I've taken so many notes in my little Italian leather notebook (bought as a three-pack from T.J. Maxx before I left Cali). We had an informal yoga class this morning, on this little patio next to the olive orchard. I swept it and it needs a good powerwashing, but I don't want to step on the toes of the groundskeeper Danielo. Cynthia is a certified yoga instructor, and I added some writer's stretches for our upper backs, necks, and wrists.
After this, I stayed on the patio and wrote a new version of a poem about La Pieta. I'm calling it "Witness Testimony", but the more I research, the more my poem doesn't work. Or, it's not factually accurate. Maybe first impressions are best impressions, as I don't like the new versions.
An interesting note: in Europe, they've stopped using B.C. and A.D. Unlike our B.C.E. and C.E. (Before Common Era, etc.), they refer to ancient times as PEC, or pre-era common. Not too difficult to translate that.
I looked through my notes and found a few lines about this strange fellow in Rouen. That town seems so far away right now, and the cool temperatures so appealing. The working title is "Doorway Drifter," and it's about this strange man who planted himself below the Gros Horlage Clock in the old town. His dog was so beautiful, and his clothes so clean that I decided to create a different story for him than that of an unhoused person. Then, I began to believe my story.
The third draft was from a Flower C. prompt and I have a good line: "So many promises I've made to myself." We'll see where that one goes.
I kept writing. 4th poem draft of the day begins, "That it is impossible to tickle yourself is a rumor that's simply not true." Yeah, it sounds more like the beginning of a rhetorical speech, but has anybody examined the science of tickling lately? Is it a poem? A commentary? A cartoon caption? Well, it's a draft and damn funny. At least to me.
The fifth draft is from another Flower prompt about self-spells. Now, I'm all about self-help and try really hard not to impose my psychotherapy needs on anyone else via my poetry, but sometimes it can be a good thing. I had the letter "D" in a dictionary page and wrote, "I'm the dust collector of myself." Don't ask me what it means, but the spell, if it works, will have a marvelous outcome. Something I've wanted a long, long time. Yes, well.
At tonight's workshop, I shared a compilation poem from some of these drafts called "Letter from Normandy." As usual, the expert in the room, Kim A., suggested I start in the middle. All of the interesting details that warmed up the topic weren't necesssary, she thought. Others said I'm a keen observer but see too much. "If we have to read it multiple times, maybe you should think about the value of each line." Oh, dagger to my heart. Each line I shared I thought was worthwhile, but not to anyone outside of my mercury brain. So many topics, so many ideas. "Just pick one worry," a cohort member said. Yeah, I wish.
I'm learning just as much from hearing the work of others as from receiving feedback of my own attempts. Hearing the lines aloud is really helpful, even though it's very stressful to share new work with accomplished poets. Since it is brand new, I think I can get away with being less polished. The good news is nobody has been bored when I've read my new work.
Wow. A lot of writing and reading in one day. What if I could do this every day? Five drafts, and a workshop? I don't think it's possible, to be honest, but to think I could write fifty poems in a month is a happy thought. Especially if the inspiration for the poetry is an examination of historical places and ideas. Italy is full of both.
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