On Saturday, October 8, I was sitting with three dozen poets listening to the great, gentle Ellen Kort share her wisdom,
Kort was Wisconsin's first poet laureate serving 2000-2004, with Denise Sweet following her from 2004-2008. An interesting bit of dark triva: Governor Scott Walker terminated the position of poet laureate in February of this year, ending the term of our third laureate, Bruce Dethlefsen. Dethlefsen, along with the Wisconsin Poet Laureate Commission, is seeking to sustain the role through non-profit support.
We didn't meditate on politics together, however; we jumped right into poetry exercises. Kort's first admonishment for us was to Love Ourselves in our poems. "Don't beat yourself up," she said, "no matter where you are."
Our first task, then, was to write a poem called "Autobiography." Her challenge was for us, along with being kind with ourselves, to write as fast as we could without thinking about what came out.
We shared the resulting "spillings" as we felt moved. Part of mine reads,
I am not what you think I am.
Wide eyes suggest a cartoon-watching
cocoa-puff munching, mall-loving, hair-curling--
Okay, I do curl my hair. My spirit curls
iron, though, ripped
with muscles, reps upon reps I heave,
working out with weights of patience,
of self-sacrifice
of watching others,
and of listening.
I am leathered skin, long exposed
I am feet crusted with mud
I am callouses
and I am sweat running down a ropish neck
I am the creases between eyebrows when no guiding star is found,
and I am the start of a smile
as an evening breeze startles the wanderer
with its cooling hand.
Sharing our spillings brought the group close--some stumbled as they read their scribbles, others read strong, tight pieces that felt fully-formed.
We were all encouraged to start with spills. That's how most of Korts poems begin, she confided. She said she thinks to herself, "Oh, I should write about that," and she spills. What a good reminder for us future NaNoers, yes? Just spill.
Next, we were encouraged to think about where we are in our family. She read her poems "Seeing Is Believing" and "Drumming," and then"First Ties: The Father in the Mirror" by Bill Meissner. Here is a portion of Meissner's beautifully captured image:
Nothing to a tie, he said.
For those few seconds, his big arms were my arms--
I watched his thick fingers
working the tie,
each time a little
too short or too long.
He leaned his face alongside mine,
And I smelled a sharp scent of Old Spice, heard the hiss of sighs
through his nose, like a car tire losing air,
as he focused on the broad, wrinkled pillar
that would not tie.
Arms that hadn't surrounded me for years
now wrapped me like ribbons. I couldn't pull away
from the rough kiss of whiskers
against my smooth cheek.
The last exercise was the most difficult for me to participate in, but the most enjoyable to listen to. Kort read three poems, each personifying an abstract noun. She had Commitment wearing sensible shoes; Pleasure was underestimated--laughing too loud and drinking too much; and Imagination--oh, what was she like? I think she wore yellow.
We were asked to choose an abstract noun and personify it, and boy, my brain just shut down. I tried giving Truth an irridescent coat that winked new shades as one walked near him. I let Criticism feel tired, wearing sweatpants, looking expectantly out the window for someone who never comes. I couldn't make it work. But my classmates! They blew me away! Modesty wore sweeping skirts and never asked questions, but a silver toe ring and an emerald pendant flashed at a careful watcher. Curiosity was a three-year-old, sleeping nightly on a soft pillow of no judgment. Betrayal met a girlfriend for coffee, warmed her into confiding, and then stabbed her friend's back while hugging her goodbye. Certainty mowed his yard at right angles and wakes late at night but won't talk about it. Contradiction was that uncle--not the favorite one--who started fights at family dinners. They were so fantastic. How I wish we could get a compilation of those poems--a little keepsake from sharing a bright blue October morning with some gifted writers.
Some last words of wisdom that Kort shared were
Don't justify what you write to yourself or to others.
Do not whine about not having time or energy.
Do not repeat a line at the end in attempt to add weight or significance. Let the verbs and nouns you've used throughout the poem do that work.
And do not undercut a fine poem with a last line of humor. Good funny poems are a joy; but tacking a joke on the end of serious poem rarely works.
What a morning of wisdom! Thank you so much, Ellen Kort, for passing your knowledge and experience on to us. And thank you to the FVUUF for hosting the workshop. It was a truly inspiring morning.
I'll end with a poem by Ellen Kort.
Argument
She didn't talk to him
for an entire day
lost herself in a book
to avoid looking at him
and when he asked why
she told him to leave her alone
He slammed the cupboard doors
flipped through the TV channels
looking for football wrestling
NASCAR He turned the volume up
hoping she'd come downstairs
so he could tell her
he was pissed really pissed
She took the dog for a walk
He fell asleep in the chair
She took a long hot bath
He smoked a cigarette
She made herself a salad
He friend a hamburger
They moved in and out
of the kitchen careful
not to brush against each other
She ate at the table a candle
burning in the center
He at in the living room
by the light of the television
And the anger was delicious
Kate DiCamillo!
How haunting is Elizabeth's cover?
and
