Bruce Whealton: Existential Writing

Hopefully, there are insights to be learned from our personal stories, or at least new inspirations for new poems. I remember when I started to see myself as a poet for the first time. It was late in 1991. I think it wasn’t till I moved to Wilmington, NC in April 92 that I really thought of myself as a poet. Maybe – it’s hard to say now. I had never read my poems to more than 2 people prior to April 1992. I had a mentor named Martin Kirby, that I started visiting and sharing my poetry with him in mid to late 1991. I’d sometimes show up and read to both him and his wife – they had a Sunday tradition of doing that and I was asked to join the tradition, for a while, till I moved.

Interestingly, I moved to Wilmington for a job as technical writer, at Corning. I should say that this job was more technical than creative or literary writing.

It was an interesting time. I was writing about pain, and loss and love that I had for a woman named Celta, who died in a fire. I didn’t know that I’d survive that loss and that the love I had would be a source of comfort or affirmation. I just wanted to escape, back then in 1991. And a part of me didn’t have any hope for living. I was almost suicidal. It really is ironic that I could feel so much pain having known such love. Maybe not, as I lost the source of that love. Maybe it was the love that kept me alive, made me what I am today… even though, all I seemed to know back then was pain.

I did know love though and that I was good – I don’t mean good as in good versus evil (though in that sense, I did know I was a good person) but that I was worthy, lovable, special. I know that sounds quaint but it is important. One cannot erase years of shyness but the positive feelings, dormant though they were, did make a difference. I doubt I would have otherwise shared things about myself, shared my poetry with others. Yes, indeed, that was it. In terms of sharing poetry, it wasn’t a thing I did just for me. I thought it was about sharing, giving.
And I knew that I had value. I had things to share. I wonder how quaint this sounds?