From the Mouths of Poets

The first time I remember seeing a poet read her work I was an undergrad student at BYU.  My wife and I went with our professor Sirpa Grierson and another student (I don’t remember her name) up to Copper Hills High School to hear Jorie Graham read and present to the high school students.

We got a little lost on the way up; arriving late, we had to find a seat in the back of the school’s library, which was fairly large for a high school, if I remember, and it was packed.  A group of students were selected to read their works.  We came in during this time.  Most of the poems were full of imageless angst, awkward swearing, and pretend pent-up anger. It was like I was back in the Lancer Lot writing group back at Belleville East; too many kids trying to have horrible lives to write about, when most of them were pampered snobs—“phonies,” as Holden Caulfield identifies them.  Few were genuine.  And the same was happening in the semi-open mic session at CHHS.

Lunch was a zoo, and it took a while to reconvene for the keynote.  When Jorie got up she dropped the F-bomb on everyone.  One.  Single.  Word.  There was an audible gasp; most of the crowd swallowed themselves.  It was silent full a full five alligators, and then the room began to buzz.  Loudly.  Jorie stepped back from the microphone then patiently stood and watched.  After a moment she cleared her throat and taught a powerful lesson.  She said that if you were offended hearing the words, then you shouldn't use them in your poetry.  Don’t use words that are not your own.  The most important thing to be in poetry is real.  You can’t pretend to be something you are not.

Back in 10th grade I wrote a poem for Mr. Albert’s Honors English class about the death of a girlfriend.  It was rushed—written on the bus on the way to school after someone asked if I had written anything.  During first period I shared it with a few girls to see if it made any sense.  After class they returned my folded sheet of loose leaf covered in blue ink with tears in their eyes.  They repeatedly asked if I was okay…if I was over it…if I wanted to talk about it.  Huh?

Confused, I wasn't sure what they were talking about.  Oh, yeah.  My poem.  It wasn't real, but I wasn't going to them that…yet.  I believe I was in a Poe phase—having read and studied “Annabel Lee” recently.  I had been imitating style and content.  Needless to say, I had drawn instant sympathy…instant status…every sophomore’s dream, right?  That is until Mr. Albert saw through the phoniness as they were read in aloud in class.  He saw in an instant that I had no idea what I was talking about and had me confess in front of the class.  Crash and burn.  Status revoked.  I didn't try it again.  (Side note: Don’t ask.  I don’t have a copy of it.  And I don’t really remember it either.) 

I don’t remember any of the poetry Ms. Graham read and performed that day, or much else of what was said in that library—just a little explication of W.C.W’s red wheelbarrow poem—something to do with the American Revolution or whatnot.  Actually, I have only read one or two of her poems since that experience—simply out of neglect not spite or self-righteousness.  The experience (until today) had been buried under layers of other poets and preachers and presenters.  This is how I remember the occasion.  My wife Amy, Dr. Grierson, or any others who attended that session might remember it differently.  And I may or may not have presented things as black-and-white accurately as they happened.  But in my head this is truth.  It happened.  I was there.  I learned from it.

So I guess this is a little plug for the adage to write what you know (even if what you know is created in your imagination, as I've heard some sci-fi/fantasy authors say).  Sometimes my version of reality is a little skewed, but then again, so is everyone else’s.

And as I rehearsed to my 9th graders this morning, keep working at what you know.  I do it all the time. Each memory I excavate and develop becomes another narrative that I have learned from or someone else can learn from—lessons about writing, about girls, about when not to fart, and other important facets of life.  I challenge you to do the same.