Ondine

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Ondine
She's got everything she needs, She's an artist, she don't look back. She's got everything she needs, She's an artist, she don't look back. She can take the dark out of the nighttime And paint the daytime black. --Bob Dylan

2006-03-29 11:20 AM
Last Night for Poetry Class

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I just finished putting together my poetry class portfolio. What a great class. I miss it already, and am very relieved I am taking the intermediate one with Laurel. I had to write an essay about the class, posting it here:

Poetry Class Essay

I began writing poetry after I got lost in my second novel. The novel was about a girl, named Deathwish. Her rage mingled with magic, which caused a massive earthquake that separated Los Angeles from reality. Bees that contained the souls of those who died in the quake swept her away with them. I knew I wanted to reconnect Los Angeles back to our universe and find Deathwish’s redemption, but I couldn’t figure out how.

Around the same time I became stuck in the novel, my son was diagnosed with psychotic depression and my husband decided to end our marriage, setting me adrift with our children, our sick boy. I couldn’t figure out how to reconnect anything, much less Los Angeles to reality.

So, I started writing poetry.

It was haphazard and unplanned. I was journal writing, and I realized my entries had a rhythm. With just a nudge here, a cut there, they turned into poems. I had no clue, though, what I was doing—what made it a poem. It was all intuitive, like being a mother to a sick boy. It was near my birthday, so I decided I’d give myself a present and sign up for beginning poetry at UCLA Extension.

Poetry class felt a lot like the dojo, both a sanctuary and a room of learning. Laurel was a master of the craft, master at teaching. I was hungry at that first class and Laurel fed us candy and words: imagery, diction. She defined poetry: The art of compression.

As classes continued, so did the vocabulary. I found a language of craft that overlapped with prose, along with words that were specific for poetry: denotative, connotative, syntax, end-jammed, alliteration, assonance. There were forms of poetry as well: formal, informal, colloquial, vulgar, neutral.

I began to see a structure to what I was trying to do, a road map. Control seeped in with the knowledge, a relief in art as life continued in chaos. Laurel instructed: Place main ideas in main clauses, subordinate ideas in subordinate clauses; use the active voice; vary sentence structure; set the most significant part of the sentence at the end; use unusual syntax and diction only when appropriate and meaningful.

Break any rule that makes you sound like a damn fool.

As I looked through my notes for the class, I was struck with how many times I wrote imagery.

Emotions alone are not a subject. There must be context to emotion and no ideas but in things. Use what I know but don’t fall into the abyss of sentimentality, of clichés, of focusing on what everyone sees.

Class grew spooky with the secret assignment. Evy got my secret and then wore that sweat shirt with the name of my secret’s hometown when she read her poem. I loved Evy’s poetry. I loved the effort it took to understand it and then the rush of emotion when the words came together in my head. Her words made me cry more than once. It was an honor to end the class with her, Evangeline, Jill, and Katie. They taught me so much. I hope they continue with the intermediate class.

The assignments were a blessing. I felt guilty being handed such juicy ideas for writing. I still want to tackle a sestina, and I want to do more ghazals and opposite poems.

The words that described poetry were lovely in themselves: synesthesia, onomatopoeia, animism, and synescdoche.
Poems had shape and music: As I worked on the Worn poem, I realized the shape of the stanzas looked like a tattered hem. That pleased me a lot!

I like using moleskine notebooks for writing journal stuff. My notes for poetry class are nestled between my secrets and hopes, my raging. I hand write journal stuff and print lecture notes, structure to the amorphous mess. The beginnings of my poems from class assignments are in there, too, and names of poets we read in class.

I loved reading at Dutton’s book store. It was weird, but I felt relaxed, reading my stories to good friends.

Not to be clichéd about it, but this class opened the door. I have gained some understanding about what is a poem, about the structure in poetry. I am excited about continuing the learning process.

I’ve started working on the novel again. The poetry has helped me find my way back to Los Angeles and that angry little girl.

I think I’d like a B+ for my class grade. Partly for the bee souls that steal Deathwish and partly because A’s are so final, kind of depressing.

Laurel, thank you for this class. It’s been wonderful, and I can’t wait for the next one.

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