Unit 8

 

Lecture

 

Writing “section” poems.

 

About the Poem Content

Usually this type of poem will have a strong topic that is tied together by the poem. The topic is up to you. At this point in the semester, you have written enough poems to know which topic appeals to you the most – landscape, political, family, memory, or nature. There may have been a subject area that seemed like you could write about that forever – this is the topic to explore for your section poem. Go back to that topic for the free writing exercise and mine it again. This unit is more about structure than topic.

 

The “section” poem can have the following structural characteristics:

sections are connected by repetition of words, phrases and that indicate family, place, history, nature, temporal movement, or landscape

i.e. specific place names, terms associated with topics – like science, math, nursing terms – any words that help connect the reader in movement from one section to another,

the sections can be multi-stanza for movement,

i.e. time, months, names of places, people,

 

The above characteristics are suggestions for your poem’s editing process. After you’ve drafted your poem for this unit you’ll want to go back through to see if the poem fulfills the expectations of the assignment. This is part of the editing process.

 

Let’s look at the following example poem. Explication will follow in the video.

 

by Dorothy Barnett

 

100% Cotton

 

I.

We were travellers those years

riding the winding blacktop,

always reaching westward towards

the next river and back again

 

Row after row of heavy brown

plants, curled

and straight, clicked-

by, outside the car window

 

For miles the cotton fields released

white into drifts gathering in eddies

along the railroad tracks

 

New England snow-white

littered the Panhandle roadside

in dead of summer hell

 

At the roadside turnaround

we stopped for our lunch

of yellow-orange cheese

and big wheel bologna

sandwiches

 

In the distance I could see

the u-shaped stooped backs

of the pickers as they worked

their way down the long

rows stretching out

a lifetime

 

My mother’s hand took me

into the fields to touch the white

bolls of her history, we waded past

knife sharp brown leaves waist

high, we waded deep into the field,

our car a faded blue speck

under the trees in the distance

 

My mother’s hand took mine ther

in the field, she covered the boll

with our hands, her hand, my hand

the soft white hidden by frown broken

sharp as glass blades

 

II.

My mother’s people came

from Oklahoma dirt to Texas

during the Depression

 

Her mother walked barefoot on the reservation,

twisted her long black hair into a braided

crown, dipped brown acrid snuff

and married a Dutchman wandering through

 

They worked the hard land for

fourteen years and thirteen babies

before the dust nearly buried them

then the let the dry wind blow

them south to Houston

 

Where tent city slums waited and poverty

wore the color gray, where muddy

water gathered around the base

of communal copper spigots, where

mosquitoes and dusty shell roads

stretched out a lifetime

 

My mother’s father pulled her out

of school in the third grade, put her

in fields to pick cotton, to help out,

she was eight,   years later he would crawl

into her bed at night, sink into her and

her cotton mattress, touch her while her mother cried

 

The fields of cotton-white clouds sweeping

the earth-became her haven,

her quick hands found the sticky

bolls fast and sure, she pulled her weight

fifty pounds, then a hundred,  the long

full bag following behind in the narrow row,

stretching out her lifetime

 

The plants towered above her, hiding her,

her shape hiding, hiding her from his shape,

at thirteen she ran away, married a drunk

wandering through,

he kept her in the fields to help out,

years of abuse left the dry landscape

of her body barren

 

III.

That day of my childhood field, as our hands curled

around the cotton white, my mother’s voice said,

there’s a softness in life and a hardness

sometimes there’s no difference

in the two

 

That day in the field-white, my mother’s voice,

my mother’s hand, my hand, the cotton,

sometimes all we have

are the memories.

 

Explication

 

Links to other note or list poems in the student literary journal:

 

The Rio Review – Spring 1998

A Family Cycle by Jason Mondine

 

 

The Rio Review – Spring 2000

Now, Even, Sometime for the Dying by Shawn Badgley

Since 1884 by Shawn Badgley

 

Poem Assignment 8

 

Reader’s Response 8

 

Poem Assignment 8

 

·      Read the student prose poems in the Rio Review for examples.

·      Using any of the topics from the free writing exercises write a section poem.

·      Give the poem a title.

·      Make sure the poem is in at least 3 sections and long enough to feel movement - a beginning, middle and end.

·      Make sure your poem has the elements of a section poem as defined in the section – Section Poem.

 

 

 

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