The Big Conversation

FYI--This painting reminds me of weeping.  It seems a good image to illustrate Neruda's Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair, which is about the birth, life, and death of love.  Painting by John Kimber

click.... John Kimber's Web Gallery  ....click

In my Imaginative Writing classes, I often talk about what I call "The Big Conversation."  The Big Conversation is what writers say to each other, through their own stories and poems.  Some of my favorite poems are those written "to" or "in honor of" another writer.  It is a way of acknowledging that we aren't lone wolves, laboring away in some dark place--others have come before us from whom we learn and to whom we owe a debt of thanks. 

One writing exercise that I do is the group poem.  I will bring envelopes into class with a phrase or prompt written on it, and each student will write something in response to the prompt, placing it in the envelope.  I usually take three times more prompts than I have students.  After a few weeks (after everyone has forgotten the exercise and they can come to the material fresh) I bring the envelopes back to class.  Each student chooses an envelope and composes a poem in 10 minutes, a poem based on their classmates' responses.  They don't have to use all the responses, and they can change words.  Examples of prompts I used this semester are:  "What I Must Say To My Inner Critics," "Something I Did Not See Today," "While Writing This Poem I Felt Night Descending," "Other Lies I Have Told."

This exercise never fails to yield great results.  It gets students out of their rut of writing about the same things in the same ways.  The poems are surprisingly good, even through the students spend very little time on them.  This teaches them that you don't always have to labor for hours to write something. 

Another way I do group poems is to have the students engage in a "Big Conversation" with another writer.  This semester, I asked students to write a few lines from the point of view of a crazed fan of Pablo Neruda.  The students had read, aloud in class, Neruda's collection Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair.  I told the students to make specific references to Neruda's poems.  I gave them about five minutes to do this.  I collected their lines and took them back to my office and composed a poem in about five minutes.  I posted it on their message board, where they all share group poems, individual poems, stories, and where we also talk about the writing life. 

This is the group poem (specific references to Neruda's work are in quotation marks).  Obviously, these group poems don't pass for "great" literature--they are meant to be stepping stones to other works, but look what was accomplished in a matter of just a few minutes:

FROM A CRAZED FAN

Dear Pablo,

There is no reason

to write sad

lines, I am

here.  All night

I lay awake, dreaming

of you, calling out your

name "so you will

hear me."  I have so

much to say

to you.  I know every

wrinkle on your face, every

move of your hand:  "Sometimes

my kisses go on those heavy vessels

that cross the sea towards

no arrival".

Pablo,

Can I call you that?  Take me

under you wing, show me

your ways.

Ah vastness!

Here, I love you.  I slam my head

against the cold, hard wall.  I

write this letter

"so you will hear me."

Pablo.  I love your

name.  I love you.  I want

to put your soul in a jar.

What are you wearing

right now?

Your poems are about

me, my eyes, voice, grace.

I am your "Girl lithe

and Tawny," your "White Bee!"

Come find me! 

I will make you happy.  You must

know that your poems

are about me, meant for my ears.

Sweet Pablo.  I saw you

once, picking among the

ships.  I remember you

as you were, a man, musky

with quivering intent.  I

have gone marking my arms

with psalms

that bleed for you, fresh

as false prophesy. 

Let me write with you "so

that you will hear me."

Let me meet you again

or my life

will be "a song of despair." 

If I could choose

one thing

to finish my life with, it

would be you.

Your poetry

is enough.