Crossroads
I spotted the Slurpee advertisement at 7-Eleven and catapulted back to the early 70s. Summer time in Maryland — high humidity and torrid temperatures and blue slurpees. Sugar sweet frozen ice in a cup— collectible cups.
My last Slurpee was bought on the way to Hope college in Michigan. We— my next door neighbor found a three day poetry workshop and it didn’t take any convincing for me to sign on.
It probably seemed odd for two women to drive so far for a three day workshop that only met for two hours each day. But we knew the instructor who had been a neighbor for several years.
What did I learn those three days? Good diction is only one part of a poem. You need to lay bare the emotional truth. No one teaches you how to mine that truth, how to stay open and receptive.
In three days I learned that my poetry stopped before moving to the edge, that a blue Slurpee turns to liquid in a hot non-air conditioned car, and that Lake Michigan looks like the ocean.
I never had another Slurpee. I rewrote a number of poems and discovered that seeking the emotional truth in a poem can be both exhilarating and a bit akin to walking on a tightrope.
I spent two afternoons by myself — walking on the beach, sketching, writing, and wondering about the poems we choose to write and the ones we choose not to write.
My last Slurpee was bought on the way to Hope college in Michigan. We— my next door neighbor found a three day poetry workshop and it didn’t take any convincing for me to sign on.
It probably seemed odd for two women to drive so far for a three day workshop that only met for two hours each day. But we knew the instructor who had been a neighbor for several years.
What did I learn those three days? Good diction is only one part of a poem. You need to lay bare the emotional truth. No one teaches you how to mine that truth, how to stay open and receptive.
In three days I learned that my poetry stopped before moving to the edge, that a blue Slurpee turns to liquid in a hot non-air conditioned car, and that Lake Michigan looks like the ocean.
I never had another Slurpee. I rewrote a number of poems and discovered that seeking the emotional truth in a poem can be both exhilarating and a bit akin to walking on a tightrope.
I spent two afternoons by myself — walking on the beach, sketching, writing, and wondering about the poems we choose to write and the ones we choose not to write.
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