|
Teaching
an Ars Poetica |
Juliana
Gray |
Sewanee
Young Writers' Conference 2005 |
We
draft, define, debate |
emotional
truth versus common sense, |
line
and rhyme, meter and heart, |
delineate
the nuts and bolts |
that join
our monster’s parts. |
I
tell them Stevens’s definition— |
a
pheasant disappearing |
into
the brush—and ask |
for
imitations. One by one |
my
students take up chalk. |
Poetry,
they write, is the specter |
of
your winter breath. A snapshot |
at
the bottom of a river. |
The
fringe of foam that clings |
to
your glass. An atheist |
in
a Christian school. An ostrich |
in
a backyard swimming pool. |
A
hallway lit by weak fluorescents |
that
only show how far, how dark. |
A
screen door, unlatched. |
And
now, I teach a hard lesson. |
I’ve
stolen all their lines. |
Poetry,
my children, |
is
a cool green wine bottle |
smashed
to shards below the neck. |
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