We all have one, I hope, that professor or teacher that changed us, that saw something in us, and put a spark under our kindling, helped light the flame of true inspiration. For me, this was Professor Milton Kessler – Milt. The very first day I sat in his workshop he could not remember my name. I left that class determined that he would never forget my name again. The audacity of youth, or one of smartest things I have ever done?
Autumn always reminds me of the time I spent with Milt, the myriad of colors that sparked through his office window as he sat with me working on my lines. Sometimes we talked for hours. He would tell me about his life, and I would tell him about mine, we had a certain simpatico. I know I am not the only former student of his who feels this way about him. He was a driving force in many of his students' lives. He was pure genius. He was kindness and compassion. Although he passed away in April of 2000, fall will always be the time of year that I mourn him. Every red, orange, yellow-hued leaf reminds me of the days he spent with me. I will always recall the leaves changing color, palette, and pattern through his office window as we talked and worked. Of course, seasons changed as the semesters passed and he saw me through those as well — November full of raining wind, the bitter and biting cold that is winter in Binghamton, N.Y., and flower-filled springs went by as Milt spent hours with me over the years helping me refine my lines.
Milt had a funny way of beginning each workshop. He always started class by saying, “You know how it is…” and then tell the class a story about something regarding his day or life. I often did not quite understand, “how it was” but I always walked out of his class exhilarated and inspired to write by his energy. His words, which sometimes made no logical sense in my head, hit my blood directly and flung my hand to my typewriter. Each of his classes felt like poems in themselves
Milt would sit with me hour running hour pouring over my lines. Listening to his criticism was pure intuition. I could never quite get what he said to make exact sense. Still, I walked away, always in all ways, a better person, and writer because of the time he spent with me. He often worked with me in his home, the piano in his kitchen a reminder that perhaps there were families where someone pounded out chords while another chopped and diced a tune of dinner. Milt would sometimes shake his fists at me, his eyebrows fluttering thick as wings, and say, “You are a great defender and one day you will have to take your place amongst the other great defenders…” Then he would rattle off a list of women poets, and I would tremble to hear my name spoken in the same sentence with them – but he had me convinced. I was a great defender, and I went out of his office or off his porch nearly every day for four years and looked at the world through those defender’s eyes.
Milt was there for me when I fell dizzily into his office in a whirlwind of confusion. My true work was beginning to find its way. That way was being pushed and pulled between two extremes. I was studying with Professor Larry Woiwode who had us writing tight sonnets, while at the same time working with Professor Jerome Rothenberg who had us literally performing slam poetry. This was before slam poetry, as we know it today. This was actually slamming into each other shouting lines. Slam dancing while reciting our poetry. The juxtaposition of learning about the world of the avant-garde while at the same trying to write using the tightest of forms led me to find my own particular form and sound, but it was a conundrum of a time, as any awakening can be. This was when Milt’s advice mattered most, when I was truly cutting my own path. He believed in me and urged me to follow my own way.
Milt took me in and taught me the best secrets, secrets every poet should know. That any line will be stronger if you can find a way to get rid of “the, but, so, and, oh, or just”; that my language and my ideas should meet at the same elevation. Milt has never left me he is over my shoulder in every line of poetry I write. Whenever my words become too elevated, my music off, or I am tempted to put a "but" or an "Oh" in a line, I hear his voice and feel the tap of a non-existent ruler on my hand. His scrawled words from a conversation we had one day fading and ochre are taped to the wall above the desk in my office, “I AM WHAT I DO DID / Thinking Feeling Less Than Expressing Doing”
This paper has followed me from home to home. It has hung over my desk for many years. I fear for its safety, but I cannot bring myself to take it out of my workspace. I keep all of Milt’s letters in a binder in archival plastic covers, but this paper is something more. It is more than what it says. It was Milt’s way of telling me to live and live fully. Even after I moved on from Binghamton, Milt and I kept in touch. We spoke on the phone and wrote letters back and forth to each other. The other half of the correspondence, which I do not have, makes me wonder what my twenty-four-year-old self could have written to elicit such beatific answers?
I have often thought Milt was a miracle in this world. He once told me I was the last student he would ever invest so much time in. I have to believe this was not true — he could not help himself. His generosity of spirit prevailed and propelled him. I miss him every single day. I carry him with me when I teach young children. Each child that runs up to me with a secret poem and a hug is, in my mind, Milt’s way of telling me — from wherever he is — to keep going. This is what I was given, and perhaps it was an unprecedented amount of attention.
Last year I went to Bread Loaf where I met and spoke with many writers working in various genres. It had been twenty-seven years since I had workshopped or been in an academic literary environment. When I got to Bread Loaf, I had no idea how the world of mentorship had changed. I spoke with people who told me that professors no longer invite students into their homes.
I was surprised and saddened to learn this about this change. I had enjoyed many evenings filled with poetic discourse at Jerome Rothenberg’s temporary home in Binghamton. Liz Rosenberg not only shaped my writing, she helped shape my person, offering not only advice on my work but also on life. She, also, took extra time with me and worked with me in her home. When I was unsure of my path, it was she who suggested I go to the to the New York State Writers Institute, where I had the fortune of workshopping with Richard Howard and Robert Pinsky.
I have been told this does not happen anymore. The people I encountered at Bread Loaf were genuinely surprised that I had been given this kind of time and genuine care by my professors and workshop leaders. It never occurred to me that this was rare. Dinner at Eunice Lipton’s house in New York City over winter break, weekly talks at Jerome Rothenberg’s, the caring ear of Liz Rosenberg, long days spent in Milt’s kitchen. Perhaps I was lucky; perhaps the poetry/literary fates smiled on me.
It’s not that I don’t understand that being a professor and earning a living wage don’t necessarily go hand and hand. Or that publishing is not what it once was, and that writers now are very busy and have to promote themselves as well as teach. This is just to say that I was blessed by being a late eighties workshopper; it was a different time. At that time my professors could, and did, take time with me. They motivated me and encouraged me to take graduate level courses while I was still an undergraduate. Because of their belief in me, I was able to work with and be exposed to poets Ruth Stone, Jerome Rothenberg, and Clarence Majors, who each made a distinct difference in my writing
I am forever in debt to Professors Milton Kessler, and Liz Rosenberg, for the energy they gave me. I am deeply grateful to the many professors who took the time to read my work and push me forward, who invited me into their homes and offices. Especially to Milton Kessler who continued to be my mentor and friend until he passed. Who came to my wedding and invited me to come visit him in his New York City apartment when he came to town.
How does one say thanks? Sometimes it is as simple as looking up into the sky as a child hugs me and hands me a secret poem they have written and thinking, “Thanks, Milt. I promise one day I will make you proud. I promise all the time you poured into me will not be for naught and that I will find my way.”
At Bread Loaf I met a group of women writers – we meet and have informal but serious workshops together whenever we can. We root for each other. These women feel to me like they were sent to me directly by Milt. If I learned anything at Bread Loaf, I learned this – find your people, share knowledge, and listen to them. If all we have is each other, then listen and learn. Find people smarter than you in different genres than your own and bounce words off walls together. I know that the world is full of chance operation. In this case chance was on my side.
I like to think that Milt still watches over me, that he woke me up the morning I decided to apply to Bread Loaf, that his spirit gave me the courage to apply. The truth is I live each day by every word and moment grateful for the time he invested in me and hoping that he was right – that I will become the great defender, he saw me as, and that I will honor him in the way I walk this world.
Photo of Milton Kessler taken by Sonia Kessler, photo of Milton and his wife Sonia (Sunni) Kessler taken at my wedding in 1997.
To purchase books written by Milton Kessler or any of the above mentioned authors visit: http://www.barnesandnoble.com, or /http://www.indiebound.org, or visit your local bookstore.
Meant to tell you...when I read this beautiful piece, it inspired me to reach out to my "Milton" -- we reconnected and it's been great. Thank you!
Posted by: Danielle | October 13, 2016 at 02:55 PM