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My first novel is coming out soon. So am I still a poet?
Poems
A Sneak Preview and a Bit of a Rant
My newest poetry collection is in the hands of many potential publishers: Small presses, contest judges, and university press editors are all considering it as we speak. I’m especially proud of this one. Its quality, organization, and message make it a strong book, and once it’s out in the world in its finished form, I feel certain that it will make a difference. One of its prevailing themes is land loss. The question many of the poems attempt to answer is this: What do we lose when native acreage in its natural state becomes housing developments, mining leases, or euphemistically named “solar farms?”
Here in Florida (and in the southeastern U.S. at large), more wild spaces are being pushed out in favor of generic, boxy homes with zero lot lines and oppressive HOAs. Subdivisions aren’t the only culprit, but they are the ugliest. And this isn’t a new occurrence, of course — Big developers and other commercial interests have been devouring woodlands for decades. But now more than ever, as country disappears, we are also losing its customs, practices, understandings, and the pioneer breed of people that once thrived amid an untainted Sunshine State. Historic greenspaces are being eradicated, and with them, the common sense one needs to live within an unbridled ecosystem, one replete with unique animals, plants, and bodies of water. In this way, Florida is a microcosm of our nation’s lower-right region, where woods are increasingly shoved aside so that more dull concrete monoliths can rise.
Readers who know me understand I do not consider myself an environmental crusader. I would call myself moderate when it comes to “green” causes. I believe in a healthy balance of business and conservation. But as my beloved state deforms into a hideous plain of beige construction and shiny black panels, I cannot stand idly by. We turn to poetry when significance demands it: funerals, weddings, commemorations, and similar occasions. Now, we need it to stand up and register an emphatic rejection of bulldozers and big money. Narrative is a powerful weapon, and the small poem-stories within my latest book comprise an arsenal. They commemorate and celebrate a place and people we are losing. They preserve the diligence and ingenuity of past generations while offering an objective look at our asphalt-smothered present. And they cherish a way of life that some may consider rustic, even quaint.
Nonetheless, these poems are needed for our times. What better way to pedestal a crisis than by expressing it in the one form closest to the sacred? Though some may say that poetry is a rarefied art enjoyed by a slim minority, it is also true that this genre is the one most sought after in our inherently human moments. As earth and knowledge perish in the name of “growth,” crafted language is one part of a much larger solution. My hope is that this book provides an emotional journey rather than a sermon. And when the reader finishes the final page, perhaps some inchoate desire for a purer land, one closer to our ancestors and our Creator, will take root.
What Robots and AI Can’t Replace
Everywhere we look, there are mentions of artificial intelligence (AI), robotics, and their implications for the future. News stories and social media feeds predict a heyday of ease and comfort as we assign more and more mundane tasks to technology (the art that accompanies this post was created by AI). In contrast, we’re also given the dark prophecies of Asimov and Bradbury come to life: When our computerized creations become so sentient that they can resent us, how will we control them?
More realistically, however, people are rightfully concerned about their jobs: Cashiers are already becoming obsolete, data entry by remote workers is becoming a relic, and countless other positions previously filled by people are slated to go extinct in the next few years. How, then, do we reckon with this revolution?
As the father of two older boys, one in college and one about to go there, I’m relieved that both of them have chosen irreplaceably human endeavors for their futures: One is in theatre, and the other plans to pursue architecture. These are professions that AI will never be able to fully usurp. After all, theatre is among the humanities, a select group of art forms and practices marked by their innate reliance upon authentic emotion and genuine experience. Our hamartia, the human condition, is ironically our greatest strength when it comes to livelihoods that are AI-proof. Architecture will be helped by AI, certainly, but to design and create livable spaces that consider the needs of complex people, we need human minds and hearts. Ask AI to design a mid-20th Century ranch house like the one on The Brady Bunch, and you’ll probably get a reasonable facsimile. But ask AI for a blueprint of a home that considers the individual needs of 21st Century family members, and confusion results — the blinking cursor begins to smoke.
As a teacher, I’ve already encountered the challenge of getting students to write rather than use ChatGPT or some similar product. For now, AI-generated writing is fairly easy to spot: Its reliance upon certain words and phrases, its preference for sterile-sounding language, and its occasional errors about obvious matters all make it detectable, even without running an essay or paper through an online checker or two. Combine those facts with a vast divergence from a student’s in-class writings, and AI use becomes obvious. But we know that technology consistently advances, and as time elapses, the fakes will become harder to spot, especially as classrooms become more tech-dependent. This is why some teachers and professors have gone back to old-school blue books, those lined-paper pamphlets of an earlier era, for class writing. And while I see the nostalgic appeal and hard-nosed devotion to justice driving such a practice, I also see its inherent temporary nature. Returning to number two pencils and canary yellow legal pads may get us by for a while, but students, parents, and clients of the new age won’t tolerate this Luddite approach for long. We need to find the middle ground between total AI reliance and achieved, owned learning quickly. Compromises like “You may use an AI editor for the writing you have authored independently in class” serve as a good start. This technique prepares students for the world to come without damaging their acquisition of knowledge. Further, they learn by seeing the corrections made by QuillBot, Grammarly, and other language-fixers. And if these products make a mistake as they sometimes do, so much the better. That’s where the real learning begins — technology has never been and will never be infallible, and the sooner students grasp this truth by experience, the better off they will be.
As a poet, I’m not worried about AI. I’ve seen the replica-poems it produces, and while some sound good on the surface, a closer look reveals that same artificial shimmer visible in the art that I’ve used above. Something’s missing; there’s a bad aftertaste like that of saccharine diet sodas from the seventies. An astute reader can tell that the cane sugar of the human touch is missing from this thing’s formula, whatever it may be. The “experiential resonance” — the sense that an event or product is organic — just isn’t there. Call it instinct if you will, but a reasonable human being can tell the difference between the things we do and make and the contrived, data-driven simulacra of thought-approximating algorithms. An initial, superficial “Oh, that’s lovely!” soon becomes an “Oh, this isn’t what I thought it was.” And that kind of deflating disappointment will toll the end of our infatuation with AI. Like any other once-novel discovery, this, too, will lose its luster.
So, what’s the big picture? The AI “scare” is similar to that of Y2K: Yes, we should consider it, but no, it isn’t Armageddon. As we prepare and adapt, we will add it to our toolboxes, become indifferent to it, and move on. Just as we healed the hole in the ozone layer, just as we eliminated acid rain, and just as we defeated diseases of long ago, we will coexist with this latest change until it no longer seems intriguing or threatening. We could easily theorize a future dystopia like those seen in science fiction, but it’s more likely that balance will prevail as it always has. For parents, teachers, and creators, AI is nothing to obsess over. Put simply, it’s just another thing. And if history has taught us anything, it’s that things are perishable.
You’re Invited!
World Poetry Day, National Poetry Month, and New Opportunities
As World Poetry Day arrives (today!), and National Poetry Month waits just around the corner (April), I thought I’d offer a brief missive on literary matters both personal and universal:
Most people are poets to one degree or another, though some don’t like to admit it. When you walk outside and feel the temperature in the morning, your response to it is the beginning of poetry. The texture of the air on your skin, the combination of sunlight, birdsong, and environmental noise, and the state of the world around you (your seasonal lawn, the road nearby, the leaves that have fallen on your driveway)…these things are the earliest signals that your mind wishes to celebrate life by composing a poem. Most people immediately shut down this impulse with negative self-talk: “I’m not a poet,” or “That’s what somebody else would do,” or “That stuff’s too deep for me.” The truth is, we all want to record and respond to the world around us in artistic words; some folks just lean into that longing more than others.
There’s also that dreaded mental reservation called imposter syndrome. “I don’t know enough/haven’t done enough/can’t compete with experts” hinders so many earnest efforts. Nobody is the greatest at something the first time they try it, and there are plenty of metaphors and parables extolling the virtue of practice and patience. Being unwilling to try something because of initial frustration is ordinarily a child’s reaction, but in the adult world, too many creators quit before they’ve properly begun. Nowhere is this fact more evident than in poetry — the persistent thrive, even if they aren’t that great.
I won’t name names here, but walk into your mainstream bookstore and you’ll find the one shelf called a “poetry section” filled with poorly designed and badly written tomes by people whose greatest claim to fame is that they’ve penned trite cliches or radical malarkey for the last 25 years or more. And those “books” are placed alongside Dickinson, Shakespeare, and Frost. This literary injustice is a turnoff to those who may be considering writing well-crafted verses of their own, and it should be. But this sad fact should also be a motivator for producing better work for our current age. Make poetry great again!
So, how do we overcome a closed mindset regarding poem writing? The first step is to get inspired. Sometimes a little help can go a long way, and toward that end, I recently began a new mini-workshop by mail called “Metacreativity: The Process Behind the Poetry.” In this monthly letter, I offer one poem of mine, the backstory behind it, and the process it went through before becoming its final version. Sometimes seeing into someone else’s creative process inspires others to use their own, and this little communication allows readers to do exactly that. I also include a more traditional poetry prompt in every letter, and sometimes I add a QR code that links to an audio recording of the monthly poem. I also include news about my upcoming appearances, book signings, and other events when appropriate.
I’d love to add more subscribers to my growing roster for Metacreativity. Now more than ever, we need fresh voices putting more relevance into our world through poetry. And as celebrations of poetry begin in this first quarter of 2025, I hope you’ll join me in spreading good words. Whether it’s buying a fresh book of poetry or trying your hand at a sonnet, spring is a perfect time to appreciate beautiful language.
Going Old-School: A Return to Snail Mail
As the age of screens and endlessly blinking text continues, there is a need for a return to the gracious, studious, and considerate world of letters. That’s right, the kind that come in your physical mailbox. You get to hold in your hand an artifact — a piece of living history sent to you by someone who cared enough to share with you something about their life. That’s why I’ve abandoned Substack altogether in favor of a new, better, more human alternative: StampFans.
Using this service, I will be able to send you, my subscriber, some rich insights on poetic life. Each month, you will receive a letter that contains one of my poems, an explanation of its inspiration, and some details about its actual creation (number of drafts, materials used, etc.). I’ll also be including announcements about upcoming publications, appearances, workshops, and similar engagements. As a teacher, I’d love to receive something like this from my favorite poets. I’d use it in my classroom regularly, and I hope other educators feel the same way.
While I’d hoped that my presence on Substack would be as successful and meaningful as my time on WordPress has been, I’ve learned the hard way that the audience for poetry is much more receptive to personal, physical communication than it is to just another online presence. With this in mind, please subscribe to my StampFans so that you too can receive good news, good reading, and something more uplifting than junk mail. I promise that your modest investment will be richly rewarded. I eagerly await your subscription, and I can hardly wait to share this window into my work with all my WordPress family! Thank you in advance for your support of Metacreativity: The Process Behind the Poetry .
Radio Silence and Big News!
To my subscribers, friends, and fans: Sorry for the notable quiet over the last few months, but I’ve been hard at work on something new and fantastic which I’m sure you’ll enjoy. Read on…
My newest poetry book manuscript has at last come together, and I’m delighted with it. Featuring many poems that have been previously published in esteemed journals like The Common, Tupelo Quarterly, and elsewhere, this (currently) 70-page collection represents a return to themes that deserve further exploration: History, Work, Upbringing, Fatherhood, Maturity, Nature, and Faith all make appearances as they have in previous collections of mine, but this time, there are added bonuses. Without saying too much, I can promise you that there is something in this collection for everyone.
I am presently querying publishers and seeking the best fit for this newest book, and as soon as I’ve reached an agreement, I’ll be sure to post the good news here. For now, I’d like to wish everyone a happy National Poetry Month! Keep reading, and thank you for your support!
A Thank-You to Tupelo Quarterly
Recently, the esteemed literary journal Tupelo Quarterly featured both a portfolio of my newer poems and a phenomenal review of The Places That Hold — my latest book. In addition, editor Virginia Konchan (a marvelous poet herself) wrote a spectacular introduction to my work published in the online pages of a journal I’ve long respected and admired. Here are links to all three of these well-presented items:
Virginia Konchan introduces the poems appearing in Tupelo Quarterly: https://www.tupeloquarterly.com/editors-selections/an-introduction-to-john-davis-by-virginia-konchan/
Portfolio of Poems: https://www.tupeloquarterly.com/editors-selections/john-davis-a-portfolio-of-poetry/
Review of The Places That Hold: https://www.tupeloquarterly.com/editors-feature/a-topography-of-salvation-john-davis-the-places-that-hold-a-review-by-virginia-konchan/
My humblest and sincerest gratitude goes out to Virginia Konchan for her sensitive and perceptive reading of my work, and I’d also like to offer wider thanks to the good people at Tupelo Quarterly for their attention to my latest efforts. Poets wouldn’t thrive without literary magazines, and certainly, this one is a standard-bearer for others to emulate. I hope that my sincere appreciation gets their endeavor at least a few more page visits — drop in and check them out!
Windows Open at Night
When I attended the Glen West Writers Workshop in Santa Fe, New Mexico back in 2013, I remember being shocked at the lack of air conditioners. Surely, I assumed, I’m going to roast at night. My charitable hosts told me to keep the unscreened windows open (which my Floridian brain immediately equated with MOSQUITOES), and I’d be more than cool enough. There were trays of lavender in the windowsills to keep out the scorpions. I took them at their word, and sure enough, evening temperatures dropped to a comfortable (even chilly) low, and no insects or lobster-looking arachnids entered. Also, being far out in the New Mexico steppe meant no human intruders tried any funny business.
When I was a boy, my family and I travelled to North Carolina to visit some family members near Highlands. There also, I was told to sleep with the windows open and things would be cool enough. Granted, these windows had screens, but an eager listener could still hear all the nocturnal sounds of the mountains, including owls, rustling varmints, and the occasional stir of trees as breezes came and went. It was one of the most peaceful feelings I recall.
It was not uncommon for me to sleep with my tent windows totally unrolled to expose the screens when I was becoming an Eagle Scout. In Florida, every little whiff of passing air helps tame the intense humidity during most of the year, and a completely zipped-up tent is really nothing more than a sweat lodge. Sleeping with the window flaps down allowed me to see stars and listen for racoons, bears, opossums, or other night visitors in camp. I still slept well, and I remember feeling very close to nature, despite what many would have considered exposure and vulnerability.
Why, you might ask, am I recalling these episodes? The other night, I went to bed without closing my sun porch windows. One would think that such an oversight would result in burglary or other potential dangers. But no, when I came out onto the sun porch the next morning to do a little writing, things were dewy and even a little cool (by Tampa standards), but nothing had been disturbed. The sensation of the porch brought to mind all the other times I’d been allowed to keep windows open at night, and it conjured up an apt metaphor:
In his book From Where You Dream, Robert Olen Butler speaks of writing during that state between sleeping and waking. In other words, write as soon as you get up to tap into that portion of your brain where dreams originate. I believe that the converse of this is also true: When one lies down at night, deflating from the events of a day, the brain begins its filmstrip of previous images and important snatches of things noticed. That is, our “windows are open” in a sense. We are able to vividly piece together disparate ideas by sensing the outside world in a distanced but connected way. Neurologists and psychologists agree, and the emerging brain science behind creativity indicates that people entering or leaving the REM stage of sleep are most capable of allowing the brain to resolve issues the fully conscious mind cannot. This is also why some forms of meditation are effective for helping the mind filter matters down to their essence.
As a writer, I’d like to have my “windows open” all the time. That way, I could channel inspiration and figure out how things are connected more immediately. But to live in such a constantly enlightened state would probably be too sublime — it would remove the challenges that form human experience as we know it. Robert Penn Warren once said, “How do poems grow? They grow out of your life.” Having occasional “windows-open-at-night” moments is satisfactory; too many would make them mundane, not unlike living where you vacation.
For now, I’ll take the infrequent moments of epiphany. They’re what make life as a writer unpredictable and entertaining. And besides, I can’t sleep with the windows open all the time — it’s Florida, after all, and the whisper of A/C and the tick of a ceiling fan have their own certain charms.
“Fashionable” Poetry
The old saying goes, “Wait long enough, and it’ll come back into fashion.” Usually, people say this about clothes and styles of different eras. But I’ve been at the writing game now long enough to notice that the same is true of literary aesthetics, especially in poetry. Presently, prose poetry and invented form/free verse hybrids seem to rule the roost, but I predict that this trend, too, will pass, and eventually, come back around.
Not too many years ago, formalism was having a rebirth of sorts. Sonnets, sestinas, villanelles, and rondeaus were thrust from the depths of the poetry closet back into the limelight. Poets who’d previously identified as avant-garde were dusting off rhyme schemes and meters from the (gasp of dread) canon, that collection of authors so frequently lambasted for being too white, too male, too old, too…well, you get the picture. Their poetic choices were suddenly cool again, and poetry sounded something like it did in past centuries. The tweed jacket with elbow patches had emerged from a long hibernation, to use a metaphor.
Now poetry seems unsure of itself again — the aesthetic dominating pages of literary magazines is, for lack of a better label, no aesthetic at all. In several cases, there are words thrown onto a page with little regard for the reader. Many modern poems read like an inside joke that only the writer gets, and it is precisely this kind of cliquish snobbery that pushed the masses away from poems in the first place. Yes, people expect to read more deeply when they encounter poetry, but that doesn’t mean they should need an X-ray or an MRI of the poem to “get” it. Let’s provide something enjoyable for the first read as well as the second, third, or twenty-third.
Sometimes this brand of exclusivity is unintentional: Poets want to show how much they know rather than communicate a truth, a story, or a moment. The result of this “look at my knowledge” approach becomes overly philosophical, solipsistic slop that reads like something out of a dust-covered textbook in the farthest reaches of an unfrequented library. Candidly, nobody cares about self-important perspectives on the nature of life. We’re all living it, after all, and one person’s take may be appropriate for nonfiction or a driveway conversation, but it isn’t necessarily the stuff of engaging poetry. Give us instead those unforgettable images, that remarkable event, the everyday juxtapositions that fit only into a highly specialized, concise genre.
Lest the audience think I’m painting with too broad a brush here, let me say that there are plenty of splendid modern poets. Most recently, I’ve had the joy of reviewing books by Virginia Konchan and Rachel Custer, both of whom do a phenomenal job combining complex ideas with relatable language. They are neither too accessible nor too abstruse. They clearly understand the fine balance that a skilled poet must learn to strike. And despite using allusions that only a certain demographic might immediately understand, both poets supplement their unique vernacular with universal notions and sensations that are applicable to humanity at large. I appreciate that, and I’m sure other readers will, too.
I know some graduate assistant inside a prestigious MFA program may read this and think that I’m just a curmudgeon stuck in my ways, unwilling to accommodate new methods of doing. Maybe I’ve gotten resentful because my aesthetic isn’t the one that is presently popular. But the sad truth is, a good number of people will totally bypass this blog post because its title used the word “poetry,” and they’ve come to believe that they aren’t welcome when that genre is mentioned. They’re mentally wearing a plain blue oxford cloth shirt, and poetry is velour — uncomfortable, untrustworthy, and weirdly obsolete. Let me assure you, reader, that some poetry won’t rub you that way. I beg you to try on the generous, soft t-shirt provided by poets like those mentioned above. You may find that the dresser drawers of literature contain some suitable garments, even if they seem odd at first.
John Davis Jr. -- Author 