Each
week we do a writing exercise using lines from poems. Two weeks
ago, Carlos wrote a poem using the prompt, "She was too good for
him." The first draft was good. He brought it to the
workshop last week. There were suggestions. It is so hard
to take a poem from first draft to final version. That must be
why I don't write them anymore.
This
week I say, "Carlos, I've been thinking about that poem. I
think what you need to do is get into the female
character." Carlos looks at me with his eyebrows
raised. So does everyone else at the table, as if arched
eyebrows were a contagious disease. Then I realize what he is
thinking and say, “No, I mean into her head, her character, speak in
her voice, try to understand her viewpoint." There is need
for embellishment. "I read the covers of Whitley Streiber's
books last week. I saw a story about him in the
Express-News. He moved back to San Antonio. He's a San
Antonian, you know."
"Yes,
I know," says Carlos.
"His
book, The Hunger, is about a vampiress," I say.
"She has this insatiable need.
Not the bloodlust--in case you didn't know it, vampires are
very passionate. Relationships are difficult for them because
they're immortal. They see all of their human lovers wither and
die. So, I am thinking that the too-good-for-him woman in your
poem has a hunger. She is getting physical love from the guy but
she needs affection. Maybe she's not so heartbroken. Maybe
she's angry. But she knows how
hard it is to establish a relationship, even a bad one, and she
doesn't want to start that all over again.
This guy is pirouetting on the point of diminishing
returns. Soon, he's going to drop off into the abyss.
Before he does, she wants to suck the life out of him, figuratively of
course." I unfold the lyrics of a song I searched for
on the Internet and hand
them to Riva. "Can you sing this a cappella?"
She
hesitates at first. Then she recognizes Amanda McBroom's lyrics
to The Rose and agrees, because it's a diva song. She
starts softly, "Some say love..."
The
café is hushed and all eyes turn toward Riva as her voice builds in
strength. I look at Carlos. I have never seen a tear in
his eye, but I have seen him cry inside, as he does when he reads his
poem, as he is doing now. I look around the room and see that
same haunting sorrow in everyone's eyes.
Words
burrow and turn. Seeds and seasons blossom again. Snow
surrenders to sweet spring rain.
The
watchers hold their silence until the echo of Riva's voice departs.
Then
they applaud, as people do when they witness a spontaneous act of
incredible beauty beyond all expectation.
Magazine