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I learned from my friend Aimee that
David Citino passed away, earlier this morning. David was a professor of mine, back when I was a graduate student
at the OSU MFA program.
In many ways, David shaped how I viewed poems then... how I view them still. In class, he would often make us do
in-class writing exercises: ten minutes on a given topic. We wrote in a flurry, and then read out loud what we came
up with. Those exercises taught me a great deal about letting go and just pursuing an idea to see where it takes you.
In addition to writing and submitting our own poems, each week he'd bring in a news article - some quirky thing he found
online, or in a paper/magazine. We'd each be given a photocopy of the article and tasked to write a poem about it. At the
start of the next class, we'd go around the room and read our poems.
The beauty of it was that they were exercises. We told ourselves they didn't count, and relaxed a little, took a few
more chances than we might have otherwise. And with each reading, we saw how each person approached their poems a little
differently; each person had their own story, their own details. We were all given the same information, but we came away with
twenty different poems, each one as unique as ourselves.
Through his news exercises, he taught us that poetry is where you find it. In fact, no matter where you looked, it's
there, just under the surface of things. In David's class, the notion of writer's block was laughable, as each exercise
we did suggested otherwise: ideas for poems were out there, in abundance. All we had to do was look hard enough.
Prior to my graduate studies, I was debating between a number of graduate schools. The only one I was able to visit
in person was OSU, and David was the first person I met. There weren't many students around (it may have been Finals
week when I arrived), but we met in his office and talked shop. I remember him at his desk, and behind him a window
that looked out onto the backyard of Denney Hall, a few walkways, a few picnic tables.
The thing I remember the most about that first meeting? He told me that, ultimately, it didn't matter the credentials
of the school. It didn't matter, the things he had to say about OSU. What it came down to, he told me, was whether or not a place "feels right." He
encouraged me to walk around, and to use that as my criteria.
And so I did. And so I found myself comfortable. That initial bit of advice from David made me choose OSU, and the subsequent
three years there studying poetry, talking about writing with my friends... those were some of the best years of my life.
Right now, I'm pretty numb still about the news. I knew he was battling MS, but I had no idea things were at a point where
he might not live another day. I think Matt mentioned David was in the hospital, getting chemo for Leukemia, back when
I visited a week ago. But I must have forgotten or something. The
manner in which we talked about it - it seemed serious, but I didn't think it to be life-threatening. Matt told me
that an email went out about three days ago, regarding David's chemo treatment. And it sounded rather positive. His death
this morning caught many of us by surprise.
I was able to talk with both Matt and Aimee today. I'm going
to try to make it back to Columbus for the funeral, as is Aimee. I expect
a great number of his students to be in attendance.
I don't even know what to write right now. He was way to young to go. I know this is a standard thing to say for anyone
who passes away, but David was too young. This was a mistake, I keep thinking. This was too soon.
All day today, I found myself thinking about David. How he influenced me, my writing. How he influenced many of my
friends and colleagues in grad school. How many other students he must have helped, with his lessons, his exercises,
his advice. How many more readers he touched, who never knew him, but knew his poems and his voice on the page.
I found myself thinking about my life, about how I was spending my time. I wondered about what would succeed me, were
I to disappear. What mark would I leave, what difference would be made? What would I have to show for the brief time
I was given?
All day today, I heard David's voice in the back of my head. If not now, then when? What, exactly I could hear
him ask, what, exactly, are you waiting for?
If you're reading this, then you're still breathing. You're still capable of action. What about the poem you never
wrote? The letter? The novel? What about that apology you never made, the words you never confessed? For all the plans
never realized, all the things you mean to build, all the art you intend (but are too busy) to create? If not now, then
when?
What, exactly, are you waiting for?
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Met up with Karen (who is the concierge at the
Merchandise Mart), and the two of us walked over to the Art
Institute and met up with Will.
Before the reading, I ended up purchasing a copy of Billy Collins' newest book,
The Trouble With Poetry and Other Poems. I guess it's due out tomorrow, but there were copies available this evening,
which was cool.
Once inside the auditorium, I went to the bottom near the stage and took a few photos. The room itself was quite
beautiful, in particular the ceiling (lookit all those circles).
And a shot of the crowd. Talking later, after the reading, Will noticed how much older the audience seemed. On average,
he felt that the median age was around 50 (if not higher). There were some young folks. Not many, but a few.
Shortly after this, one of the museum workers came down and told me there were no pictures inside this room. I wanted
to get a shot of Collins reading, but decided to be a good boy and kept my camera in its bag the whole time.
Me and Billy Collins. For some freaking reason, I can never
smile when I'm posing with folks. I try, but suddenly the process of smiling feels horribly forced, and my mouth just
starts to droop into a frown. When I notice this, I try to physically raise my lips and it ends up looking silly.
I need to just start doing the stare. I'm serious here - this weird face thing is a trend. Does anyone remember
the Lucille Clifton reading? See? See what I'm talking about?
The stare. Gotta start just doing "the stare."
As a gift to Collins, I ended up burning him a copy of the reading he gave at OSU, way back in 1998. I doubt he remembers much
from that small week in Ohio, when he was a visiting professor, but it definitely left a strong impression on me. After having
read Collins for so long, it felt kind of nice to be able to give something back to him... even if all I gave him was a copy
of himself.
Post-game: the three of us went across the street to
Bennigan's, and had a late dinner outside. We talked a bit about the reading, and it seemed like both
Will and Karen had a good time. It was very exciting to attend a poetry reading with folks who haven't been to a
reading in a while (and particularly those who aren't familiar with Billy Collins). I
had as much fun looking over at them during the jokes as I did listening to Collins read. Sort of like how watching a
favorite movie with friends makes it better somehow. It just does.
We talked about our jobs, what we want to do when we grow up, and the private
life of plants. Circa 9PM, we all walked towards the Blue Line and parted ways shortly thereafter. I'd like it on the record that the phrase "doffing your hat" was
uttered with great frequency, and the act enacted more than once with Will's fancy hat.
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A few of my friends, Aimee and Jesseca,
both have poems by David on their sites. Matt sent me a link to The Last Cricket
in Ohio Sings a Song of Wilderness earlier today, and that one really took my breath away. And earlier tonight,
I was looking through one of David's books, and came across Clownfish, which is the poem Aimee
posted on her site. I was always fond of that one, and that seemed especially fitting in light of today.
I posted one of David's poems on here, earlier in the year. Tonight, I think
I'm going to include the poems that Aimee,
Jesseca and Matt chose, and add one of my own.
If you like his stuff, I strongly suggest you pick up one of David's books. Matt and I are both big fans of
Broken Symmetry.
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by David Citino
When the female dies,
the father of her offspring
changes sex and mates
with the nearest male.
Some grief sweeps us away.
We struggle back into
a strange new ocean,
magic with what we've lost.
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by David Citino
I walk out into dark that feels
sacred, even though it's Ohio,
it's now. Orion strides above,
shattered ice strewn across
the vast black, a hint of azure.
The year's last crickets
are singing their hearts out,
slower than yesterday.
They know the north wind
is serious about staying.
Shivers in the trees, a stirring
of birds. The crickets chant
their names until my presence
quiets them. I hear the silence
of eternity. They'll sing again
only when I've gone home.
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by David Citino
Even before my first baby clothes,
it was measured to fit my adult limbs alone,
a serious suit, pressed in front
but wrinkled where I'll come to lie.
The shoes already are laid out, shined
bright enough to return the degree
of wonder and grief to each who'll come near,
soles to stay unmarked because all the way
I'll be given a ride. White shirt,
appropriate for this world and the next,
and at my throat a sober tie,
flawless knot hiding the plastic clip.
No need for wallet, wristwatch, keys.
From the hour I began to wonder,
I've wanted to know when I'll be called
to be dressed this last time,
somebody else's masterpiece of fashion,
bloodless work of perfect art,
on my eyelids and lips until the end
of flesh the fingerprints of strangers.
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