Competition

Sometimes I enjoy it, other times I don't. Right now I'm not enjoying it so much. I sent four poems off for publication and received 4 rejections. Not bad (i feel), since I have been working a lot on chapbooks and teaching. Then I find out another poet (whom I respect) was given the "acceptance" letter.
Okay, now I feel bad. Partly because they were chosen over me, and secondly because it makes me feel unsure of my poems. I'll get over it, but I hate being overlooked. But that person deserves it and this is about what is missing in my poetry or what I'm doing wrong. I just don't like that I'm not able to get my word out about the valley (rgv).
I have to work on my poetry. I think i'm sending sub par poems. It's not the focus of my life right now. Too many focuses, but enjoying  helping others publish and teaching. But then I feel bad for not keeping up with poems.

agh, frustration.

Otra Vez

I have been thinking about posting, but didn't have the real ganas to do so. Mixed emotions lately with working at Community College and enjoying my first teaching experience for ENG. Not enjoying the speculation which comes with being adjunct faculty and if there will be a job available during the Fall semester. Luckily I have a job at University, so I don't have to worry so much about finances. But mostly feel sad that what if not being offered a class in Fall means that I didn't do a good job. I hate failing.

Poems have been at a standstill. Understandable with work(s) and my production of three chapbooks this semester (for local non-profit organizations)...when I say it that way, it sounds good for a resume. lol Going back to poetry I haven't written much and have received a few more rejections. If i wasn't so busy with work and publishing chapbooks, it would hurt a lot more. Anyways, I went on a trip to San Antonio for their "First Friday" Art Walk. It was amazingly packed with good products/paintings/people. Unfortunately, some people always get trampled in a crowd, and for me that turned out to be the workers. I talked to one restaurant worker while a game was on tv. I would tell him the score since he couldn't see it from where we were standing, which wasn't to far away from the tv. He told me about how these nights turn out and some quick references to his family. Amongst the painting and cultural references, I felt closest to him. I understood him most and felt he gave me more to think about than much else. When I got back to the hotel I wrote a poem dedicated to him. Aqui esta (first draft):

Un Pocho en San Antonio's "First Friday"

lo que no tenemos siempre se parece
mas. y lo que no cay es mas pesado.
pero no miramos la manera
que los cocineros
sus ninos con la abuela
hasta la 1.
que piensa esto es una fiesta
de musica y bebidas
pero esto es fiesta
de customers
preguntando por especiales
que no se van hasta
la 1. Fiesta donde
a wrong turn
grabs the attention
of police.
esto no es solamente una fiesta.