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Letters to My Youth

Ahoy! Time for the somewhat-annual blog update!

Not gonna bore you with the apologies and the promises to write more. That’s shit blogging. Everyone does it. I’ll just tell the truth: I haven’t had much to say in the past year. Yeah, I’ve written things, and I probably have novels’ worth of words up on Facebook and Twitter and Tumblr (not really that last one so much), but I haven’t had the reason to post anything long-form in quite a while.  But I do have this (which I’ll explain in a second here) and a piece of criticism kicking that’s getting shunted around in my brain right now.

Probably the most pertinent thing–at least to this post–is that I started a poetry creative writing class this semester, after nearly twenty years of stumbling through intuitively. My professor is super awesome; the tough-but-fair, excited-to-teach, actually-concerned-about-your-work type. It’s pretty awesome, and I’m liking it so far.

Also, I’ve been slowly getting more involved in my friends’ awesome projects, which is the purpose of this post. My friend Libby Walkup dreamt up what I thought was a pretty compelling art/literature/bookmaking project called Letters to My Youth. I’ll let you check it out here for yourself. So in the interest of sharing, and because I promised someone I’d get more of my work online, here’s my submission. There’s only one printed copy and, for now, it will remain the only copy in existence. (If you want to get in on the project yourself, the deadline for postmark (you know, that thing that says when you sent your paper letter through the postal system) is this coming Friday. Get to it!)

Letter to My Youth by Rick Cummings

Get out. Get away from here,
away from the infinite rows
of sugar beets. Flee the fields
of intolerance and fear.
Some people wear their fear like mail,
each tiny iron loop guarding against
novelty, and the new.
Some people mistake foolishness
for character, and ignorance
for strength, abiding always
in complacence and “tranquility.”

Men are beautiful.
Your neighbor is not a terrorist.

Trade the endless expanse of nothing
for a book of magic beans.
Trade sprawl for opportunity;
implicit, nonexistent comfort
for community.

Love yourself.
Love will find you
in many packages, filled with music
and innocent, unknowing howls.
Guilt is knowing.

Your poetry sucks. Ira Glass
knows this, and so do you.
It will get better in fits and starts,
and you will write this same poem forever–
The same whirlpool poem gurgles
down my brain today.

(I did make one tiny edit for this post. The double-hyphen/em-dash used to be just a period, but we’ll say I’m channeling Dickinson tonight.)

So that’s that, at least for now. It’s a little schmaltzy, but it’s also to Me from the Past. Everyone knows that Me from the Past is kind of a turd anyway, so it doesn’t matter if it’s schmaltzy or funny or whatever, because it’s not about him.

Bu anyway, I’ll hopefully have a new essay up in a couple weeks, and from there, who knows. School is hectic this semester (6 classes/18 credits) and we’re working on Real Actual Vacationing this year. But I’ll keep you hip to the hop if and when I post something more up here.

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