In my more writerly or creative moods, lots of different things serve as jumping off points for mental exploration. Among the things I’d like to get better at are: turning narrative into poetry, and allowing myself the freedom to play more frequently with words, stories, fact, and fiction.
This morning I read the poem “At the Smithville Methodist Church” by Stephen Dunn. I read this poem, or at least the title of it, a few days ago while sitting on the bleachers by Fisherman’s Wharf. A few days ago, the title prompted me to create my own title “At the Ashram out on 31st Street” I’m not aware of any Ashram on any 31st street – I was making it up. Typically, Ashrams are in more remote locations, and what I really wanted was a Stupa, but Ashram has a softer sound to it. The Ashram title of what I was writing was a jumping off point for how I made both the Ashram and 31st street up. A confession of sorts – the admission that I’m a terrible fictionalist because I secretly want to share with you (an amorphous you) all of my deceits. I was playing with the idea of being the unreliable narrator of every story I tell… but, as a reader, you can almost count on me because I can’t keep the secret of my deceits for very long. I want you to believe in me. As soon as I say there was a bird outside my window that reminded me of the time I spent in a hotel in Sarasota, I admit that there is no bird and that I’ve never been to Sarasota.
When I read the Dunn poem this morning (a poem about the speaker’s daughter going to church for “Arts & Crafts” week and coming home with a “Jesus Saves” button), I was reminded of the few weeks or months that my daughter attended youth group meetings at a local church. This time, the poem was a jumping off point for a not-so-made up narrative. How she came home with a colorful bible that she would eventually highlight and flag pages and passages. How neither her mother nor I were religious and how we were both uncomfortable with the indoctrination… but much like in the poem, we were resigned to see how it played out.
I then read another poem, “Monsoon Season” by Jill Prendergast. In it was the mention of a rain on a tin roof. The words tin roof reminded me of a weekend trip I took to rural Virginia where I stayed in a farmhouse on a five-acre plot of land. I was there with a woman I barely knew. She was younger (mid 30s) and a little fearless. She drove a zippy red hatchback and quite literally left me in the dust as we drove the country roads. At the house, we drank wine and beer and listened to music under the stars, we hiked and hung out and went to diners in small towns. I was struck by how the experience has imprinted on me. It’s become a vision of an experience I would happily recreate with someone else… of course, it’d be awkward to share the specific memory as the inspiration behind any new experience. Which seems both overly complicated and worth working out on the page through some type of fictionalized poem.
In these writerly moods, my mind gets a little carried away. Everything becomes the title of a story or a poem. And then I start making up my own titles. “When Robert Burton Called Me Fat” – I don’t know a Robert Burton and I’m not sure I’ve ever been called fat, but sure, why not. “The letter that arrived from friends staying in Vienna.” I don’t have any friends staying in Vienna and nobody sends letters anymore, but sure, why not. In these moods, I find myself playing a game similar to mad libs – pick a place or a person, pick an event or action, be sure to have just enough detail to make it plausible.
Where I struggle is with the follow through. I’m better at ideation than I am at roaming freely down uncharted paths. I tend to fall back on my “what’s the point” type of thinking. I stumble when I try to figure out what’s the larger message? Where would I like to be delivered?
I might sit down to write a poem with the title “Hammers” knowing that maybe what I really want to write about is a scene in which a man sees his wife hinging a photo and using a can of soup to hammer the nail into the wall – because she couldn’t find a damn hammer. The photo is of her and a dear friend as children walking through a field of grass – the friend just passed away prompting the urgency to hang the photo. But before I get anywhere with that poem, I’ll want to go back and read any other poems I’ve come across that involve hammers – or I’ll remember the poem “Windchime” by Tony Hoagland which begins “She goes out to hang the windchime / in her nightie and her work boots.” and ends:
No one, including me, especially anymore believes
till death do us part,
but I can see what I would miss in leaving–
the way her ankles go into the work boots
as she stands upon the ice chest;
the problem scrunched into her forehead;
the little kissable mouth
with the nail in it.
By this time, I’m pretty defeated. Hoagland delivers in a way that I don’t feel capable or qualified… and I lose steam. But I’ve also had a hell of a good time playing and I have to remind myself to play like this more often. To read and wander and maybe trust myself to get lost along the way.