In the course of my first semester with Barriss Mills, I discovered fruit punch sold in the Student Union was exactly the same color as, and even had a scent similar to "Ripple Red," a fortified wine then popular (i.e. almost as cheap as water) with collegiates. At least a third of the time I went to Mills' workshop sufficiently blitzed to slur words when he asked me to read, hoping he'd kick me out of class, though he wouldn't ever do me such a favor...
By the end of our second semester of being unhappily harnessed together by the university's unbending requirements, the good doctor appeared convinced I was the exception to his "all God's chillun" rule...
Flash forward a few years:
During the decades I wrote absolutely no fiction, I took to cranking out something I never had the nerve to call poetry, pieces short enough to manage in the little time I devoted to writing it. On a whim, after my stories began appearing here and there, I sent one of those shorter, stanza-chopped things (I still wasn't willing to call them poetry) to a lit quarterly. To my profound and utter astonishment, they published the damn thing. Since then I've placed a few others.
If Barriss Mills was still alive I would sure send him copies of those magazines, give that fine old man a chance to say "Sloan, I told you so."
"a selection of poetry"