When I went to Franconia College, my view of poetry broadened. No surprise to that. In high schooI I had two friends who also wrote poetry. We were the extent of each others' audience. I knew of a handful of poets but hadn’t read much in school or on my own.
I didn’t even like poetry. I wrote it because I had no interest in writing fiction. I liked reading stories but making that shit up seemed too formidable. I never thought about writing non-fiction.
I became aware of e. e. cummings’ inveterate rule-breaking in high school, I suppose. His example served as a safe house for me to scribble and type the serious whatevers that I so earnestly wrote. I made effort to read but I hadn’t a clear trail. I really didn’t get poetry.
At Franconia, then, I read much more of other people's work, the published and the unpublished (other students). I was dutiful about this but I still didn't really enjoy much poetry.
My first year, I took a writing course. Creative writing, as they say. People presented poetry and fiction. The teacher didn't feel qualified to teach poetry, however, tho I found his critiques both thoughtful and credible. He wanted someone to teach poetry. The school instigated a search.
I remember three poets who gave readings (separately) as part of the search process. There may have been more. One was this forthright guy, comfortably named Joe. I liked him. He was hip but friendly. Another was more professorial, less hip than the first guy. He probably hoped for a more 'serious' school. Franconia was a loose place. I still refer to it as a hippie school. Sometime later, I saw an anthology edited by the guy. He must have made it to a more secure school. His wife joined him at the reading. As I recall she had what we would now call a goth presence. I recall a black dress, in contrast to the hippie boutique of the school community. An author photo for the anthology I mentioned shows her in the background in similar dark gothness.
