My Imaginary Writing Group

Dear Reader,

Sometimes, after reading a poem, a scene bubbles up in my imagination: I am in a writing group with this poet. What prompts this fiction might be a line, a metaphor, or a completely different way of thinking about something. I wish that I could talk to these (frequently dead) poets.

Writing groups give poets opportunities to give and receive feedback on their work. “What do you notice?” “Are there suggestions?” Work is usually in its early stages, but, given my imaginary group with its (frequently multiple award-winning) poets, what could I do but fall over myself, give praise and offer an occasional note for revision?

To Louis Simpson (Pulitzer Prize), after reading “The Morning Light” – Your line “Day lifts the darkness from the hills,” gives the sun remarkable agency, which I recognize every time a houseplant must be turned to coax it into straightening itself. But your line makes the daylight so powerful, like an invisible weightlifter, it has changed the sunrise for me. Have you tried this line without the first “the”?

To Wislawa Szymborska (Nobel Prize), after reading “Warning” – Underneath the humorous tone and sardonic voice, you have taken the idea of jesters to a new level by changing the setting to outer space. I have known a few jesters in my day and can now picture them out there, miserable and forlorn.

To Stanley Kunitz (Pulitzer Prize), after reading “The Portrait” – The first line ends with the best line break ever written. When I heard (not read) it for the very first time, I thought, “What transgression could a father have committed against a mother?” And then, POW! The last two lines – why did you put “still” there? It makes it difficult to read. Was that your intention?

To Mary Oliver (Pulitzer Prize), after reading “August” – Picking blueberries is a memory I connected with your foray into wild blackberry bushes, so I felt comfortable being there with you. Then I came to your metaphor, “this thick paw of my life”, and it nearly knocked me out of my chair. We are clumsy inhabitants in Nature and take what we want from her, but I was surprised by the way you forgive yourself with your “happy tongue.” In the first stanza, you say nobody owns the woods, so you are free to harvest blackberries, guilt-free. I don’t know why that bothers me, but it does. I need to think more about it.

To W. S. Merwin (Pulitzer Prize), after reading “Separation” – Your poem about loss put into words my unending sorrow over the loss of my sister, Jennie. It describes why mourning her persists, which is some comfort for an impossible situation. The first thing I did was to copy it into my favorite poem notebook. I ended up painting it on a tens-of-millions-year-old rock in the garden (Judy’s Journal, 2021 November).

Why did I write this blog? It was energizing experience to read these poems and invent a situation where I could talk to their creators. Said another way: this exercise made me think. The second reason was that, perhaps, you might seek out any one or more of the poems and enjoy being provoked by them. Or perhaps, you could quietly indulge in the fantasy of talking to a poet whose work has left an impression on you.