No Poet (10)

I am not a poet, but when I saw there was going to be a poetry workshop at the city library I decided I would try to get myself there, take advantage of another new thing, maybe get to meet other writers, stretch myself in the poetry department. I've always thought poetry was something I should love to read and write, the essence of playing with words, of being present, making something beautiful or powerful or both. But I tend to be a prose gal, even if my desire is often to write sentence fragments. When the workshop instructor asked us what came to mind when we thought of poetry, the first thing I thought of was not having to write in complete sentences. Poetic, hmm? Second was the immediacy of a poem. When I opened my notebook I found two 3 by 5 notecards with the answers she was looking for written on them. They must be from Richard, the only poet friend I have seen since I started this task at my birthday, when I began this notebook for my 52 things. He must have given these cards to me when we went to the cooking demonstration, but I'd completely forgotten tucking them away in the book. I was flabbergasted to have them appear like magic when the instructor asked us what poetry was, these beautiful quotes about what poetry can be. Looking back on it now I think Richard must have been involved, or angels, or both. But what a sweet thing.

Only two of us arrived for the workshop, and I admit I was disappointed. I had hoped for the charge of a room full of writers, and for that thing that happens when you write in a room together, hearing other pens moving across the page, like the difference between meditating alone or in a group. But two of us meant we wrote more, read more, and that can only be good. I have judgments about the instructor, but I'm not sorry I went. Not at all. I thought she didn't seem relaxed, thought she didn't seem connected to the "lecture" parts she presented, and they lacked meaning for me because of that. After I read what I'd written she said, "That's really good," in a high-pitched voice, and it rubbed me the wrong way. She sounded surprised, too, and I didn't like that either. I understood in my gut why praising people is not the best approach, why I learned to reach for specific, positive truths instead of the more traditional, "Good job." (Although I admit to using both "Good job" and "Good work" in my own comments to students in addition to pointing out specific things I think they are doing well in their writing.) There was something about her (that high note in her voice?) that didn't feel genuine to me, but I can argue she may have only been nervous and not able to be completely comfortable, completely herself. She teaches English full time at the community college, said she is doing these kinds of events two and three times a week. I can't imagine how she does that. She must not sleep.

I liked that she brought photos and I liked that she began with an exercise where the beginnings of each line of the poem were crafted for us (i.e. "I am sad when . . ."). I like that I wrote so much I felt tired by the end. Ah, but I just realized that was kind of odd. Why was I not stimulated and spurred on by the writing? Is it because there were only two of us participating? I felt used up at the end. But I felt like I'd gotten a good work out, so I appreciate that. And though I would have liked to have been asked to write more poetry instead of prose (since it was supposed to be a poetry workshop and I wanted to stretch, expand my perimeters), I was happy to find myself able to enter into my writing and be part of the magic, to have things come to me there, fall on the page. The young woman who was writing with me had a line I thought was exquisite. In that first activity (where the beginning of each line of the poem was provided) we were told to write in the first person as the desert and she wrote, "I pretend to be the sea." I love that. I savor it. My own favorite line from that exercise was, "I cry when the coyote dies of thirst." I guess it makes sense that later, when we were given a map from our local wilderness and told to choose one of the names and write a short narrative, I chose a place called "Coyote Dry Lake," though I didn't track the connection at the time. This is what came.

I've never understood why they named this place Coyote Dry Lake. It seems to me if it was already dry when they named it, then it wasn't a lake. I think it must have had water in it once. I feel the memory of water here, especially at dusk. They say the ghosts of animals who lived by the lake come to its edges at twilight, but I don't see them. I believe they come, though. It makes sense to me. They say an angel named the place because from the heavens you can see the shape of a coyote in the sand. They say the coyote god came here at the end of a long, dry journey and drank the lake one evening, then curled up in the dry lake bed at dusk. I guess this last would explain its name after all. It was a lake and then it wasn't. Then it was the belly and the bed of the coyote, sleeping in the dry darkness.