Yesterday I did the first of a two-day writing workshop with a group of local 5th graders.
The topic was poetry, and my take on it was this:
Poetry’s hard to pin down.
Is it short? Yes. I read from some books I’d brought and the kids had all written haiku before. So, yes, we had evidence: poetry is short. Always? Um. No. We talked about epic poetry. And I read to them that old ditty about James James Morrison Morrison. (They could not believe, by the way, that someone — an ordinary guy — had inventedWinnie the Pooh.) Anyway. The conclusion? Poetry is sometimes short and sometimes long.
Does it rhyme? Yes — and we read some very funny Mary Ann Hoberman to prove it. But, I mean, does it always rhyme. Oh. No. I guess not. This dreamy free verse doesn’t. OK. So poetry’s sometimes rhymed and sometimes unrhymed.
And what’s it about? Nature? Yep. Love? Check. Life, called out one student. Stuff, called out another. Death, said a third. And how about this? I asked, as I turned to Thumbs by Shel Silverstein. Right. Thumb sucking. Poetry can be about anything.
Sheesh.
This is what scares people about poetry. It’s hard to pin down. If you don’t know what it is, how can you read or write it with any confidence?
But, I suggested, what if we look at that as part of the adventure? What if we like breaking rules? What if use incomplete sentences and make up words? What if we lie?
Everyone perked up a little at this point. What if we lie??!!
And so we did. * Here’s the first effort, a collaborative poem full of untruths. I think it’s pretty swell.
And That’s the Truth
The sky is green. I don’t like to gamble, Miguel hates money and I hate chocolate.
Trees grow under the ground and camels have beaks. I’m a midget, buffalos have wings and horses fly.
People don’t sing and cats bark. We don’t go to the Austin Discovery School and the world is safe right now.
I have to admit, I feel like this month has been a bit of a steamroller. It’s hard to catch my breath.
Like today, I have at least seven things to say and it’s not even 9am yet.
Here goes.
1. The beloved Jules of Seven Impossible Things Before Breakfast has woven together the most delicious post about the crown sonnet experience you read about here last week. She interviewed the whole bunch of us and then turned our individual ramblings into a conversation that is so fine I wish I woulda been there for it. Y’know? So go give it a read and thank you, Jules and Eisha, for being such hearty champions of all things poetical.
2. Yesterday was the first national Poem in your Pocket Day, a little stroke of genius especially near and dear to my heart since my first book was all about, well, pockets.
3. I carried two poems yesterday, one by each of little gals, in my pocket. What’d you carry in yours?
4. Austin’s Blanton Museum of Art, for which I wrote a villanelle this past winter, is planning to add a multimedia perspective to our ekphrastic endeavour. There will be audio and video clips of some of the poets reading their work, and discussion surrounding some of the art. Right now, there’s a fine little explanation of the project here.
5. This week we had a wild turkey on our roof. I kid you not. You guys, we live in the middle of a rather significantly-sized city. I haven’t written a poem about it yet, but I think I oughta.
6. If it weren’t for yoga this week, I think I’d have gone a little mad. Yoga, to me, is poetry of the body. It can save me in the same sort of way that reading an entire collection of poems while soaking in the tub can.
7. And here’s why I’ve needed it so badly. Our strides toward aesthetically pleasing and everlasting domestic bliss continue. This week we’ve been without power for 2-and-a-half days. I got some insulation on my hands and got all prickley itchy. It rained last night on our outdoor kitchen. And my husband and I haven’t always agreed on what we believed we’d previously agreed on.
You’ve heard of the many divorces that were kick-started by remodeling projects, right? Well, we’re not going there, I assure you, but there have been a few moments of… um… totally-flabbergasting-what-were-you-thinking-don’t-you-know-me-at-all-how-could-you-frustration.
In a nutshell, he knows what he’s doing. He designed the project, can picture it perfectly and has done a good bit of the building on his own off hours. I do not know what I’m doing, although I think it’s fun to look at different colors of linoleoum. My spatial understanding is remedial. At best.
So. We’re getting there. Thanks to yoga. And poetry. And, sappy as it may sound, love.
This one’s for him:
my love is building me a building — e.e. cummings
my love is building a building around you, a frail slippery house, a strong fragile house (beginning at the singular beginning
of your smile)a skilful uncouth prison, a precise clumsy prison(building thatandthis into Thus, Around the reckless magic of your mouth)
my love is building a magic, a discrete tower of magic and(as i guess)
when Farmer Death(whom fairies hate)shall
crumble the mouth-flower fleet He’ll not my tower, laborious, casual
In college, I always finished writing papers in the middle of the night the night before they were due.
Always.
I’d plop my typewriter down on my futon (I’ll pause a moment while you chuckle. At the typewriter. And the futon.) and I’d type like a fiend and drink coffee and type and stretch and revise and crumple and type and type and type. Until, finally, I’d fall asleep next to a polished pile of papers, ready to roll.
About all I can say about my method is that it worked.
It wasn’t pretty.
It wasn’t ergonomically sound.
It wasn’t necessarily mature.
But it worked.
And now, here I am 20 years later, writing to deadline.
Yes, I capture phrases out of dreams and pound out plots while I walk and generally try to stay in a muse-induced state as frequently as a mother of two with a marriage and a mortgage can. But I still produce most effectively when someone’s expecting something from me.
If I’ve got a deadline on a calendar, which I happen to right now, I watch it approach like a storm.
And I do nothing. For awhile.
I do not gather water and canned goods.
I do not ready the root cellar.
I do not write out my last will and testament, though maybe I ought to.
Nope.
I do nothing.
Well, I mean, I answer email and work on taxes and read blogs and take baths.
And the storm gathers speed. While I watch.
And then, at just the right moment, I duck my chin and head for the cellar.
Whether there are canned goods down there or not.
And I stay there ’til I’m done. And the storm’s passed. Which just so happens to be at about the same time.
It’s not pretty. Or even necessarily mature. But it works…
Kids like the little carts with wheels at the Laundromat.
Adults can’t believe how much it costs to wash and dry a few loads of wash.
Kids love tossing their dirty dishes into a big bin outside.
Adults quickly tire of washing that big bin of dishes in the bathtub.
Kids love rollerskating on the plywood floors.
Adults yearn for the day when the floors are no longer plywood.
Really, we’re not doing so bad, considering.
We’ve survived without hot water and electricity for good chunks of time, most of our earthly belongings are in a storage unit, and everything is dirty.
But… we’re still married and nobody’s needed a tetanus shot. So, there’s that.
But what I’ve realized is that if I spent a little more time rollerskating on the plywood floors and a little less time wishing that the plywood floors were gone, I’d be a happier mama.
Think it’s safe to rollerskate with a glass of wine?
Last November, I got this crazy notion to kick-start a collaborative poetry project.
And let’s make it, ummm, formal poetry. Sonnets, let’s say.
And the collaborators should be, oh, I don’t know, how about a bunch of writers, most of whom have never met except online. And they won’t meet during the project and many may never meet after. And let’s make sure they represent lots of different careers and ages and regions and perspectives.
Yes! That sounds torturous enough in terms of both effort and concept to ensure failure. I’ll get to pat myself on the back for having a noble idea and then I’ll leave it at that.
Except for the fact that it wasn’t. A failure, I mean.
Because the writers said yes. I’m not kidding you.
Well, what they really said was:
“Yes. I feel slightly crazy for saying that, but yes.” – Sara Lewis Holmes
“Eek! I’m flattered and mildly terrified. I’ll definitely give it a shot…” Tadmack
“I would (deep breath here) love to try, though I must admit I’ve never written a sonnet.” – Tricia Stohr-Hunt
“Oh my lord I am shaking in my boots!! This terrifies me but there is no way I can say no.” – Cloudscome
“I’m honored (though a little intimidated). That does sound like a grand adventure.” – Laura Purdie Salas
OK. So. What was I thinking???
12 hours after I sent the invitation we were working out the details of our Crown of Sonnets. I’d participated in one recently (which is partly what inspired this cockeyed idea) so I understood the basic rules:
“A Crown Sonnet is a string of seven interconnected sonnets. Each sonnet after the first one will use the last line from the preceding sonnet as its first line. The final sonnet (#7) uses the last line of sonnet six as its first line AND the first line of the very first sonnet as its last line. The perfect book-end.”
(Or at least that’s the best I could make of them. Kelly Fineman understands a whole heck of a lot more than that, so you should go see her promptly if you need further elucidation.)
What I also understood is that we’d need time for terror and denial during the creative process. We picked names, discussed theme and audience, scheduled some good space for terror and denial… And then we wrote.
We wrote about teens for a teen audience.
We wrote about tribe and identity and separation and connection and prom and fights and failure and freedom.
We started to call ourselves the Poetry Princesses. (Because, honestly, this was hard and we needed a little something to get by on.)
And did I mention the terror and denial?
Each time one of us burst forth with our piece, the others swooned and then panicked that they were next.
But suddenly, about a month ago, we were done. All of us.
Seven sonnets, written in rhyme and iambic pentameter, somewhat thematically connected and, um, done.
(Except that we weren’t because we had to dump them into a Google doc and futz around for a few more weeks — terror and denial — until we got to where we are today. Which is, dare I say it, done. Finished. Ready. Complete.)
So now, I have the thrill of unveiling Cutting a Swath: A Crown of Sonnets by some of the finest poets I’ve ever had the honor to work with or read. It has been a smart, inspiring and supportive joy working with these six women, and you know that part about how we barely knew each other? Strike that. It’s amazing the intimacy of working collaboratively on something as nebulous but important to all of us as poetry.
I am awfully glad I asked ya’ll… and hugely grateful you said yes.
And now without further ado…
Cutting a Swath
Sara Lewis Holmes, Laura Purdie Salas, Tricia Stohr-Hunt, Liz Garton Scanlon, Tanita S. Davis, Andromeda Jazmon and Kelly Fineman
As shoes untied, you drag frayed words in trail Behind your name; unlooped, they flop up steps And trip your stride, and blacken blue the depths Of day; from light to dark, from deep to pale, Undone, you fall; unknown, you pass or fail. In halls, you thread the holes between your debts Unpaid, and those who shove your name in reps Against the rails of crowded stairs. Inhale The stench! Keep true your shoes! The ups and downs Will yield a path to out beyond, to where The mirror turns, and those who hid their marks And stumbled most will dress and march in gowns On paths unfound, on tracks, unnamed, a pair Of laces, ends unbound, leaps free as sparks.
As lacy skirts, unbound, leap free and spark,
the prom girls surge in silk through streamered space.
They orbit round in endless tethered chase
and ride the DJ’s pounding sound through dark
around a nova. Can you see the mark
she brands on planets trapped in her embrace?
There’s just one sun. You risk her hot disgrace
unless you dance in place along her arc.
I can’t revolve and spin in cosmic time.
I won’t resolve to tread another’s trail.
I’m blasting free, eclipsing all my past.
I’m leaving stars and velvet queens behind.
I’ve torn away my atmospheric veil
to fly through life’s grand chaos, bright and vast.
Flying through life’s grand chaos, bright and vast, the tide of days leads down a path unknown. I know not who I’ll be when I am grown, but want to live a life that’s unsurpassed. I wish to speak in words both true and fast (when sideways glances make me feel alone or handsome smiles imply I’ve won the throne), while keeping every secret to the last. But I commit my heart with pen to page, my feet to races not yet known or run, my life to every opportunity. These dreams I hold are bound to come of age, cannot be stopped and will not be undone, because they live and breathe to be set free.
Because I live and breathe, to be set free
from each presumption of my proven name,
released from excellence and bland acclaim,
is neither choice nor possibility.
Embracing expectations hungrily,
I place each gaping hour in a frame
and persevere beyond the reach of shame
within this endless valedictory.
But quantitative claims define one bit
of me. Much deeper, stretching ‘gainst my skin
with all the effort of the waxing moon,
the greater self to whom I must commit.
It’s time for me to feed what’s been starved thin –
my name will be too small to hold me soon.
My name will be too small to hold me soon.
Unnamed, traversing now this darkling plane
called school. Fey, fickle, Royalty arcane,
Bequeathed with charm and crowned with mystic runes,
Their sorcerous hold upon the madding crowd
Points social scepter, friend or foe to choose.
Those Named hold sway: I do hereby refuse
To be so owned; stand rowan-straight, unbowed.
Swift, fleeting, “Shadow” is my sobriquet.
Invisible. To none allegiance owed,
My scholarship I practice, moments seize.
Small magics my cold iron will displays,
Four years I serve. I pace this treacherous road,
My eyes, now disenchanted, my soul free.
My eyes now disenchanted; my soul frees one stifled cry – then peace behind the door. My room, my sacred space above the floor is all that shields me from their strident pleas. They’ve chosen out the path of life for me; their scholarship a prize I would ignore. I spurn the grind of their required score. I cut them off. I beg them. Let me be! I mark the time and hide myself away, no greater plan than lay about and dream within the walls that guard my fractious will. My music pounds. The restless shadows play. Light curls across a ceiling cracked and mean. My window opens past a well-scarred sill.
Through open window, past a well-scarred sill, on gritty shingles sheltered under eaves, I take in cool night air; my anger leaves with every ragged breath that I exhale. Your words, a thousand stinging papercuts, lose power underneath the watching stars. I see your reigning planet, red-light Mars, horizon-bound and fixed. Your self-made ruts preclude adventure or a change of course. Is this the future that you want for me? A mediocre life filled with travail, a boxed-in life of sameness and remorse? I choose to free myself of your debris: I’m not afraid to leave you in my trail.
Postscript:
Sonnets were written by the poets listed under the title, in that order. (Sara’s is 1st, for example, and mine is 4th).
Most poets posted their own sonnet at their blog today, along with some complementary material.
More specifically: Sara shares the utter joy of poetry peer pressure Laura reveals the process behind her product
Tricia reveals the process behind hers TadMack takes us through the themes Cloudscome (aka Andromeda Jazmon) hosts Poetry Friday today and rounds up the whole bunch of us Kelly shares her brilliant academic knowledge of the form
Due to the fact that my head wasn’t totally attached to my body and all?
(Which, I’ll note, is kind of ironic since yoga means union. You know, of body, mind and spirit.)
Maybe if I hadn’t spaced out on that session, I would’ve become centered and serene, and I wouldn’t have left the power cord to my laptop in my hotel room in Corpus Christi, or mixed up a couple of important dates on my calendar, or poured water instead of milk on my daughter’s cereal Monday morning.
We’ll never know, will we? There are no re-do’s in real life.
That said, I was sure not going to risk my karma or state of mind anymore than I already have, so today I was at school right on time. The teacher was sorting out a bit of wild trouble that had unfolded in the lunchroom and as soon as that was done, we were ready.
My daughter and her classmates grabbed their towels. We spread out across the grass, stepping into Mountain Pose. We moved through Sun Salutations and a few different Warrior Poses, Plow, Bridge. You get the idea. And the whole time, one of the little guys who’d been involved in the lunchroom situation grimaced. In his brow and on his lips.
So, at the end, as everyone folded their towels, I went to chat with him.
“Are you blue?” I asked.
Yes, he nodded.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I asked.
No, he shook.
“OK, let’s do a 5-breath,” I said, which is a slow, controlled inhale followed by a slow, controlled exhale that I swear could slow down a freight train if you needed it to.
I held up my hand to count out the length of the breath on my fingers and he did, too.
And somewhere, in the middle of the exhale, he started to cry.
He cried just a little, and in the meantime he nodded and shook a little more and I figured out that he’d really like to talk to his teacher, so I left them to it and headed home.
I have to say, it was a beautiful and tender thing. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I don’t want to leave a bunch of weeping 3rd-graders in my wake, but school these days is an intense little village, and I figure any opportunity our kids are given to feel or articulate what they feel is a good thing. Because I’m pretty sure that’s part of educating the whole person. Or, rather, it oughta be.
Well, friends, I survived speaking to 800-some kiddos on Friday. It was — dare I say it — fun. Seriously. I mean, I was so tired you coulda wrung me out like a sponge, but really — the energy of that many little ones is kind of contagious. (Or maybe it’s just that it sent me into a sort of delirious altered state…)
The Children’s Book Festival is a joint effort by Corpus Christi’s public library and the local community college, with an emphasis on the word effort. They bus in 1,300 pre-K and Head Start students, funnel them through the author’s tents for readings and frivolity, hand them an orange juice and a free book, and send them on their way. It is Herculean. They’ve done it eight years running now and they’ve got it down to a fine science. I was wildly impressed.
After that, because I didn’t have laryngitis yet, one of the librarians drove me to Flour Bluff Early Childhood Center, where I spoke to two different groups of kindergartners. They hugged me after the readings, and one little guy named Jared gave me a lucky rock.
Whereupon I hopped in my car and drove four hours north through endless swaths of wildflowers, which is how it is in Texas in the springtime. I had the whole space to myself and lots of Lucinda Williams and Angelique Kidjo on the iPod. And did I mention it was my birthday?
So, yes, wring me out like a sponge. But it was fun.
