I learned from my friend Aimee that David Citino passed away, earlier this morning. David was a professor of mine, back when I was a graduate student at the OSU MFA program.
In many ways, David shaped how I viewed poems then… how I view them still. In class, he would often make us do in-class writing exercises: ten minutes on a given topic. We wrote in a flurry, and then read out loud what we came up with. Those exercises taught me a great deal about letting go and just pursuing an idea to see where it takes you.
In addition to writing and submitting our own poems, each week he’d bring in a news article – some quirky thing he found online, or in a paper/magazine. We’d each be given a photocopy of the article and tasked to write a poem about it. At the start of the next class, we’d go around the room and read our poems.
The beauty of it was that they were exercises. We told ourselves they didn’t count, and relaxed a little, took a few more chances than we might have otherwise. And with each reading, we saw how each person approached their poems a little differently; each person had their own story, their own details. We were all given the same information, but we came away with twenty different poems, each one as unique as ourselves.
Through his news exercises, he taught us that poetry is where you find it. In fact, no matter where you looked, it’s there, just under the surface of things. In David’s class, the notion of writer’s block was laughable, as each exercise we did suggested otherwise: ideas for poems were out there, in abundance. All we had to do was look hard enough.
Prior to my graduate studies, I was debating between a number of graduate schools. The only one I was able to visit in person was OSU, and David was the first person I met. There weren’t many students around (it may have been Finals week when I arrived), but we met in his office and talked shop. I remember him at his desk, and behind him a window that looked out onto the backyard of Denney Hall, a few walkways, a few picnic tables.
The thing I remember the most about that first meeting? He told me that, ultimately, it didn’t matter the credentials of the school. It didn’t matter, the things he had to say about OSU. What it came down to, he told me, was whether or not a place “feels right.” He encouraged me to walk around, and to use that as my criteria.
And so I did. And so I found myself comfortable. That initial bit of advice from David made me choose OSU, and the subsequent three years there studying poetry, talking about writing with my friends… those were some of the best years of my life.
Right now, I’m pretty numb still about the news. I knew he was battling MS, but I had no idea things were at a point where he might not live another day. I think Matt mentioned David was in the hospital, getting chemo for Leukemia, back when I visited a week ago. But I must have forgotten or something. The manner in which we talked about it – it seemed serious, but I didn’t think it to be life-threatening. Matt told me that an email went out about three days ago, regarding David’s chemo treatment. And it sounded rather positive. His death this morning caught many of us by surprise.
I was able to talk with both Matt and Aimee today. I’m going to try to make it back to Columbus for the funeral, as is Aimee. I expect a great number of his students to be in attendance.
I don’t even know what to write right now. He was way to young to go. I know this is a standard thing to say for anyone who passes away, but David was too young. This was a mistake, I keep thinking. This was too soon.
All day today, I found myself thinking about David. How he influenced me, my writing. How he influenced many of my friends and colleagues in grad school. How many other students he must have helped, with his lessons, his exercises, his advice. How many more readers he touched, who never knew him, but knew his poems and his voice on the page.
I found myself thinking about my life, about how I was spending my time. I wondered about what would succeed me, were I to disappear. What mark would I leave, what difference would be made? What would I have to show for the brief time I was given?
All day today, I heard David’s voice in the back of my head. If not now, then when? What, exactly I could hear him ask, what, exactly, are you waiting for?
If you’re reading this, then you’re still breathing. You’re still capable of action. What about the poem you never wrote? The letter? The novel? What about that apology you never made, the words you never confessed? For all the plans never realized, all the things you mean to build, all the art you intend (but are too busy) to create? If not now, then when?
What, exactly, are you waiting for?
