Source Poems: "The Singers"

For National Poetry Month 2014, I have invited 17 authors and poets to guest post about source poems. In this series of essays, each writer will describe a single poem's significance in his or her life.

Today, guest blogger Shirley Brewer invites us to join her in finding a poetic voice.

Shirley Brewer

I came late to poetry.

Granted, I considered myself a writer at age seven (fairy tales), wrote some poems in high school and college (Viet Nam, teenage angst), and used poetry with children in my work as a speech and language therapist in the Anne Arundel County Public Schools (Maryland).

Poetry became real to me on Christmas Day, 1996. I was visiting friends in Santa Cruz, California, and walked to the beach that morning with a notebook and pen.

When I returned, my friends asked me to read aloud what I had written. They pronounced me a poet and I agreed. I took two poetry classes at Anne Arundel Community College in 1997 that fueled my journey. Over these past seventeen years, I often included travel as part of my poetry studies, participating in workshops in various states, as well as in Italy and Ireland.

Ireland! In 1998, I spent two weeks in Dublin immersing myself in poetry under the guidance of Irish poets. Our guest for one session was Eavan Boland, who remains my favorite poet. That evening, she joined us at The Teacher’s Club, where she sat next to me and bought everyone at our table a drink. What a thrill!

Eavan Boland and students.
Photo: Shirley Brewer

The first book of Eavan Boland’s I purchased was In aTime of Violence, in which she explores the social and political realities of her Ireland. Her collection begins with “The Singers.” Here it is – 16 lines:

The Singers

By Eavan Boland

The women who were singers in the West

lived on an unforgiving coast.

I want to ask was there ever one

moment when all of it relented--

when rain and ocean and their own

sense of home were revealed to them

as one and the same?

                                    After which

every day was still shaped by weather,

but every night their mouths filled with

Atlantic storms and clouded-over stars

and exhausted birds?

                                    And only when the danger

was plain in the music could you know

their true measure of rejoicing in

finding a voice where they found a vision.

[This poem is published online at Stanford Magazine and Project MUSE.]

I connected with this poem in a completely visceral way. Every time I read it, I feel myself inside the poem. And I believe this poem has guided my own poetic path.

In the years I studied poetry what mattered most to me was discovering my “voice.” How would I find it? I read poetry voraciously. I still do–every day! One could become dizzy with all the voices! I began attending Peter Murphy’s annual Poetry andProse Getaways in Cape May. Excellent teachers. I slowly began to develop more confidence in myself as a writer. But did I have a voice?

To me, Eavan Boland’s poem speaks of the poetic journey–“an unforgiving coast.” Not an easy path. So much to learn, to read, to know, to weather. So much time not knowing if one is a poet at all. The desire to discover one’s “own sense of home.”

And always, it’s about filling one’s own mouth with words and sounds… “every night their mouths filled with Atlantic storms and clouded-over stars and exhausted birds.”

I often made the connection that–for 32 years–I filled the mouths of children with sounds. With my career change and early “retirement” in 2001, I realized it was time for me to focus on self-fulfillment, as risky as it was–like the dangerous weather of Boland’s poem. Time to follow my vision, to seek a more creative path. My journey brought me to Baltimore City’s Charles Village, to the University of Baltimore–where I earned my Master of Arts degree in Creative Writing/Publishing Arts in 2005–and to the vibrant poetry community that exists in Baltimore/Washington, DC/Annapolis and beyond.

I remember a poetry event at Maryland Hall in Annapolis a number of years ago. There was an intermission right after I read. I heard someone call out my name. It was the wonderful Philadelphia poet, JC Todd, who had been one of my instructors at Peter Murphy’s Getaway. She grabbed both my hands and exclaimed: Shirley Brewer, you have a voice! I’ll never forget that moment. It felt like such a thrilling validation. No matter what we surmise internally, it sure helps to receive external support. A moment to rejoice!

To have a poem inspire you early in your journey, and then serve as a companion all along the way, is the greatest of gifts.

And only when the danger

was plain in the music could you know

their true measure of rejoicing in

finding a voice where they found a vision.

Eavan Boland
from Poetry News in Review

Shirley J. Brewer graduated from careers in bartending, palm-reading, and speech therapy. She has served as poet-in-residence at Carver Center for the Arts and Technology in Baltimore County. Shirley will present "Healing Through Writing" with novelist Tom Glenn at the MWA Conference on April 26, and is scheduled to teach a poetry workshop at LitMore (Baltimore) in May. Recent poems appear in The Cortland Review, Little Patuxent Review, Innisfree Poetry Journal, Pearl, Comstock Review, Passager, and other journals. Her poetry books include A Little Breast Music, 2008, Passager Books and After Words, 2013, Apprentice House/Loyola University.

www.apoeticlicense.com   

Previous posts in this series:

Laura Shovan on "This Is Just to Say" by William Carlos Williams

Dylan Bargteil on "On Moral Leadership as a Political Dilemma" by June Jordan

J. C. Elkin on "Hannibal Clim" (author unknown)

Diane Mayr on a haiku by Basho

Jone MacCulloch on "We Are Waiting (a pantoum)" by Joyce Sidman

Mary Bargteil on Four Quartets by T. S. Eliot

Jacqueline Jules on "Mother to Son" by Langston Hughes

Pamela Murray Winters on "The Land of Counterpane" by Robert Louis Stevenson

Dennis Kirschbaum on "Rain" by Robert Louis Stevenson
Janet Fagal on "The Lake Isle of Innisfree" by William Butler Yeats

Linda Baie on "The Way It Is" by William Stafford

Pat Valdata on "Sea Fever" by John Masefield

Finding an Authentic Voice

I made it to the poetry Sweet Sixteen!

Surviving two rounds of March Madness Poetry was my personal goal for the competition. I’m happy about that and honored to have faced such gracious poets: Allison Hertz and Robyn Hood Black.

My family stayed up late for the announcement of Round 3 words. Mine is “quasi.” I made a few notes before I went to sleep, and then had a dream about baby chickens. Don’t ask.

Give the gift of chicks to a family in a developing country!

In the morning, I sketched out two of the initial ideas before I got out of bed.

The first idea came from the definition of “quasi”: almost, sort of like. It’s in the voice of a child who is adopted and doesn’t quite look like the other members of his family. He’s not as tall as his sister. His hair is brown, but not the same shade as his mother’s. He lacks the family’s freckles and cleft chin.

Quasi poem attempt 1.

The couplet using quasi was:

Sometimes I feel like I’m their quasi kid.

They love me, but I don’t quite fit in.

The poem's voice didn’t sound authentic. I wasn’t doing  justice to the complicated emotions surrounding adoption. 

The second idea went like this: funny poems have worked for me so far, how about a kid’s art project that looks sort of, kind of, almost like…?

Actual Shovan kid art project.
"Gargoyle" is proudly displayed on our bookshelf.

This poem has a narrative. The speaker brings his parents to the school art fair. They admire his paintings and a lovely mask, but then they see his clay sculpture.

Quasi poem attempt 2.

This brown clay masterpiece, what could it be?

It resembles a fish or a tap dancing tree.

Is it a dog knocking over a pail

or a quasi-chimp who’s escaping from jail?

Blah. The focus is on the parents. The child's voice gets lost. He's just reporting on events, not describing how he feels about Mom and Dad dissing his sculpture.

I had my morning cup of tea. Never underestimate the power of good British tea. Sent one kid off to school. Ate some Life cereal (cinnamon). Started again on the computer.

The phrase “quasi human” came into my head. Maybe my character was a mermaid, half girl and half fish.

Are you my speaker?

But when I began writing, the person speaking was more like a ghost—the ghost of a girl haunting her school.

By the end of the poem, the ghostliness had become a metaphor.

Sometimes when we pass in the hall

I hear you say, “She’s no one at all.”

I’m invisible, though I wear what you wear

a hoodie, jeans, and long, straight hair.

Showing off for your latest boy,

you scan the crowd for some new toy

to play with, tease, do as you please.

I tuck into shadows. I hide. I freeze.

I’m quasi human, not quite here.

When you look at me, I disappear.

The speaker feels (though it’s never stated directly) like a ghost at school. As the victim of a bully, she is invisible—the bully ignores her or treats her like a non-person. She also tries to make herself invisible when the bully is looking for a target.

After a few quick drafts and revisions, I read the poem out loud to my daughter—she was about to dash for the bus. Julia is in middle school, which is where I imagine the poem taking place.

Jules gave it a thumbs up, but in reading the poem out loud I noticed some problems with meter. Each line had 8 or 9 beats. Line 3 and line 8 had more. They stuck out.

Went about my day, reciting the poem in my head.

Here is a full page of notes—all on the second couplet. I wrote these in the parking lot of the health food store. 

Reworking a single couplet.
The photo cut off the left margin of the page,
which includes rhyming word banks.

I decided to leave line 8 alone, other thank replacing the active word “tuck” with a more ghostly and passive verb, “melt.”

It’s okay that this line sticks out a little bit. The line carries emotional weight. The two short sentences at the end of the line have a quick cadence, like a heart stopping and starting. Keeping it slightly longer than the other lines is a way to emphasize that this particular line is important.

Oh, and a title! Since this is an epistolary poem, a poetic “letter” from one person to another, I titled it “Dear Bully.” There’s a note about the title at the bottom of the poem.

Here is the final poem, which you can also read (AND VOTE FOR!) at Think Kid, Think!, along with the other March Madness Poems:

Dear Bully

Sometimes when we pass in the hall

I hear you say, “She’s no one at all.”

I’m invisible, though we both wear

a hoodie, jeans, the same long hair.

Showing off for your latest boy,

you scan the crowd for some new toy

to play with, pick apart and tease.

I melt into shadows. I hide. I freeze.

I’m quasi human, not quite here.

When you look at me, I disappear.

Note: The title refers to Dear Bully: 70Authors Tell Their Stories, Edited by Megan Kelley Hall and Carrie Jones.

Laura Shovan

Check out the "Dear Bully" website.

Was I bullied as a teen? That's a long story, so first...

Poetry Friday is at Greg's house, GottaBook. I'm sure there will be more posts from the Sweet 16 authletes, along with book reviews and original poetry from our great community of bloggers.

And now, my bully story. The short version.

UPDATE (teens and up only!):

Writing "Dear Bully" brought up memories of my own bully, an ex-boyfriend. (Admission: I own but have not yet read the Dear Bully anthology, probably because of the memories it's likely to trigger.)

We broke up at the end of sophomore year in high school, but stayed friends, sometimes more than that, for a few months. Then I left the tight social circle we shared.

It was hard to walk away from some of those friendships, but I wasn't ready for the drinking--and other things--that were happening when we hung out together.

After a year-long relationship with my ex, I had left many other friendships untended. Only a handful of old friends were willing to welcome me back. By midway through junior year, we all started driving. That's when the real bullying started.

My ex would sit in his car and wait for me in the school parking lot. Every day. It didn't matter what time I left. Whether I stayed at school until 6 PM, or left at the last bell, he was there.

As soon as I started to pull out of the lot, my ex would slam his foot on the accelerator and cut  me off, swerving to miss my car and beat me through the lot's single exit. I don't know how many times he nearly hit me.

It went on for months. I began to panic every time I had to stay after school, but I never told my parents. I never told a teacher. I didn't want to admit this was happening.

Finally, a dear friend told her parents, who told mine. The car-bullying stopped, but things did not get easier at school. Every day, I felt the way the speaker in my poem does. I wished I were invisible, below the radar. But I also felt invisible, as former friends disappeared from my life.

Almost 30 years later, this incident is still painful. That's probably why I haven't talked about it much, even as an adult.

There are some great online resource for teens who are experiencing bullying. Here's one I like because it has kids' voices front and center:  http://www.pacer.org/bullying/

Teaching Voice, Part Two

Open a children's novel and you'll know by the end of the first page whether the narrator hooks you or not. (For a great example, read the opening of Shiloh.)

Creating a narrative voice is a difficult skill to teach kids. There are elements to consider such as diction, tone, word choice. You could make yourself crazy with character-building worksheets.

When I'm working with school-age kids, jumping right in works better. I do some modeling (my full workshop description is here), the kids choose a photo or art-print featuring a person, and we get writing.

Yesterday, I posted two third grade poems. One was in the voice of Lady Gaga. The other described a girl caught in a fantasy phenomenon.

In honor of Saturday, when a lot of my students play sports, I'm sharing two poems in the voice of professional athletes.

There is a detail about the setting that Joey does not reveal until the end of his poem. Read "The Shot" and see how he times this information to add impact to the storyline.

The Shot

by Joey S.

Grade 3

I am watching if I make the shot or not.

I have a perfect release. I know it will spin a lot.

This shot is for the win for the  NBA championship.

If I make it, my team wins, or if I don't

I will let my team down.

I am terrified. I am not a great three

Point shooter. The crowd is roaring.

They hope I miss the shot in the end.

I make the shot and I silence the crowd.

Chase's poem vividly captures an athlete obsessed with winning. Listen for the rhythm and repeated phrases in this poem. Those elements build the voice of "The Boxer."

The Boxer

by Chase T.

Grade 3

I am warming up for my fight.

I put on my boxing gloves. 10 minutes until the fight.

I will practice and practice. I will not stop.

Two minutes left. I will win this thing. I will

Not back out. I will  not stop.

I will jump rope. I will punch a punching bag.

The fight is now. I will be fighting

The world’s best boxer. He won twenty

Medals in a row.

It is now. I will fight and fight until I

Win. I will  not stop until I win.

Maybe I win or I will lose. It is your

Choice. Do you think I will win or I will lose?

“He wins!”

More portrait poems coming soon, followed by a guest post with my high school intern, Alissa Bennett of St. Paul's School.