Reinventing Poets

My high school creative writing teacher was a legend in our agricultural corner of the county. Well, she was to me. She drove a red Volkswagen Beetle and had two black and white French bulldogs. And she was an honest writer.

Each week, she had us select a poem - by anyone, from anywhere - and respond to four prompts or questions about it. This was my favorite of the four:

Think about the poet who created this piece. Describe the poet's age and gender. Describe the environment in which this poet would write. What does the poet like to eat or drink? Does the poet have pets? If so, what kind? What style of clothing would the poet wear? What kind of music would play in the background as the poet writes?

Over the course of the semester, I grew to love painting pictures of poets. After examining one of their pieces, but without Googling their face, life story or other poems, I'd reinvent them as I imagined them.

For example, in a composition book entry dated February 25, 2015, I copied and pasted the following poem by Mary Cornish. I found it through a Library of Congress Poet Laureate project from Billy Collins called Poetry 180.

Hand Shadows

My father put his hands in the white light

of the lantern, and his palms became a horse

that flicked its ears and bucked; an alligator

feigning sleep along the canvas wall leapt up

and snapped its jaws in silhouette, or else

a swan would turn its perfect neck and drop

a fingered beak toward that shadowed head

to lightly preen my father's feathered hair.

Outside our tent, skunks shuffled in the woods

beneath a star that died a little every day,

and from a nebula of light diffused

inside Orion's sword, new stars were born.

My father's hands became two birds, linked

by a thumb, they flew one following the other.

And here is what I wrote about the Mary Cornish my imagination created after reading "Hand Shadows."

Mary Cornish doesn't have any children. No, it's just Mary and Peter living in that log cabin. Yeah, that's right, the little yellow glow on the side of the mountain. I'll bet they're dancing together. In their living room, with the lights dim, he's probably twirling her around and then holding her close as they waltz. Up around these parts rarely anyone does the waltz.

I saw them in the grocery store one time, by the soup and canned vegetables. She looked terrible. Poor Mary had circles under her eyes. Her dark hair had been brushed with a pinecone and a squirrel had dressed her that morning. She said something. Something I couldn't hear from over by the bread. And Peter just put his arms around her. They stayed that way for a while, and then I had to leave.

Another time I drove by their little house and saw them on the roof. This time she was laughing. It was night, but I could see, with the help of the moon, that she was just glowing. Head tilted back, eyes wide open staring at the stars. She seemed to be a part of the sky. I slowed my car down, stared hard at the same section of stars, but didn't see anything. I wondered what made her smile like she was. Peter wasn't holding her.

I invite you, fellow Vocal Creators, to respond to my creative writing teacher's prompt. Select a poem by an artist you do not know. Read it, imagine the author in whatever way the poem directs you, and tell us who you see.

The prompt is not meant to create a space for ridicule. My reinvention of Ms. Cornish came from a place of respect and awe. And any similarities between the person 16-year-old Emma described and an actual individual are purely coincidental.

I found as a teen that the prompt nourished my voice as a narrator and allowed me to explore character development techniques. I see it now as a high form of people-watching.

Drop your responses to the prompt in the comments so I can see them. And be sure to tell us where you found your poem and poet. But, most importantly, have fun! I can't wait to see who you reinvent.

- Emma