When I read Siddhartha in Mrs. Stevens’ World Lit class,
the problem I had was reconciling the somber, skinny,
beneath-the-lotus-tree Buddha with the smiling,
fat-bellied, shiny golden Buddha beside the register
A Room of One’s Own?
The truth is, I haven’t had a room of my own in almost twenty years.
The truth is, since 1996 I’ve been writing in a low-ceilinged attic that also serves as our ‘master’ bedroom.
I’ve written in parks and zoos and museums, in a writer friend’s poetry barn (she was with me, writing too), in my ki...
I remember watching this video of Robert Bly when I was in my early twenties. He was asking the audience, “So, you want to be a poet? Do you have about fifty years?” Yes, of course, I thought to myself. I do have fifty years if that’s what it takes. I’d been writing poems since I was seven, and I knew I still had quite a few more bad poems to write—real stinkers—before I got any good.