Writer | Teacher | Editor | Publisher
Time for work, time for dinner, time to fold the laundry.
Finally, time to write.
~ Stephanie Bane in “‘Platforms’ Are Overrated”
Poetry is not my genre of choice. Not because I don’t appreciate it, but because I’m more comfortable writing short essays and fiction.
Ever since National Poetry Month, though, the folks in the creative writing class at Harwood Place have challenged me to read more, write more, and discuss more poems. They continue to produce wonderful pieces, so I in turn bring them examples of works by published authors, essays on the aspects of poetry, and prompts to feed the muse.
Last Saturday though, one of the writers asked me point blank, “What’s the definition of poetry?” and I thought, Oooh…this might be a good time to guide them back to the personal essay. I mean, how much do I really know about the form and function of a good poem?
Well, I do know this: teaching is learning. So, I answered their question to the best of my ability with words like succinct, imagery, and cadence. Then, I went home in search for more. I found this article on the meaning of poetry that includes a quote, which, for me, answers the question well:
Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful.
~ Rita Dove
And, I left them with a poem that speaks to this definition somewhat. Go read “One Good Thing,” (posted on The Writer’s Almanac on September 15th) by Edwin Romond. It’s a beautiful look into the light and life a father discovers during a simple moment with his son. My favorite line from the poem is the prompt for next month’s meeting:
this is one good thing.
I want to say more. But, I really want you to go read that poem and reflect on your own “one good thing.” After all, that’s part of the gift in poetry: reflection.
You write a piece of flash (fiction or non…I’ll never tell).
Like cattle they herd us into assembly to sit and wait for an indeterminate amount of time.
“Thank you for serving.”
“Make yourselves comfortable.”
But it is crowded and cramped, and the air is thick with a tangle of smells.
My coffee.
This bagel.
That guy’s hash browns.
A smoker smothered in two-packs-a-day.
Someone’s feet.
And, sound carries.
Well across the room is “Jim” who answers every single phone call.
“Hello, this is Jim.”
“Jim speaking.”
“Hello, Jim here.”
Jim, Jim, Jim.
Jim is a busy man, and I am suspicious.
I take out pen and paper and consider details about Jim, the phone man: possible age, demeanor, “notes to self” kinds of things I might want to recall later.
No laptop but wears suit.
Happy to be in close space with strangers.
Laughs too loud.
And when he finally admits in one call that, “Yeah, it’s in the basement,” I think, Ah ha. I’ve got him.
Guilty.