February 19, 2019
The late poet C.D. Wright once wrote in her book The Poet, the Lion… et al: “…it is a poem if I say it is.” And I have taken that line to heart as I attempt to move my own work from the clumsy and banal, closer to truthful and striking.
It is very difficult for a shy person like myself to hold two opposing creative forces in balance: I crave self-expression at the same time that I despise exposure. And yet, how will I know if the work resonates if no one can read it? How can I possibly leave any legacy behind if I stay in a “Dickinson” lock-down?
So I have decided to take baby steps, and start with what are called “Prose Poems.” Even though the term “prose poem” sounds like an oxymoron, it is an actual recognized form that I would describe as something like this: a miniature essay or meditation enlivened by some poetic imagination. Language, metaphor and connection still play a part as in traditional poetry, but I can be a little more effusive and a little less spare.
A prose poem might go like this:
Mid-Winter Trek
On these repetitively cold, grey days that mist impassively, insisting on neither the levity of snow nor the seriousness of a proper rain, it is hard work walking three miles every day. Even in good company. Even in a radar-blue, waterproof coat (reassuringly heavy) with deep pockets for carrying and collecting, purchased last year for just this sort of obstinate weather.
But there is so much bad news to match the tone of this particular February– illness, loss, even jailtime – that I am helpless to be appropriate. So I must walk to escape. To pour oil on troubled water. To sand off the sharp edges. To work off the energy that does not channel constructively.
And come late afternoon, as the slate sky darkens, the light hand of a nap steals over me, silencing cogitation and effort, and for a brief time offering hibernation from grief – my own and for those I love – that is just enough to effect minute repairs, restoring the heart that thrums trustily inside my chest, and the soul flashing like a lighthouse behind my eyes.
Copyright 2019 Martha T. Terrell
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