I was invited to read my poem for the University of New Mexico Student Publications Fair (10.25.12) since my poem was honored in the university publication Conceptions Southwest in 2007. I’m not good with this sort of thing and tend to get nervous, so here’s what I’m going to say, presented in a form with which I feel comfortable: the written word...
Time Slot: 12:15 to 12:30
It went well. I strayed a bit from what's below and rambled on, but all in all it was good practice...
Hello. My name is Keith Deininger and I was published in Conceptions Southwest number 30 in 2007. My poem, entitled "Grandma," was chosen as the editor's choice in the category of poetry. I've been asked to read it for you and I will, but first, let me say a few things.
In 2007 I was about to graduate with my undergraduate degree in Creative Writing and I called myself a writer. I was like most, I talked a lot about writing but did very little of it. On a whim, I submitted a few poems to Conceptions Southwest, the first time I'd ever submitted anything. And when I was published I felt honored and my confidence soared. Conceptions Southwest gave me the courage to believe I might actually have a real writer inside me, and, eventually, something clicked and I began to take my writing seriously. I began to write regularly and with passion. It has since become a daily habit and I have written a lot of short stories, an poems, and three novels. I send my work out to various publications regularly and receive rejections all the time. That's part of it. There's a good chance there's one sitting in my inbox right now. Then again, there might be an acceptance, and there have been. I have published several short stories and my debut novel is being released as a mass market paperback this summer. So, I guess, I'm on my way. I'm a writer, for better or worse, and Conceptions Southwest, for me, was the beginning.
The best advice I can give to aspiring writers stuck at the beginning is to do two things above all else: read like a maniac and write obsessively. Just write. That's all you can do. Oh, and don't be afraid to submit your work. You'll get a lot of rejections, but then, eventually, that acceptance just might be coming your way.
But anyway, I'm here to read my poem. It's a little surreal, as much of the imagery in my writing tends to be. It's called 'Grandma.'
Grandma
The boy watches her face-
thick, like a wax candle
that sits on the mantle,
old and sticky and ignored.
The weight of her skin
melting, viscous, into the
cracks and folds of
her sunken eyes,
opaque, smeared with
bad mayonnaise
and the boy wonders
how he must look
to this woman
in her bed of white sheets
with his bright summer clothes
and ruffled blond hair.
He swallows a dry lump of cotton
as he imagines the pain
and backs away slowly
from the woman’s writhing hands,
the heads of two vipers,
striking blindly at the air
nails bitten jagged
Down the corridor under the blinking red sign
he pushes through that back rusty door,
creaking out past the
waiting room into the blazing
summer air.
He rushes forward, pushing on,
though the sun is too bright,
and his body too light
and he races past all the young men in their shorts
and all the tanned laughing girls and
the curve of their hips,
past the vendors unnoticed
and carefully over
the scattered cans
of beer
slammed fast under the sun.
In his youth no one cares to sell him a t-shirt
or bum off his money
or offer him drugs.
In his youth he is safely ignored
and left
to absorb
with a child’s
nomadic eyes.
Then out past the dock,
padding through the sand,
and way past the beach
where the homeless sleep,
he knows of a cove,
cast in dark shadow,
where he can dig in the sand
and bury his thoughts.
A smooth bar of sand,
cool and moist,
licked fresh every morning
by the ocean’s salty tongue.
Here the boy rests
and ignores the familiar stink
of the deflated carcass,
torn and left bare
by the struggles of the ocean’s heavy waves,
and he tries to forget the
gurgling hum of Grandma’s words
as he keeps his distance from
the tentacles stretched out,
reaching, as if to snatch him up tight,
and draw him near for a kiss.
And with that, thank you so much! If you're interested in more, check out my website, appropriately entitled KeithDeininger.com!
Time Slot: 12:15 to 12:30
It went well. I strayed a bit from what's below and rambled on, but all in all it was good practice...
Hello. My name is Keith Deininger and I was published in Conceptions Southwest number 30 in 2007. My poem, entitled "Grandma," was chosen as the editor's choice in the category of poetry. I've been asked to read it for you and I will, but first, let me say a few things.
In 2007 I was about to graduate with my undergraduate degree in Creative Writing and I called myself a writer. I was like most, I talked a lot about writing but did very little of it. On a whim, I submitted a few poems to Conceptions Southwest, the first time I'd ever submitted anything. And when I was published I felt honored and my confidence soared. Conceptions Southwest gave me the courage to believe I might actually have a real writer inside me, and, eventually, something clicked and I began to take my writing seriously. I began to write regularly and with passion. It has since become a daily habit and I have written a lot of short stories, an poems, and three novels. I send my work out to various publications regularly and receive rejections all the time. That's part of it. There's a good chance there's one sitting in my inbox right now. Then again, there might be an acceptance, and there have been. I have published several short stories and my debut novel is being released as a mass market paperback this summer. So, I guess, I'm on my way. I'm a writer, for better or worse, and Conceptions Southwest, for me, was the beginning.
The best advice I can give to aspiring writers stuck at the beginning is to do two things above all else: read like a maniac and write obsessively. Just write. That's all you can do. Oh, and don't be afraid to submit your work. You'll get a lot of rejections, but then, eventually, that acceptance just might be coming your way.
But anyway, I'm here to read my poem. It's a little surreal, as much of the imagery in my writing tends to be. It's called 'Grandma.'
Grandma
The boy watches her face-
thick, like a wax candle
that sits on the mantle,
old and sticky and ignored.
The weight of her skin
melting, viscous, into the
cracks and folds of
her sunken eyes,
opaque, smeared with
bad mayonnaise
and the boy wonders
how he must look
to this woman
in her bed of white sheets
with his bright summer clothes
and ruffled blond hair.
He swallows a dry lump of cotton
as he imagines the pain
and backs away slowly
from the woman’s writhing hands,
the heads of two vipers,
striking blindly at the air
nails bitten jagged
Down the corridor under the blinking red sign
he pushes through that back rusty door,
creaking out past the
waiting room into the blazing
summer air.
He rushes forward, pushing on,
though the sun is too bright,
and his body too light
and he races past all the young men in their shorts
and all the tanned laughing girls and
the curve of their hips,
past the vendors unnoticed
and carefully over
the scattered cans
of beer
slammed fast under the sun.
In his youth no one cares to sell him a t-shirt
or bum off his money
or offer him drugs.
In his youth he is safely ignored
and left
to absorb
with a child’s
nomadic eyes.
Then out past the dock,
padding through the sand,
and way past the beach
where the homeless sleep,
he knows of a cove,
cast in dark shadow,
where he can dig in the sand
and bury his thoughts.
A smooth bar of sand,
cool and moist,
licked fresh every morning
by the ocean’s salty tongue.
Here the boy rests
and ignores the familiar stink
of the deflated carcass,
torn and left bare
by the struggles of the ocean’s heavy waves,
and he tries to forget the
gurgling hum of Grandma’s words
as he keeps his distance from
the tentacles stretched out,
reaching, as if to snatch him up tight,
and draw him near for a kiss.
And with that, thank you so much! If you're interested in more, check out my website, appropriately entitled KeithDeininger.com!
