Schools of Poetry

I'm three weeks into an eight week poetry class. It is called Reading for Writers and it is a literary gallop through twentieth century schools of poetry. I did not major in literature in college, hell, I barely eked my way through high school. So I was a bit worried about my ability to comprehend an academic jog through poetry. I had no idea that poetry was categorized by 'schools'. I can only describe this by having you think about different movements in visual arts. Impressionism, cubism, surrealism and others. As with the visual arts, different movements of poetry emerge to follow, reflect and shape the times. Many of the names are shared and overlap or run concurrently in time. We study two schools each week, read poetry aloud from the genre, and get a brief history of some of the known and lesser known poets who practiced in that style. It is heady stuff. I am not as well read as others in the class. I used to be the kind of poet who only wanted to write the stuff, not read the fluff. Sorry I couldn't resist throwing a rhyme in here. It is not what I really mean either. I understand my poetry. I may not understand yours... or theirs! Back in June I wrote about not being accepted into a year-long program called The Poetry Collective. The teacher of my current class is one of the facilitators of the collective. I was not devastated when I wasn't accepted. My philosophy was that I wasn't ready. Not Yet. A friend of mine who read my Not Yet piece had also applied and was also not accepted. Notice how I do not use the word rejected. I had enough of that crap in high school, no need for that in the fourth quarter of my life. Anyway, my friend said my piece was graceful. I think he meant gracious, but I like the twist. Maybe it is grace-full to not harbor resentment. Not being accepted pushed me into committing to a nighttime class in a not-so-nice neighborhood that is almost 35 minutes from home. If I had not applied and had not mentally accepted I wasn't ready, I may not have paid my money to take this class that is stretching my view of my favorite thing in life; poetry. I show up early, not because I am an overachiever but because I want a parking spot in the small lot. I may write poetry, but my head is not in the clouds. I am practical and poetic. It gives me a chance to review the weeks readings. Clear my head if it's been a rough day physically. I eat a snack - I am truly famous for having food in my car at all times. It has been suggested by the teacher to attempt to write the same poem in each of the different schools. I love a challenge. What I find hard is to pre-write a piece about a movement we have yet to study and discuss, so I have felt a week behind the last couple of classes. I am going to try and play catch-up and be more prepared. Procrastination is one of my character defects. Perhaps that is why I was not a successful student in past endeavors. At 59 I am not too old to change my ways. Last week I published a poem called Platt Park on an October Afternoon. It was an imagistic poem and I felt like I nailed it. I love to evoke images in the readers mind. Take you - them - there with me. Wherever it might be. This week's poem is based on the same lunch, in the same park. I am actually not sure if it is vorticism or futurism. I just know I had a tough time reconfiguring the original into a more masculine, mechanical poem. Here is a peek into my mind and the process. The boys in the park had skateboards as their transport mode. Since mechanical references are part of both these schools (I think?) I read about the history and construction of skateboards. The references to the parts are smattered throughout my poem. The double meaning is left to you the reader, but every part; kingpin, bowl, half-pipe, pivot cup, maple board, goofy and regular, grip, bushings all have an alternative way to look at the word. It has everything to do with skateboards and nothing to do with skateboards. Enjoy! Propelled by Gravity

Eating my sandwich of barbed wire and nails

Full bowls and half-pipe dreams

Dirt and grime inhibit the grip

Tricks performed on concave maple boards

Full bowls and half-pipe dreams

A kingpin holds it all together

Tricks performed on concave maple boards

Stiff bushings make the turns easier to bear

A kingpin holds it all together

Imperfect fit.  Pivot cups endure the hard times

Stiff bushings make the turns easier to bear

I scrutinize these boys; regular and goofy

Imperfect fit.  Pivot cups endure the hard times

Dirt and grime inhibit the grip

I scrutinize these boys; regular and goofy

Eating my sandwich of barbed wire and nails By the way the above poem is a Pantoum. Time to Write, Jane