We asked the poems to write a poem in the voice of their alter-ego
The poets see me endless and incorrigible, see me in black and white and red and showing up just right on time on a Wednesday all wet. It is September and life’s edges have crisped. A relieving exhale plunges through the city and sends us all inside to leather couches and poetry all bound.
The Wizard arrived before me. My time these days, like a cramped bookshelf, slots of time filled and I am finding myself in circles only when I have time. The poem I wrote for this Workshop was the first thing I’ve written in about a week. I gave myself this last week of September off from writing. Reframing my inconsistencies as small vacations, remembering what things really mean. As I sit now, collecting these materials and writing in the quiet of my home for now, I am glad to be back, glad to be sitting with synapse, glad to be in the glow of what life can be sometimes, life in my city, life w/ the poets.
On the table, we set up our materials, skirt to skirt in the book bar. It was slow slow to fill up. Nik & Mc & Red & Grimm, the Pilot, the Wizard, the Owl in disguise, Punky and Achilles and Edie and the Scribbler, reliably here. The Rat pulled up fashionably late and fragrant. By the time the list was underway, more folks had filtered in from the changing seasons, to listen to some poetry downtown.
It was a night of tying and untying knots - the red twine around the Dirt, the masks around our faces and tied at the back of heads, a stitching of poems holding us all together. Some of the poets had masks of strength and some had swirling masks of illusion, some poets looked down and didn’t see their feet, poems grew to the size of trees, buildings, some as small as stones, some the same size, the same shapes as we knew, but hey, they sound different tonight, don’t you think? An odd honesty among the flowers?
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I N T H E R E C O R D I N G
This month, the Wizard and I have been juggling and seeing how many balls we can toss up at once. We plan our Halloween costumes. We tie knots and then bows and then dreams. We wash our inky hands in the river. Neither of us had discussed what materials we would be carting w/ us in our sacks for this Workshop, trusting the other to align just right, as it has tended to go thus far.
Benjamine brought w/ them a signed book of Poems by Jim Crenner, a former professor of theirs. The poems I read from Drinks at The Stand-Up Tragedy Club were written to mimic the poetic voice of Emily Dickinson. Or maybe not mimic, maybe mirror, maybe mask, maybe the strangest collaboration that writing can be sometimes. Our voice and all the other voices. No one voice belonging to one poet, no Gods in art, just something to worship.
No Gods in art, I write, holding my falling apart copy of The Lords & the New Creatures. M had gifted this to me, I still have the sharpie-on-receipt love note she left, I keep it as a bookmark in the back. We pulled this prompt from a list created when we initially started the Workshop and though I was excited to write for it, I wasn’t sure what would constitute a sample poem. I went back to my roots, which, for me, is Jim Morrison. I’m proud of myself for holding out until the 10th Workshop (joking, kind of).
Morrison is a poet who has inspired me to lean into tonal shifts and character when writing. There is a more quiet, observant voice in the Metamorphose piece whereas the Jackal piece is more menacing, more embodied and eerie. Morrison as a poet and Morrison as a rock star, is one way to read it, though those personas can even be viewed as alter-egos.
Benjamine texted me Tuesday night while working on their piece for the Workshop at the poets’ bar. We were excited about this prompt for a lot of reasons and I think it’s one we will return to, as characters tend to develop and mature over time, falling in and out of our lives as they do. Both Benjamine and I leaned in unexpected directions in our work this month. More feminine, more mysterious, likening ourselves to softer things as we brace for the cold. Like Benjamine, Penny is a floral, riddling poet, dreaming liquid dreams of self. Like Crenner, Penny seems to look to Emily Dickinson for inspiration as well, and so the worship continues on. Perhaps we’ll hear more from Penny J’espere as she embarks on her poetic journey on the page.
My masks tend to be more archetypical and symbolic. As August dies, I am left w/ souless spiders in corners left alone, webs overrun w/ dust, a study in patience and persistence. I’ve been wearing a lot of black and white and brown w/ pops of red. Recently, I held the molted skin of a tarantula, it’s long fangs still shining on an old, crumpled form. The spider in my bathroom retired to shadows. I temper my time carefully these days, shifting priorities and remaining open, rebuilding what I cherish and getting swept up in the world.
As I said, this was the first piece I had written in a bit, so it came out probably longer than it needed to, but I was weaving something, am weaving something still, in collaboration w/ mystery. As September is about to die, October looms. It’s almost Halloween. To me, the Spider is tempered, timely, always creating, always adapting. The Spider goes everywhere, anywhere, and is naturally alluring. The Spider is feared, whether it is warranted or not. The Spider is very aware of its size. I think the poem will tell you all you need to know.
I will be channeling this animalism onward as Fall really leans into itself. Today, it is in the 60s here in Maine. I am layered up and sweating, sweeping dust and cobwebs together. I cross small small things off my to-do list and watch the web develop. The poets all buzzing close together in costume, closer to themselves & closer to us.
✺ In the spirit of the Internet, if anyone would like to participate virtually in the Workshop to some degree, be sure to follow Portland Poets Society on instagram and please get in touch w/ me somehow and we can develop that together.
The Workshop X