Don’t Pity Me
Why not a super close up the nose shot?
I know it’s poetry month. There is all this division around genre–this is how you write fiction, this is how you write poems, this is how you write a personal essay, a lyric essay, blah blah blah. But the best pieces of writing have some things in common. And what you learn from a generous teacher in any genre will apply to your writing in every other genre. Lately I’ve been struggling with this, as the calendar marches toward thesis time and my writing continues to meander in every direction–I’m writing a poem, then I’m writing a scientific article, then I’m writing an essay, then I’m writing a case study. Oh, and the book? Is it poetry, Seema? Prose? Are you a poet? An essayist? Well…um…
My undergrad thesis was about the relationship between form and content. I argued that the story itself reveals its form. Write it a bunch of different ways. You’ll know which one is correct, but you’ll learn something with every version you write. However you write it, always start with images.
On the last day of the WP bookfair, when all the presses were selling books for cheap, a woman standing next to me at the Alice James booth pointed to the last copy of Slamming Open the Door, with its innocuous white cover, an image of a ladybug under the script of the title, and said, “I couldn’t put that one down.” The name was vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place why. I bought it. Then I opened it and remembered.
I first encountered Bonanno’s work when she read on a panel at WP several years ago. She read some poems and told a little about the theme–these are her poems about the murder of her daughter. I thought, “This woman, these poems are brilliant. I will never read this book. My heart cannot take it.”
It had to find its way into my hands, I suppose. Photographed below is her poem, “Confessions” Take that first line—Don’t pity me and write it down. Then respond with images, either from one day, as I did in the poem that follows, or with whatever images come to mind.
Set the timer for 20 minutes, email me if you like.
Ready, set…
Don’t Pity Me
It is opening day.
The kids spill out of the car in uniform
bright purple, powdery blue
I sit on the bleachers behind children
clumped by color around the diamond
Reading a book, hitting the metal seat plank
with the palm of my right hand whenever
there is applause.
Sometimes I look up.
Red balloons are released, then caught
on the high fence behind home plate,
teams are called by name, more applause,
obediently I strike the seat.
The mayor in pale pants, short-sleeved jacket,
ball cap perched on a hair-sprayed head
talks about small towns and tradition
gets ready to throw the first pitch
to a child from the instructional league
By the time I realize the name called is my child’s
and leave my purse on the step of the bleachers
fumble to the camera on my phone
and run toward the field,
the ball has already fallen.
