Teach Me How to Write a Poem

(This is to make up for December 27, 2013. See? I haven't forgotten.)

            At the beginning of the school year, I decided to host a poetry group during our school’s release time where students can come in and get extra help or participate in an enrichment activity. And to be honest, the results haven’t been too positive. The most students I get on a Thursday morning is two. Some days only one or the other will appear. Sometimes, I sit by myself and ponder what it would be like to stare out a window (since I have none) and petition the muses to club me over the head or drop me into the pit of inspiration. See also Billy Collins’s poem “Monday.”

            For the longest time, only one young man, a former student of mine, came in and we would discuss how to read poetry—where to breathe and emphasize words. He would ask for my suggestions on pieces he had written for his creative writing class. It was comfortable.

            Then one day, he didn’t come. Instead a small, bespectacled, or rather be-Coke-bottled, seventh grade girl squeaked in just as the bell rang. Feeling like a giant, I asked, “What can I do for you today? Are you looking for the study hall?”

            She crinkled her nose, pushed up her glasses, and stared me in the face. “Mr. Anson?” Pause. “Could you teach me how to write a poem?”

            I had no idea who she was or how she knew who I was.

            She blinked again—big eyes magnified by the big, black rims.

            “Sure,” I stammered, unsure of where to begin. “What kind of poem do you want to write? A haiku? I thought this was a logical place to start as my 9^th grade honors class was hosting the annual zombie haiku contest in conjunction with Halloween.

            “No. I want to write a good poem. How do I begin?”

            And begin we did, starting with a discussion on imagery, appealing to the five senses, and the use of figurative language. We discussed the fact that poems filled with empty emotion are only good for emo bands. We talked about avoiding tired phrases and images and looking at ordinary objects and situations from different perspectives. We talked more about form poetry versus free verse—the freedoms, limitations, and challenges of each. She sat, nodding in parts of my deluge of poetic spouting.

When she didn’t respond conversationally, I assumed she had drowned in the informational downpour. I supposed I should scale it back, so I asked what she wanted to write a poem about.

            Blink. Head tilt. “Morning,” she finally replied.

            I suggested framing a specific setting for the images, and she chose winter. We brainstormed a list of visual images: things you normally see in the morning, things you hear, smell, taste, or feel. I presumed she would want to write about Christmas morning or a school morning or some other cliché morning.

            “What is the first thing you associate with the morning?” I asked.

            Without hesitation, she replied, “Exhaust.”

            And that’s when I knew that she had been listening, absorbing everything that I had lectured not minutes before. It was impossible to conceal my grin. I felt it spreading like an accident down a toilet training toddler’s leg.

I know that I am not the wordsmith I would like to be, and that my poetry will probably never influence the masses, but in that moment, it was reconfirmed to me how powerful poetry can be. One simple image, one connected heartstring, one sliver of light cutting through the darkness can change your perspective or the direction from which the shadows are cast.

I wish someone would have taught me how to write a poem.