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It's National Poetry Month.
If National Poetry Month were a party (it kind of is), what would you wear to the celebration? All this month, guest bloggers are putting on their finery here at Author Amok. We're doing a month-long feature on poetry about clothes. In addition to the guest posts, every Friday in April I'll post a round-up of original clothing poems. (Send those via email to laurashovan at gmail dot com or leave them in the comments). You'll find a writing prompt at the bottom of this post.
Why clothes?
Articles of clothing are symbolic. They represent choices people make about how they want to be viewed by others. But they can also represent a person's economic situation, relationship with gender, mood, and culture. A red tie or jacket can be a metaphor for strength.
Why clothes?
Articles of clothing are symbolic. They represent choices people make about how they want to be viewed by others. But they can also represent a person's economic situation, relationship with gender, mood, and culture. A red tie or jacket can be a metaphor for strength.
From popular song, we have Prince's "Raspberry Beret," Elvis' "Blue Suede Shoes," and Nancy Sinatra's walking boots. But what about poetry?
Meet today's guest blogger, poet Jane Elkin. Jane has visited Author Amok several times, including when her book WORLD CLASS: POEMS INSPIRED BY THE ESL CLASSROOM was published in 2014. (Read the post here.)
The Parable of the
Hangers
by Jane Elkin
“If
there were a fire and you had time to grab only one thing,” my roommate asks, “what
would it be? Photos? Love letters? Your thesis?”
A reasonable person might point out
that if there were indeed a fire, they wouldn’t pause for any of those things,
but not me.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told
you,” I say. And with that one question, I am transported back to childhood.
My
closet was full of someone else’s clothes. When I’d gone down for my nap, it
held my brothers’ cast-offs and three cotton dresses. Now it was packed with
girly surprises: a pink rosebud here, a lemon sash there, poufy dotted Swiss
sleeves, and silken strawberries on chiffon. Scotty dogs walked the plaid field
of a jumper and I swore I heard bagpipes. It was a whole rack of whimsy in
thread. It was more clothes than I knew existed. It was the most beautiful
sight of all my four years. It was Christmas in August.
I had been living some other girl’s
life in my primary colored play clothes. I was born for Sunday best, and now it
appeared I would wear it every day.
My mother stood in the door frame,
smiling mischievously. “Did you have a good nap?”
“Mmm hmm.” I pointed. “What are
those dresses doing in my closet?”
“You’re starting kindergarten next
week, so you need school clothes, right?”
Really? I was going to school like
my brothers? I had only begged because I was bored. Had I known it involved a
makeover, I’d have asked sooner.
“I’m going to school – in those pretty dresses?
Where did they come from?”
“From Patty. They’re like new.”
Patty was an only child with a charmed life –pretty
clothes, piano lessons, a puppy. It didn’t matter what things cost because she
was a lonely child and her father was a mailman who made a lot of money for not
much work. But she was as nice as could be, not at all spoiled. And now her
clothes would charm my life, too.
I sock-skated to
the closet and stroked a satin bow.
“They’re so pretty.” I fingered the
hem with the embroidered Scotty dogs. “Thank you!”
“Here,” my mother said, setting a
footstool in front of the closet, “you can take them down by yourself.” I
slipped the jumper off the hanger to try it on and went to admire myself in my
parents’ full-length mirror, turning to see myself from every angle and bouncing
on tip-toe with excitement. I looked older and fancier, like I belonged in the
Sears catalog.
“Of course, now that you’re old
enough to dress yourself for school, you’re old enough to learn how to take
care of nice clothes, and the best way to do that is to hang them back up right
after school.”
Of course. There had to be a catch.
Still, half a day in dresses was better than none.
“I’ll take care of
them,” I vowed.
“You
have two choices,” my mother said. Some people hang them with all the hooks open
to the back, like this.” She motioned to the hangers she’d arranged, all
aligned in the same direction. “And other people hang them open to the front,
like this.” She turned several to illustrate. “Pick one way or the other, but
not both.”
“Why not?”
“Well, for one thing, it looks
better if they all face the same way,” she began, “but that’s not the most important
reason. I’ll show you why.” She flipped every other hanger in alternating
directions, talking as she worked.
“You see, there was once a lady with
a whole closet full of beautiful clothes. She had a different outfit for each
day and enough dresses to last a month of Sundays: short ones and long ones,
silky gowns and woolen suits, sun dresses, party dresses, and even a fur coat –
all from the best stores.”
“Was she a movie star?”
“Something like that. She had all
these beautiful clothes, but she was careless with them. She was always in a
hurry, so she had hung them up all haphazard with some of the hangers facing to
the front and others facing to the back. Then one day there was a fire.”
“Ahhh!” I felt sick with dread.
“She ran to her closet to save her
beautiful wardrobe, but when she gathered an armful and tried to run, they held
tight to the bar.” My mother locked her arms around the lot and tugged, but the
hangers wouldn’t budge.
“She didn’t have time to turn them
around, so she had to run out of the building without any of her nice things,
and they all burned up in the fire.”
“That’s awful,” I gasped. “She
wasn’t very smart.” I climbed atop the stool and got to work. “I’m keeping my
hangers open to the back, like you had them.”
I’m
still an open-to-the-back girl, as are my grown daughters, but I never told
them why. Some legacies are too weird to explain. You just do them.
Jane is pairing her remembrances with two poems. In both, clothing becomes a metaphor for the parent/child relationship. The first, by Mark Irwin, begins with a closet.
My Father's Hats
by Mark Irwin
Sunday mornings I would reachhigh into his dark closet while standing
on a chair and tiptoeing reach
higher, touching, sometimes fumbling
the soft crowns and imagine
I was in a forest, wind hymning
through pines, where the musky scent
of rain clinging to damp earth was
his scent I loved, lingering on
bands, leather, and on the inner silk
crowns
Read the rest at Poetry 180.
Jane's second featured poem is by YA author and poet Ron Koertge.
Negative Space
by Ron Koertge
My dad taught me to pack: lay out everything. Put back half. Roll things
that roll. Wrinkle-prone things on top of cotton things. Then pants, waist-
to-hem. Nooks and crannies for socks. Belts around the sides like snakes.
Plastic over that. Add shoes. Wear heavy stuff on the plane.
We started when I was little. I'd roll up socks. Then he'd pretend to put me
in the suitcase, and we'd laugh. Some guys bond with their dads shooting
hoops or talking about Chevrolets. We did it over luggage.
that roll. Wrinkle-prone things on top of cotton things. Then pants, waist-
to-hem. Nooks and crannies for socks. Belts around the sides like snakes.
Plastic over that. Add shoes. Wear heavy stuff on the plane.
We started when I was little. I'd roll up socks. Then he'd pretend to put me
in the suitcase, and we'd laugh. Some guys bond with their dads shooting
hoops or talking about Chevrolets. We did it over luggage.
Read the rest at The Writer's Almanac.
Jane Elkin is the founder and facilitator of The Broadneck Writers’ Workshop, as well as a theater critic and essayist for the Bay Weekly. Her prose and poetry have appeared in such journals as Kestrel, Kansas City Voices, Off the Coast andDucts, and she has won awards with the Maryland Writers’ Association, Poetry Matters, and the Poetry Society of New Hampshire. A self-proclaimed Renaissance Woman, she works as a language teacher, singer, and handwriting analyst.
Next up in this series:
Friday 4/3
Tabatha Yeatts is visiting with a clothing poem by Greg Pincus.
*Your suggested clothing poem prompt for Friday, April 3: Storage.
Where and how do you keep your clothes? Do they hang in your closet, organized by color? Are they crumpled on the bedroom floor? Are you an organized packer, or do you toss things into a suitcase and hope for the best. I still remember the name of the long-ago camp counselor (Janice) who taught us how to roll our clothes up tight to maximize space.
Send your poems any time. I'll post original work on Friday.
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