Visiting Writer–Rybicki–Command the gaze, not the glance.
Leaning over a marble dinner table, John Rybicki smiles wide and says, “I’ve been pulled over twice for writing while driving.” We young poets laughed, sure it was true, and continued talking about who does what poetry thing while they drive. During the workshop, he stood and wove excerpts from his poems into an evangelical love song to poetry with side notes on craft.
Rybicki, (aint that a sweet name) is the opposite of the shy, poet stereotype. He’s gun powder, personified. He’s the head of cupid’s arrow bathed in lightning.
Visiting writers are usually memorable. They swoop in, deposit some genius, and flutter away. We’re supposed to be refreshed by them, supposed to be shown a different perspective, supposed to broaden our professional circles. John didn’t flutter in and plant himself on a high-profile perch, flashing pretty feathers. He sat down and praised us. I felt that he wanted to learn from us, that he needed us to survive.
I feel this is extremely rare—that the visiting writer becomes as enamored with us as we are with him. Who else does this? By the end of the night, I think he gave half of us his email and said to send that poem, that record, that idea. Is this what makes John such a great visiting writer? The sense that he’s not just visiting?
I was blown away by John Rybicki’s visit. I know, he made me cry, but that wasn’t what did it. Honestly, I don’t know exactly what it was. Maybe it was fact that he spoke to us with an urgency that almost felt violent or that the words that came out of his mouth did not feel obligatory or rehearsed or like words he’d spoken a million times to dozens of other students. Maybe they were these things, but I don’t think so. John Rybicki reminded me that what I have to say can matter, if I say it with power, with life. He reminded me of some of the most amazing people I’ve ever known, friends I’ve loved and cherished because they are kind of magical. I used to call these people unicorns because they don’t come around all that often and not everyone gets to experience them.
I’ve been trying to describe his workshop to people who weren’t there, and it’s impossible. So here are a few gems from the notes I scribbled down while he was talking:
– You’ve got to begin at the height of your power
– There’s too much luke warm, tepid fucking poetry out there.
– The words in poems are common, ordinary words. How do you take those words and do something new with them?
– Poetry is the language of our largeness and our brokenness.
– Poetry is the language of disruption.
– We’re writing sentences to outlive the body.
– Out of your singular, monastic devotion to something, you feed the world.
Man, ain’t that grand! Thanks, John.
This is sweet to hear! I got shredded by our visiting writers. Which is also useful. Then they left and I got to tend my wounds in private. The ones inflicted by Nance, Chris, and Jonathan were slashed and re-opened again and again. And I love them still. The poet professors, that is. The wounds are gone, not a scar to speak of.
Shira,
Do not remind us of Peter Everwine’s visit. That man was a lion and my poem was a a baby goat.