The Weight of Trees

A note to begin

This is the final poem in The Starbucks Poetry Project blog. I have been writing twice a week for 6 months and have loved the challenge, the discipline, and the resulting work. I’ve also loved hearing from readers; it’s a great privilege to know my art has had an impact. I’m hoping to extend my reach by getting this collection into print… and into a coffee shop near you. Stay tuned, and thanks so much for sharing this space with me.

Overheard: Discussion between two people in their 20s who used to date:

Her: Is she your girlfriend?

Him: Um, I guess. I mean she lives in a different country, but yes.

Where it took me: I used a writing exercise that asks the writer to juxtapose two very different objects. There are lots of ways to find your objects, but I took ‘long-distance relationship’ from the overheard line and, after a long walk in my neighbourhood, the recent ice storm in Toronto as the other object. I used one of my favourite techniques, the scramble, to write the story before pairing all the first lines, second lines, and third lines. As I had hoped, breaking apart the lines this way forced the similarities between the ice storm and relationships to the fore in a very satisfying way.

The poem

The Weight of Trees

I walk the valley

in search of destruction:

branches in pieces,

power lines sailor-knotted.

Cub-scout badges

against the storm.

Eight days now.

Neatly trimmed and bundled,

life by the curb, changed completely.

I thought I wanted

the weight of trees.

White towels whip from sagging wires:

caution, or surrender.

I resist the pull.

A train wreck, but I’m struck.

How we remain connected.

How intricately we are strung.

Empathy

Overheard: Teenage girls over coffee planning their weekend of partying (already bought their Red Bull for their vodka).
Girl 1: My parents are SO brutal. I am so getting emancipated when I am 18 and buying a condo downtown.

Girl 2: OMG! The condos downtown are so nice!

Where it took me: Teenagers. You want to smack them and be them at the same time. How painfully I remember those years. And yet… really, girls? I used this overheard line along with one of my favourite writing methods: the letter. I write a lot of letters, including longhand ones that I send via snail mail to my friends who live far away. But some letters are not meant to be sent; just to be written, just so I can find a voice.

He Left the Train

Overheard: He was fine, sobering up, eating Chinese.

Where it took me: I’ve had two conversations with a new friend about traditional Chinese poetry, and have wanted to explore the form. The rather tangential fact that someone mentioned Chinese food in this line gave me the opportunity to research the basics of the form and use it to write a poem. I need to do more research to understand the form properly, so for the moment, the only resemblance to traditional Chinese poetry of this poem is the use of couplets and the use of 5 or 7 key words in each line.

The poem

He Left the Train

He was fine. Sobering up. Eating Chinese.

No more drinking. That was the deal.

She stepped out for a short errand:

a year to write; a cabin at the Nova Scotia shore.

She had a return ticket.

But he left the train.

Open door yields to a tidy apartment.

Everything in place; no scent of a life.

Her name lettered on an envelope

set empty on a spotless countertop.

The Newlyweds

Overheard: You’re not part of this conversation.

Where it took me: I used this line in conjunction with an exercise to imagine talking to one’s parents at the age they conceived you. That’s a conversation we are not part of, whatever choice they end up making.

The poem

The Newlyweds

They have this conversation by the shore in Maine

the summer that the cities burn.

It’s a bit of a beach, no pull for tourists.

Its north end is violent rock,

stone and ocean flung over and over.

Toward the south the rocks flatten.

A patch of sand the size of a picnic blanket

dries when the tide retreats.

To get there, they pick their way across the boulders.

She complies to shoes for the climb,

dismisses them the moment her toes touch sand;

the tug of history primal beneath her feet.

He keeps his laces tied.

They come here to taste the salt that proves

how small a decision it is

whether to bring a child into this inflamed world.

Their talk ebbs and flows.

Words skip across the surface, bounce and sink.

Her toes dig holes where she sits,

touch one intact shell, 

its details miniscule and complete.

On the Menu

Overheard: Everything bagel! Cup of ice!

Where it took me: I’m always amused by the things people order, even more so when I realize that some orders sound like personality traits. Since I’m a writer, I get to make things up anyway, so even if I’m guessing at those traits, that’s part of my job. And it’s Hallowe’en, a good day for considering the costumes in which we present ourselves to the world.

The poem

On the Menu

If we could order up people

like we order coffee:

Tall decaf. Blueberry scone.

Tall, not too excitable.

Blueberry; can be both wild and cultivated.

Scone; has some history. Sweet, but not cloying.

Everything bagel.

Overeager. Wants it all.

Bottled frapuccino and a pumpkin muffin.

Doesn’t care to wait. Gourd-shaped.

Grande caramel macchiato.

Open to possibility.  Pushes boundaries.

Tall banana latte.

Blonde. Unconventional.

Iced venti latte.

Cold, direct. Needs a lot of coffee.

Cup of ice.

Sexually frustrated.

Viennese coffee.

European, arty, distinguished.

In here, people don’t look like their dogs.

They resemble their drink orders.

Lowering the Bar

Overheard: I made broccoli yesterday and I didn’t forget to turn off the pot.

Where it took me: Another exception to the usual process; this line was a line a friend said to me in response to a conversation she’d overheard. She may have felt a tiny bit inadequate about her own cooking; though she should not, especially given that she spends her days bringing compassion to people at the hardest time of their life. We set the priorities that let us be content in the world. When I am content, I am a better person, friend, partner, and parent. Anything I can do to achieve that works for me.

The Art of Poetry

Overheard: I don’t know how much of it is the anxiety.

Where it took me: I used this line in conjunction with a poetry challenge to find a metaphor for writing poetry, but without naming poetry in the finished product. As it turns out, I didn’t exactly use it as a metaphor, more as part of a recipe for what goes into a poem.