In response to Zero's suggestion, I have been making my way through Ted Kooser's Poetry Home Repair Manual. I was curious at first, then intrigued by the fresh set of ideas and techniques about writing in general. The chapters on Working with Detail and Fine Tuning Metaphors and Similies took root in my mind without my knowing it. There was also an article describing metropoems, so named because they are to be written between stations while riding the Paris subway. Combined, these lessons prompted me to pull out a cheap pad and a substantial pen while waiting for the bus.
Truly, I was not looking for a chance or reason to write a poem. But it was a bright November morning and because I was planning to be indoors on campus all day, I chose to look around rather than read something. Up the hill is the Board of Education building that was previously the town middle school and before that, the high school. At my feet, was a jigsaw puzzle piece. It was dry and firm but had sustained enough moisture to have lost its image while also hosting some fuzzy mold. For some reason, this made me wonder about opportunities I might miss that would leave a hole in my life. It also made me contemplate the dangers of moving too fast without thinking of consequences. And what could be lost in the process.
So these ideas tumbled out onto the little yellow pad. The bus filled, as it does in the morning, with one of the widest array of skin tones one could ever imagine. International students tend to cluster in an apartment complex on the edge of our town. Later on the trek, the
bus picks up a few more passengers in the parking lot of an old country general store. On this day, an Asian-American girl boarded along with a scruffy skinny boyfriend. All seats were filled so he took an unsteady position right in front of me. There was no more room to write and the views that were inspiring me were blocked. Instead of forests and ponds, a cheap carabiner with a couple of keys, clipped to the belt loop of brown jeans swayed in front of me.
The view-blocker seemed unsure of how to stand on a bus. He'd grip one strap, then switch to a horizontal bar. And if he was with the girl, he was doing a bad job of being with her. As we approached campus, I noticed him turn toward her and lean in as if he had a secret to whisper. But that was all a prelude to his collapse.
Yep, collapsed. Head into the lap of my seatmate, a south Asian women who was probably horrified by the cross-gender physical contact. He folded into me a little bit but with the heft of a mannequin. A few people moved so he could stretch out on the floor, head on someone's backpack and feet up. He opened his eyes and I recognized the combination of being too warm, standing up, and not eating. That happened to me in a chow line as a Scout years ago. The driver pulled over just on the edge of campus, radioed for an ambulance, and the boy gradually regained his composure and expressed his embarrassment. Because we were at a stop, people trickled off to walk the rest of the way to their labs or cubicles. I stayed because he was right there at my feet and I didn't want to add to his shame by scurrying off. I did vacate when the ambulance arrived, and strolled away.
Mine was not a great first aid performance but fortunately, there was no obvious bleeding or stopped breathing or wacky convulsions. Just a bony young guy with temporary loss of muscle control. Since I had no place to be, I decided to take advantage of the nearby coffee shop where I could finish my creative writing task and move on to more academic pursuits. But as I entered Starbucks, I couldn't find my pad or favorite pen. Not in a pants pocket, not tucked in my coat, neither inside my book bag nor in the outside pouch. I vaguely remembered sliding it under my leg during the slow motion descent of the tipsy passenger. Now it was gone. I've made use of found poetry before but this was the first time I'd lost it. I wondered what the finder might think.
No poem to work on and my desire to buy coffee vanished. So I turned around and continued walking toward campus. A block or so later, the only other white guy on the bus (works at the library: I once saw him reading from a Kindle) was coming toward me — and he was holding out my pad and pen. We exchange awkward scholarly chit-chat, barely speaking of the bus/ambulance incident. He went his way and I went mine. I'm sure I'll see him again on the bus but I don't have anything profound to share except to thank him for his conscientiousness. And after all that, I'm not sure I'd be all that pleased if I went back to read my SFD of a poem.
So these ideas tumbled out onto the little yellow pad. The bus filled, as it does in the morning, with one of the widest array of skin tones one could ever imagine. International students tend to cluster in an apartment complex on the edge of our town. Later on the trek, the
bus picks up a few more passengers in the parking lot of an old country general store. On this day, an Asian-American girl boarded along with a scruffy skinny boyfriend. All seats were filled so he took an unsteady position right in front of me. There was no more room to write and the views that were inspiring me were blocked. Instead of forests and ponds, a cheap carabiner with a couple of keys, clipped to the belt loop of brown jeans swayed in front of me.The view-blocker seemed unsure of how to stand on a bus. He'd grip one strap, then switch to a horizontal bar. And if he was with the girl, he was doing a bad job of being with her. As we approached campus, I noticed him turn toward her and lean in as if he had a secret to whisper. But that was all a prelude to his collapse.
Yep, collapsed. Head into the lap of my seatmate, a south Asian women who was probably horrified by the cross-gender physical contact. He folded into me a little bit but with the heft of a mannequin. A few people moved so he could stretch out on the floor, head on someone's backpack and feet up. He opened his eyes and I recognized the combination of being too warm, standing up, and not eating. That happened to me in a chow line as a Scout years ago. The driver pulled over just on the edge of campus, radioed for an ambulance, and the boy gradually regained his composure and expressed his embarrassment. Because we were at a stop, people trickled off to walk the rest of the way to their labs or cubicles. I stayed because he was right there at my feet and I didn't want to add to his shame by scurrying off. I did vacate when the ambulance arrived, and strolled away.
Mine was not a great first aid performance but fortunately, there was no obvious bleeding or stopped breathing or wacky convulsions. Just a bony young guy with temporary loss of muscle control. Since I had no place to be, I decided to take advantage of the nearby coffee shop where I could finish my creative writing task and move on to more academic pursuits. But as I entered Starbucks, I couldn't find my pad or favorite pen. Not in a pants pocket, not tucked in my coat, neither inside my book bag nor in the outside pouch. I vaguely remembered sliding it under my leg during the slow motion descent of the tipsy passenger. Now it was gone. I've made use of found poetry before but this was the first time I'd lost it. I wondered what the finder might think.
No poem to work on and my desire to buy coffee vanished. So I turned around and continued walking toward campus. A block or so later, the only other white guy on the bus (works at the library: I once saw him reading from a Kindle) was coming toward me — and he was holding out my pad and pen. We exchange awkward scholarly chit-chat, barely speaking of the bus/ambulance incident. He went his way and I went mine. I'm sure I'll see him again on the bus but I don't have anything profound to share except to thank him for his conscientiousness. And after all that, I'm not sure I'd be all that pleased if I went back to read my SFD of a poem.
