Ink and Vein

I do this thing sometimes called “Poems-to-Go.”

It’s not my idea. I got it from the creative writing department at my graduate program. The poets would set up a table with typewriters and take “orders” for poems. You could write a theme, words you wanted, a topic, or do poet’s choice.

I purchased a poem, once, from Ibby, who has since passed away. I still treasure it. I did poet’s choice, and they wrote about moss and ocean and it was as if they tapped into my heart and homesickness for the Pacific Northwest.

It was magic.

The first time I tried it myself, I went to a Makers Market in Salida right before Valentine’s Day. I had my typewriter and my order forms, with space for the poem topic, poem themes, and words to include. The customer can fill out as much or as little as they like.

The first poem I wrote was for a woman who asked for a poem for her son. As she wrote out her order form, she gave me his name and age, and not much else.

This is what I wrote:

For Crew

I would write a poem for you
if I could
but you, my wild child, you run around
too fast for me to be still long enough
for me to be still enough to put pen to paper
I wouldn’t trade the time to write for
my time with you, curly headed boy
who holds my heart.

joyful laughter and mournful tears
all ups and all downs
and switching so quickly between
i am not sure whether I am up or down
but I do know I love this whirlwind of life
with you as my child.

While she filled out her order form, she was distracted, watching to make sure she could see her toddler. The poem was for him, for his birthday. She said she used to write poetry, but never had the time, now, and couldn’t focus with her active child taking a lot of her attention. She sounded a little flustered, as she tried to fill out the order form and grab her curly-headed boy before he toppled something at another stall.

Once she had gone to do some other errands and shopping, I set to work and texted her when the poem was ready.

Tears filled her eyes as she read.

“How did you know?” she asked. “It’s just like this.”

I’ve had other customers say the same thing; they wonder how I get everything from just a few words. I wonder, sometimes, if the wording is vague enough, expressive enough, that they can see themselves in the words, that anyone would be able to see themselves in the words.

Another part of me, though, answers this way: I get everything from them. While they fill out their order form, I chat with them a little and ask them questions. I look at their body language and their facial expressions. I notice their energy.

We share space, we exchange energy.

They think I do all the work, but to me it’s a collaboration.

I take what they offer me, and transform it into a poem.

It feels like magic, to them, and to me, too. The words flow, and the poems I produce are mine, but also not.

Perhaps there’s a little bit of alchemy that comes through the metal of the typewriter keys, a little transmutation in the hard strike and return of each keystroke.

I wrote 10 poems on June 30th. 10 collaborations, 10 reflections on the words I was given, 10 translations of experiences shared into words on the page. I wrote love poems. I wrote an ode to dogs. I wrote poems for two little boys who wanted to say something special for their parents. I wrote a poem from a daughter-in-law to her mother-in-law.

None of their situations were mine, and yet, somehow, they resonated with the words I placed on the page.

I don’t think it’s that my poetry is exceptional; I still feel uncomfortable calling myself a poet (though “writer” feels more comfortable all the time). I do think there is something in the experience of collaboration, in the intensity of the moment, the time constraint and even the distraction, that helps me get right to the heart of what the person is asking me to write.

That’s the magic.