6/18 Thursday, Day 3: I didn't meet with the fourth and fifth graders at McGrath School. They're still on vacation, so I read poetry, and worked on some new teaching ideas. I had my first lock-down ward class today and it was great. Talk about a captive audience! The classroom setting works better, or is it a concept of group? At any rate, I'm much happier with the group setting. I feel we get more done, today's group was lively.
Ward T-12, Susan Sutton's group, a lock-down ward, with double locks on both sides of the door, requires two orderlies on either side of the door, with keys, just to let me in. It's spooky to be locked into a room like this. Even the windows need a special crank. I can't bring in paper clips or staples, and I have to account for all pencils.
The group was comprised of nine men ranging from real poets to artists. Plus a couple of hostile guys who wrote anyway. We didn't have much time, having started so late. I told them a little bit about myself and the program. We went around the room and introduced ourselves. I wanted to find out about their interests and writing experiences.
One obviously skilled poet, Darrell, stood out, and there are always a few people who say they are poets. Funny how readily they self-identify with poetry, because in the real world, it isn't so. I am amazed by how Craig can recite poetry on the spot. Robert informs me that he knows knows Tinkerbell personally, and has good imaginative writing ideas. Stardust.
Raymond looks too familiar to me. I went to school with him, I'm sure of it. Was it College of Marin, or Drake High School? I almost turned to him and asked, but wasn't sure if it was a good idea. Not knowing if he would want to be recognized, or be found out. People willingly gave me their last names, but I can only use their last initial, a privacy act that even if they don't care, I have to be careful.
I didn't do a planned writing exercise today with them, and I got five volunteer poems from both of the hostile men, and two drawings—a promising start.
Robert loved my kid poetry book and and bought it! I was shocked! My first sale! I read them some of my poems from Falling to Sea Level. Robert liked them and I was impressed by how they listened so carefully. Some spontaneously read a few poems from the kid book, and the rehabilitation therapist, Susan, was quite pleased with the session.
Michael—in the afternoon I worked with Michael, a poet who identifies with his Comanche heritage, he's half Indian, half black. The first poem he gave me suggested real writing skill, however, the subject, a girlfriend's death, was obscure, because he rhymed. So many people assume that a poem has to rhyme. I did too, once. What they don't realize is the reason the rhyming scheme takes over and can unduly destroy the meaning and the content of the poem.
Form, without meaning or content, is a type of form looseness. I asked Michael to tell me more. He dictated a poem to me, using natural speech. We called it Renée, II. He liked the idea. You mean it doesn't have to rhyme? he asked, with obvious relief. You could see the lightbulb.
I asked him about his heritage, I took notes, three pages worth, and then we crafted those notes into a long poem, a self-portrait on being Indian and black and adopted. He was amazed by how easy it was, a deception, beginners luck. But I won't tell him.
We talked about emotional content and getting it out. He was distressed by his inability to manage his anger. I said, welcome to the club. I am Irish. He laughed. I talked with him about degree of emotion and the tools I used to utilize them, that writing was an excellent tool. I try and write about it, define it, work my way through it.
During the two-and-a-half hours I worked with Michael, Mark dropped by, but because we were so deeply into the writing process, I felt I couldn't break out of it. I xeroxed some of Mark's poems, ones that he wanted me to critique, and I said I will go over them next week. I also gave Mark some homework. A stellar day. This is actually working. I hand-calligraphed a sign on a folded cardboard placard and placed it on the library desk that said: The poet is in. I feel like Lucy in Peanuts.
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