Playing Fair and Being Kind

SAN DIEGO WRITERS GROUP

March 12, 2015

During my cross country trip in 2015 I was informed and then invited to attend a writers group that meets each Thursday in San Diego by Adam Stutz a Facebook friend. The format is for someone to present a piece of their poetry and then the group helps to edit. The intention is to keep the person writing and coming back to the group. Therefore the criticisms are gentle, constructive, and instructive all around.

The person who presents then facilitates a writing session for the other members, and takes part as well. This evening Adam facilitated and passed out books of poetry from the hosts library and directed us to use the first and last lines found in the selections published in the volume. We were to use the last line found as our first line and the first line found as our last line. Then we were to write a poem using the lines as directed and we were given about 15 minutes to complete the exercise.

I was given a book of poems by Mary Oliver, “American Primitive”. The first line is from her poem “August” and the last line is from her poem “The Gardens”. The lines are reversed in order in my finished poem.

Discovered Fruit

The rousing great run toward

            the interior, the unseen,

            the unknowable center.

That space behind the

            last place,

Where no one has tasted

            the salty blood of a

            live being.

With breathless joy

            to arrive home,

Deeply hidden from all

            others.

Unreachable for as long

            as I like,

To arrive and sit in

            Peace,

Blood cooling and

            senses returning.

To recognize the openness

            of the last place

            behind the deepest space,

To find this private garden.

Sitting and melding into

            the surrounding fabric,

            flora, fauna, stone

And Sand.

Now standing and turning

            to examine one’s center,

            to smell and taste in this

Soft space,

This last place.

This arbor of self love,

            to taste the fruits

            and juice of life gone-

What will come…

When the blackberries hang

            swollen in the woods,

In the brambles nobody

            owns?

G. M. Goodwin
16 January 2021