Anything can prompt a poem. But deep within one’s verses is a question yearning, screaming, aching, pleading to be answered.
That’s what was a topic of discussion on Sep. 29 inside the Winchester Community Center. National Poet Laureate Tracy Smith held a small workshop on writing poetry, with a brief Q&A afterward.
After reading her poem, “Dusk” (below) Smith talked about her question. Her daughter was growing older and, like all children, becoming more independent. How that showed is what Smith took time to describe, using a quiet time between the two of them just before dusk.
Smith then asked the audience to think of their question. Mine went along the lines of:
When did I stop singing?
Why did move from in front of the camera to behind the camera?
What do I see in the mirror?
If you’re writing some poetry or prose, write down a question that you’re just dying to discover the answer to.
Dusk
Tracy K. Smith
What woke to war in me those years
When my daughter had first grown into
A solid self-centered self? I’d watch her
Sit at the table—well, not quite sit,
More like stand on one leg while
The other knee hovered just over the chair.
She wouldn’t lower herself, as if
There might be a fire, or a great black
Blizzard of waves let loose in the kitchen,
And she’d need to make her escape. No,
She’d trust no one but herself, her own
New lean always jittering legs to carry her—
Where exactly? Where would a child go?
To there. There alone. She’d rest one elbow
On the table—the opposite one to the bent leg
Skimming the solid expensive tasteful chair.
And even though we were together, her eyes
Would go half dome, shades dropped
Like a screen at some cinema the old aren’t
Let into. I thought I’d have more time! I thought
My body would have taken longer going
About the inevitable feat of repelling her,
But now, I could see even in what food
She left untouched, food I’d bought and made
And all but ferried to her lips, I could see
How it smacked of all that had grown slack
And loose in me. Her other arm
Would wave the fork around just above
The surface of the plate, casting about
For the least possible morsel, the tiniest
Grain of unseasoned rice. She’d dip
Into the food like one of those shoddy
Metal claws poised over a valley of rubber
Bouncing balls, the kind that lifts nothing
Or next to nothing and drops it in the chute.
The narrow untouched hips. The shoulders
Still so naïve as to stand squared, erect,
Impervious facing the window open
Onto the darkening dusk.