry, but I will never come back here again. I don’t have to put up with this bullshit.”

Extent of injuries: 1” cut on my arm (from Shovel?) Two good sized knots on John’s head.

I am absolutely aghast.