Hey everyone. It be me again. I was browsing through my bookmarks this morning and found this piece again. I first discovered this poem through the Poetry Unbound podcast when it was read by its host Pádraig Ó Tuama. I believe Clark reco’d it to me (as they often do and I always welcome it. Their curation of poetry is a gold mine I swear) Afterwards, I read the piece at the Poetry Magazine website where it was published and listened to how Tiana Clark read it. Pádraig’s reading was a little more somber and slower, its cadence sounding exhausted or relieved from listing all these things the persona does—almost like an exhale. For Tiana’s reading, it feels more frantic, as if there is an overload of things and we can only say so much at the given time we have. Both versions are so good despite having different renditions of the piece. I guess for my self-indulgence, I wanted to try and read the piece, too and marry their versions together—frantic but also resigned.
In a lot of ways, the poem and the podcast about the poem have undone me. I recall my first job. I was a writer at this publishing company and day in day out I wrote educational articles involving Araling Panlipunan, English, Christian values, and IT. It was fun—fulfilling especially in the first week when there’s just this steady stream of output paired with the thrill of researching online or from the resource library upstairs; all its books available at our disposal. My feelings shifted from frightened to fascinated the moment you’ve found a groove and you’re less worried about belonging and more about just wanting to get started and do it right. My fingers got used to the keyboard (Mac keyboard controls are so disorienting the first time), eyes glued to the big screen in front of me and the quiet humdrum of people, busy with their own work. It was all nice.
But after a while of doing this, eventually my brain starts becoming exhausted from thinking any creative output. My vocabulary started to run dry, starting paragraphs sounding the same from the last articles, and the typos and grammatical errors becoming more frequent. Impostor syndrome kicks in and I recall the self-cringe of those mistakes I often beat myself up over when I logged out, and dissipated by dinners with friends at the diners and eateries near my alma mater.
But the worst was the burn-out. I wrote at work and then I wrote at home—pursuing personal projects writing poetry drafts or trying to materialize fiction pieces. Gradually, I enjoyed writing less and less and had to take a step back from personal projects to recenter myself. Eventually I parted ways with my first job in the early months of the pandemic. I realized I wasn’t mature yet for this industry. But maybe someday.
But despite all that, the fond memories outweigh the strain I might have felt in my first job. I was often shy around my co-workers but they were always nice and we banter here and there, and helped me get around the ropes and provided constant guidance. I’ll always be grateful to have them.
Incidentally, it is because of this piece that I discovered Lucille Clifton’s poem, birth-day, and the starting line (the one referenced by Tiana Clark) really stuck with me, and I think it will for you, too.
To be honest I still feel a little shy (and I guess embarrassed) that I record myself, but every now and then some confidence builds. So it’s nice, whether I continue this or not well.. we’ll see. So yeah, for now. This.
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