Poetry Era Begins

Sure. We have at least three more Edgewater County novels in stages of publication prep, a memoir in the oven, and who knows what else in terms of writing projects heading down the Mind Harvest Press pike.

But wait; there’s more. The era of James D. McCallister: Poet has arrived.

An explanation.

Like most writers, at some point I certainly made stabs at the poetic form at various times since childhood; have read, known and admired poets both local and otherwise; but I never truly pursued the form the way I did so many other styles of writing. Other than one short, oh-so clever haiku I sent out a couple of times, I had never ‘cracked it’ enough for myself, or felt confident enough, to much bother with poetry.

But then it all changed. Almost overnight. Epiphanic. Lightning strike.

Long story short(er)? I had a breakthrough. That’s right. All artists know that feeling. It’s an intuitive, warm glow of assurance—this feels right. This feels good. I ran with it.

The first few poems I completed through a complicated and somewhat mystical process (no, I’m not suggesting ‘channeling,’ nothing that esoteric) gave me a charge of happiness and satisfaction.

Am I supposed to pursue this?

Warm-glow came the answer.

Next, I sought validation. While I still haven’t read any of this material at open mic night or other poetry-friendly venues, I let a few folks read some of the work. And they responded. They didn’t know what to make of them, but all agreed that they seemed to undergo that slight consciousness change that the best of art brings out in us.

I began making submissions. Within a month, I had a hit from The Raw Art Review, with a piece entitled ‘Blown Everything Energies.’ The editors called my submissions ‘challenging and intriguing’ and not only accepted one of them for publication, but shortlisted it as well for their Bukowski Award.

Yep. First time at bat, and a ground-rule double. That’s right—I didn’t win, place or show in the journal’s competition, but something called ‘the Bukowski Shortlist’ will do for this still wet-behind-the-ears poet. I’ll take it. Et cetera.

So, poetry begins. I’ve finished my novel-writing journey, at least in a primary creative sense, and it’s time to keep the fires stoked by exploring this form. I now have about 75 poems I like, with lots more on the way. Who knows where this thread will lead?

I have so many poems in circulation that I shouldn’t post most of my best work here, but I’ll leave this one as a taste of the kind of work I’m producing.

Consecrated Message

Your message of Alone

truthfully parcels secrets

attained before anything

You’re God’s sweet

consecrated tell-dreams;

inside somewhere, smile

More on this process as it develops!

How I felt when I learned a poem had been shortlisted for the Bukowski Prize.