“Just be open.” 

These three words turned out to be magical advice for me from the PocketMFA program.  

I had heard them repeatedly during the first week, Training Week, when we were awaiting feedback from the workshops our cohort was holding for the most recent writing pieces we had turned in. 

It was maddening advice; I didn’t understand it. I was looking for concrete information.

What would the syllabus be? What would we learn each week? Was there a checklist, a structure for specific homework assignments we had to accomplish?  

Would we be graded on homework? What exactly would we learn in each class? Was there a final exam?  

The answers to these questions seemed unimportant to Josh or Lauren who were leading the training sessions.

“Just be open.” That was all they could tell me.

Little did I know those words would be the best advice for me to receive.

 

The Beginning

I signed up for PocketMFA because I wanted to become a better poet.  

I didn’t know how or what this meant exactly, but I knew that the path I was currently on was getting me nowhere. I had adapted a style that I found hard to break out of.

I studied form and could understand the architecture of it, but what was the meaning behind it?  What were the roots? Why was it created? When was it the most powerful or ironic?  

How could I adapt the form for myself? How could I use it as a base and deviate from it? How do I create writing that sounds modern and free-flowing but has something more?

How could I write poetry that was not in the style of Auden or Frost?  How do I write something with musicality but doesn’t rhyme? How do I grow?  

These are all very strange, very all over the place questions. This is what my writing process felt like. I was grabbing at something I didn’t understand or know how to obtain.

I needed something consistent. For two years I had participated in every sort of writing workshop you can think of.  

Generative writing. Ekphrastic Writing. Lectures about Writing From the Heart, and Editing Without Mercy. Short Poems. Romantic Poems. The buffet of writing workshops never ends.

From two hours, a weekend, a month, to six weeks, I was attending workshops. I walked away with bits and pieces of notes but nothing I could use congruently. I felt like I had built separate rooms of information with no hallways to connect them. There was no structure or roof to make a home.

PocketMFA seemed perfect because I would be paired with one mentor and join a cohort. I felt 12 weeks was enough time to build trusting relationships among my peers and feel safe to take risks and share my work.

I didn’t want to face new people every time I joined a writing class. I didn’t want an instructor I felt didn’t understand me or my writing style. I wanted someone who would come to recognize my strengths and weaknesses, what I wanted to accomplish, what I needed to learn, and most importantly, my view of and struggles with poetry itself.  

I didn’t have the time or money to pursue a traditional MFA, but I needed the structure of an MFA program. Spoiler alert: PocketMFA was perfect.

 

Experiencing PocketMFA

After my Training Week, I was still feeling a little uneasy and confused so I met my mentor Charlie for a one-on-one session.

Charlie had read some of my work, so he understood where my writing was at. During my session, I just felt like I was talking to a very knowledgeable poetry friend. 

My Learning Contract laid out expectations for me throughout the program and a personalized reading list based on my goals.

Then came the Direct Instruction seminars. I loved them. I got to meet and interact with other members of my cohort. There were four of us in total, all with different backgrounds and approaches. We learned how Charlie views and approaches his poetry, and I was excited to start writing.

Next, the assignments. Three pages of poetry for Saturday’s workshop. We could submit one long poem or however many poems as long as they took up three pages only. We could present poems we had already written or workshop brand new ones.

I decided to present something I had written before that I thought was good, but knew I could improve on.

 

The Workshop

“So…who’d like to go first?” 

Those six words. You don’t expect to hear them at the very beginning of a workshop. They usually come after about five minutes of nervous banter between everyone, which the mentor lets go on for a bit to build anticipation.

“Who’d like to go first?”

A nervous silence did not hang in the air; it pervaded our Zoom screens.  

I raised my hand.  My thinking was if I go first I will quickly endure the embarrassment and be done. After that, I can just relax.

What I experienced after was so much more. Not only was it not painful sharing my work, it was enjoyable. My cohorts listened carefully, taking time to point out parts that really worked and others that fell short. They asked considerate questions pertaining to the piece as a whole.

I confronted the process behind my piece, what I was thinking. Why I made certain choices. Why I had never seen or considered others.

My 30 minutes flew by; I was reinvigorated. My love for writing poetry was active and alive.  Not an endless maze of confusion in my head only to lead me to habits and instincts I knew wouldn’t work.

During the rest of the workshop, I didn’t just sit back and relax. I was all in. I loved participating with the other poets to improve their work. 

We held our feedback until after the poet’s reading was done. The process of not knowing the feedback or where it would go made it exciting and fluid. We worked off one another rather than sticking to just our thoughts. We were discovering what made it work together and our bonds grew stronger from there.

I came to adore our group. Each of their unique styles and approaches. I saw how we each improved individually based on the quality of our pieces. Each of our poems were alive. Not just words on a page, but the evolution of the poet.

The books Charlie had assigned to us were all different and demonstrated how in tune he was to each of our styles. I read books of poetry that I wouldn’t normally read. Some I understood, some I did not. Still, I loved them and vowed to return to them. 

I was captivated by the books I would have never picked for myself. Some grappled heavily in form: erasure and lyrical. I highlighted a lot.

What I didn’t expect was my reading creeping into my writing without my intention or notice. Just naturally as if it had been there all along. Reading such a beautifully curated list of inspiration was what I needed even if I didn’t recognize it at first.

While I was reading, I would often ask Charlie “How is this poetry?” I still craved a definition. Charlie’s answer was always simply “Yes.” 

You don’t need a special license or identification card to be a poet. While you do need a good grasp on language, form, imagery, and musicality, you can have fun with it and play. I learned how to confidently arrive late and leave early with my poetry. 

In my Learning Contract, I agreed to write one poem in a given form every week. Starting this felt like jumping into a pool with no idea how to swim. I would post my poem for my cohort and ask, “Is this a poem?” or “Does this make any sense?.” But over time, I became more comfortable with the risk of trying and embracing people’s reactions.

I had finally found the freedom to experiment, to not be afraid of writing and to trust form. I discovered fearlessness in writing when before I was hesitant and stifled. By believing anything is possible, I found more success. Since enrolling in PocketMFA, for example, I’ve had three poems accepted for publication.

I learned how to truly be open. Those wise words that I had heard that first week of training. Words that were once so foreign to me. PocketMFA gave me that understanding and now, I’m open to it all.