Every morning, I receive an email from Poetry Daily. On Mondays, I also receive an email from American Life in Poetry, and on Fridays, an email appears with the subject heading The Poi Tree and Other Creative Stuff. The Poetry Daily and American Life in Poetry emails each contain one previously published poem. The Poi Tree email provides a collection of mostly unpublished poems, bits of memoir, short stories, and the occasional photograph or illustration. What further distinguishes Poi Tree from the others is that it publishes all the work it receives. No curating. No editing.
I don’t always get excited by the work I read from Poetry Daily and American Life in Poetry, but occasionally a poem stands out because it resonates in a personal way or stuns me with its construction or offers a fresh bit of phrasing. I tuck these in a special folder to read again and possibly share with poet friends. I nearly always find something in the Poi Tree emails that strikes a chord—a description of Hawaii flora or a particular beach or a local food that triggers memories of growing up on Oahu. Writing about Hawaii is not a requirement for inclusion in the Poi Tree collections, but the common thread uniting its writers is a friendship with the publisher, Kyle Metcalf, one of Honolulu’s iconic residents and devoted surfers. Nearly every contributor grew up in Hawaii or spent considerable time there.
Besides transporting me home on waves of warm nostalgia, those Friday emails remind me weekly that creative expression needs a vehicle. We aspiring artists can invest a lot of energy in ranking the means by which we share our creations. The ambitious painter dreams of a show at a Chelsea gallery instead of Honolulu’s Art on the Zoo Fence. The accomplished violinist aims for Lincoln Center not Faneuil Hall Marketplace. The poet aspires to publication in the New Yorker rather than in his community college’s annual literary journal. I won’t argue that this hierarchy is wrong or useless, but the need to share creations exceeds the tiny space reserved for the elite who’ve scaled the academies’ walls.
I’m grateful to Kyle for creating an online community of writers and artists and promoting their work each Friday without being a gatekeeper. I’m grateful to the towns and cities that encourage street performers and public art displays and to the libraries and bookstores, cafes and galleries that open their doors to anyone with a story to tell or a poem to recite or a piece of visual art to hang on the walls. I’m even grateful to Facebook (yes, even Facebook!), because it provides a platform for my poet friends—poets like Verandah Porche, Gary Margolis, and Laura Foley—to share their most recently published as well as unpublished work. Thanks to these accessible venues for the arts, we all benefit.
A long time ago, a struggling graduate student in one of the science disciplines asked me which poetry journals paid the best, as he thought that selling his poems would help him survive financially. I had to break the news to him that he would probably have to pay to submit his poetry and that he might consider another revenue stream. I hope that young poet continued to write poetry and that he sought and found ways to share his poems even if they didn’t improve his bank statement or bring him fame. Most of all, I hope he has heard the thundering silence that follows a fine poem well read and counted himself well-compensated even if his audience wasn’t packed into the Tishman Auditorium at The New School, but was instead perched on wobbly folding chairs in a tiny Vermont library, their faces beaming with gratitude.