Poppycock June/July 2014 - Page 35

In myth ology, the psycho pomp is the guide for the soul to the land of the dead. A guiding spirit that leads the essence of a man to his maker. For the creative person, this can easily be the description of force inside you that can’t be denied as you search for a greater understanding of yourself and your craft. Angela and Frank are looking to gather others guided by that same burgeoning spirit in poetry. It is hard to take something from a cathartic, therapeutic, personal place and lay it out for criticism and judgment. In the past, both Angela and Frank have been slow to share and evasive with their work. For years, since meeting in an American Poetry class at PSU, both have kept their visceral outpourings limited to few eyes. Poetry isn’t for everyone, and it’s not like they just hang out with other poets. Angela works as a nurse and is an avid hiker. Frank just came back from a surprisingly reflective and trying year in France and makes his ends meet as a bartender. Neither of their vocations are brimming with abstract poetry enthusiasts by nature. After years of speaking to one another in quips and limericks and honing their craft while building up their confidence in what they painstaking create from pieces of thoughts and suffering laced together with creative sinew and emotional detritus, the pair have finally turned a corner as Frank has returned from overseas. They have realized that there is no waiting for the right time until a salon, a poetry club, presents itself to them. They intend to gather like-minded creatives once or twice a month for little to no other reason than to find a fleeting thing many hunger for in this world: An immersive environment of similarly passionate and abstractly, personally creative minds. They are not waiting anymore to find a rotating collective of similarly creative and passionate individuals who think themselves poets by another name; bartender, hiker, nurse? Poets all the same. They hope to expose to the world themselves and everyone in their future group scribbling in obscurity wondering if there’s anyone else left who does this. Poets aren’t abstract personas far away, or long gone figures spoken of in a past tense and taught as curriculum. There is no reason that they can’t answer the very question that seethe inside every maker set to cross a threshold in to the public space or expose themselves to the gruesome judgment of outside criticism: