This
week I got to do one of my most favorite things (don’t laugh). Change the
calendar. May’s picture is a beautiful butter-yellow and white 1959 Edsel
Corsair. I could write this whole post on the joys of butter-yellow, also known
ironically as Honeymoon Yellow if you’re buying paint to re-do your kitchen
after your husband leaves you (back in 2003)…but I won’t.
Just
as I had to do research to find the perfect paint color for the kitchen,
sometimes we have to do research when writing poems. But poems are not academic
papers. We should trust ourselves to know when to stop.
Have
you ever seen a contemporary poet use footnotes? Maybe there’s a page at the
end of a book with some explanations. Do you even read it? I will, out of
curiosity. Rarely does some miniscule factoid ruin my enjoyment of reading a
poem pages earlier.
In
my opinion, there are two kinds of research: footnote research, and gimme research. Gimme research is using the
Thesaurus to find a different word for the one you’ve already used twice. It’s
using Google to find out how to say closed in Spanish. Poor Jeff, I lose
words all the time. He’s my human thesaurus. And you know that word on the tip
of your tongue that starts with “D”? It never
starts with “D”.
Sometimes
you need the name of a bar in Warsaw. Sometimes you need the name of a street
in Ohio. That’s what Google’s for. That’s research.
Back
in 2005, I wrote a poem that was totally made up. I thought about it this week because
I think my grandfather almost bought
an Edsel dealership, and he was a
Cadillac repairman. But that was my grandfather, not my father, and the whole
poem is completely made up.
Cadillac Days
You come to me on our anniversary
bearing roses.
I don’t know whether to laugh or
cry.
I think of all the times I spoke of
them,
wonder how you couldn’t possibly
remember.
I whispered my secrets while you
held me, pouring
out the injustices that caused me
to be who I am.
My mother worked for the phone
company.
Always in a perfect dress, cinched
waist
beneath a wide white belt, nylons
and sensible pumps,
a lovely woman.
My father was a Cadillac mechanic.
He would watch my mother in the
kitchen, his eyes
upon his favorite parts of her, as
he drank his coffee.
His shirt perfectly ironed, name on
the left pocket.
My father was a handsome man, with
broad shoulders
and thinking man’s hands—sharp-knuckled
and grazed
with fine black hairs. He made
friends everywhere.
He was not discriminating. He was
not considerate.
After nights when his friend was a
woman,
he’d walk up our path carrying
roses.
I would already be sleeping. I was
grateful
my brother slept in my extra bed.
It seemed right to have him there
against
the murmurs and sounds of muffled
weeping
through the wall. To this day I
cannot sleep
a whole night through.
These anniversary roses, what are
you telling me?
I question the innocence of these
blooms,
and long for the Cadillac days—before
the thorns of the flowers scored my
mother’s skin
until there was nothing left, and
my secrets
remained untold and not betrayed.
Before
I submitted it, I sent it to a poet friend of mine. His response to me is below. The grammar errors and typos are all his.
“Your telling a story set in the early 50's which is a time
you lived in, but were not really able to internalize. To really do it
justice, you have to research the time to get some authentic detail.
Early 50's were the Korean war, people trying to readjust to civilian life, the
GI bill to go to college, wild constuction of ticky tack homes, cars that
looked the same going backward or forward, picture windows, slided bread,
refrigerators, round t.v. sets, newspapers delivered to the doorstep, no
freeways, really clean air, hope so strong you could cut it with a cheese
knife, the true ringing of a democratic country with awesome opportunity for
everyone. It was a time when millions of women stopped working and then
wondered what the hell they were going to do with their time. It was the
introduction of clothes driers and the end of the old Maytag wringer, spin dry,
hamburgers for 35 cents, a nickle ice cream cone. Gas was less than 19
cent a gallon.”
I
was embarrassed, and I was angry! Maybe this post should be called “how to
critique work without taking someone off at the knees”. “To really do it justice, you have to research the time to get some
authentic detail”? No. I wasn’t writing about the 50’s, I was writing about
a made-up family with a wandering father; the effect that had. I could’ve
watched “Mad Men” to know that women wore nylons and wide belts. Yes, that was
an interesting time. Yes, I was young, but I wrote the poem in 2005, not 1958!
 |
Honeymoon Yellow,
Benjamin Moore |
What’s
my point? Well definitely, if you’re writing about horses in Perthshire, make
sure there ARE horses in Perthshire. But know when to stop! My friend above was
trying to prove to me how smart he was. How much smarter he was than I was. Maybe
if I’d read all about those things, it would have inspired another poem or
twelve, I don’t know, but it had nothing to do with my poem. If you cram a
bunch of facts into a poem, you now have a lecture. It may get accepted, but
not in a journal that only publishes poetry.
Will
I ever write a poem about the lovely butter-yellow Edsel? I’ve used
“butter-yellow” but I’ve only just started submitting it. I’ve used “Honeymoon Yellow”
because of course, everything in life is fodder for poems, if you want it to
be. Have I used horses in Perthshire? Yes I have. Look up what you need to look
up, then stop! Don’t make your readers
feel the way my poet friend made me feel. Write beautifully, not smarter.
Springtime in Perthshire
Soft vibrations
in a field of grass,
bladed and
poppied. The rhythmic
chug of a cargo
train crosses
left to right,
a distance away.
His shoes come
off.
He recalls a
sundown journey
in a life too
far-off to regather.
Three white horses, patient
and pale as
childhood unicorns,
share their
field as he lies down.
Popcorn clouds
are white, parceled
through the
clear and quiet sky.
He closes his
eyes, his mind clear
as the breeze
washing above him.
A lifetime of
mercy summoned
in a few brief
minutes.
Spikes of green
caress his palms—
laid flat,
warming, released.
- - - -
Tobi Alfier's most recent collection of poetry is Slices Of Alice. She is also co-editor with Jeff Alfier of the San Pedro River Review. Don't miss Tobi's columns on the craft of poetry: insert your email address in the "Follow By Email" box to the right of this article and you'll be notified every time a new article appears.
