Out of the mouths...

I was reading some of my poems to a friend the other day, over the phone. After about line 6 or so, she interrupted me and said, "That's not a poem. That's a painting."

I'm still not sure if she meant what she said as a criticism or a compliment because I know she doesn't read a lot of contemporary poetry. However, she couldn't have said anything nicer to me. I told her so. I haven't stopped smiling since.

I try to remember this whenever I get nervous about having submitted eleven of my poems to a battery of editors in preparation for a chapbook that is supposed to come out in September. They have not yet make any comments (not even sure if they've read them). However, I can't help feeling like I've stripped and am standing in the middle of a busy street, waiting for people to notice and start pointing and jeering. Because I haven't had any feedback yet, I can't help wonder if the poor editors are at their keyboards, fingers poised over the keys, wondering how they can begin to tell me how awful my stuff is. But I have to keep remembering what my friend said.

Funny thing though. My friend keeps asking me to write a poem about her or our friendship. Now I can truly say, in response, that she has to let me paint a picture.