Copyright © 2010 by Barbara Alfaro
I stayed in
a quiet, non-smoking dorm. My friend Ann stayed in a “cool” dorm that had its
own bar and an impressive amount of marijuana available. Ann fell in with a
small clique who called themselves “the campus cats,” enjoyed gossip, and a
local biker bar. In our forties, Ann and I were like the respected “elders” of
a tribe since we’d both actually attended the original rock and roll concerts.
My roommate was a rabbi whose husband was also a rabbi. Returning to my room
after a poetry workshop, I’d hear the sweet sound of her playing the ram’s
horn. Reading or writing poetry at my desk, I’d
pause between stanzas to look at the lush Vermont Vermont
Large
circles of adolescent and middle-aged students, mostly women, were taught “how
to” write poetry. We became a bit snobbish about rhymed poetry and slyly
judgmental toward traditional, structured form. Veiled, never voiced, the preference
at Goddard was clearly for free verse and confessional poetry. We were taught
that free verse isn’t really that “free” if well written. Before Goddard I had
discovered William Blake, Marianne Moore, Elizabeth Bishop, Wallace Stevens and
Robert Lowell “on my own” but Goddard and the Marks introduced me to Rilke,
Paz, and Neruda, Galway Kinnell, Andrienne Rich, Seamus Heaney and Mark Strand.
I remember writing poems in the garden surrounding “the Witches’ Well” but I
don’t remember the legend concerning the witches. I imagine they practiced
their craft on that very spot and it was not writing poetry. Evenings, lit
students debuted their poems and themselves at poetry readings, singing like
crickets praise of works that were read by others. We all seemed generous and
happy and as far from scholarly as the planet Neptune .
I couldn’t fathom why I was so nervous reading my poems in a roomful of kindred
spirits when in the past I’d acted calmly before audiences of thousands in
Shakespeare in the Park. Later, I realized it was because my thoughts, not
those of a genius playwright, were being shared.
“The
Goddard experience” as alluded to by the faculty, included a recital where for
the first and last time I heard a cow’s jawbone played as a musical instrument.
The musician wore overalls and a not exactly clean T-shirt. A friend assured me
playing an animal’s jawbone was not uncommon in rural areas. It was a lot to
absorb for a New Yorker used to jazz clubs and Bloomingdales. Another
theatrical event at Goddard was an all nude dance performance in the barn.
Belly down, flat, splayed out, the dancers slid across the wood floor as I
worried they would get splinters in indelicate locations. Demonstrating my
almost religious disregard for the practical, I chose classic fairy tales for
my senior study. Surely, every prospective employer would like to chitchat with
me about The Psychological Meaning of
Redemption Motifs in Fairytales by M.L. von Franz.
I love
looking through my poetry books from that almost enchanted time and seeing
which pages I dog-eared and which poems I blessed with multiple exclamation
marks – two for wonderful, three for divine. For some poems, Rilke’s “The
Swan,” Neruda’s “Dream Horse,” pencil marks and dog-ears seemed sacrilege so
I’d type these poems in their entirety and keep them nearby. In his essay,
“Poetry in the World,” Mark Strand touches on how comfortable people are not
caring about poetry. I always suspect people who say poetry isn’t for them
haven’t read much poetry. “Proverbs” by Octavio Paz, “Because I Could Not Stop
for Death” by Emily Dickinson and “The Moose” by Elizabeth Bishop ought to
convert readers to noticing poetry is
for them. Massimo Troisi, the Italian actor, knew he was dying of a heart
condition, yet completed his gentle and moving performance in the film “Il
postino.” This beautiful film brought Neruda’s poetry to filmgoers in the same
way Tom Hulce’s perfect Amadeus in
that extraordinary film brought Mozart’s music to new listeners.
I’ve never
understood writers who say writing is torture. For me, writing is a joy and a
kind of alchemy. Pain through distance and distillation can be transmuted into
something else, sometimes humor. And humor heals. Years ago, recently divorced
and almost broke, I was suffering from a long and severe depression. When
shopping in a local supermarket I was about to pass a store clerk who was
standing on a low shelf in order to arrange cereal boxes on a high shelf when
he lost his balance and fell, fanny first into my empty shopping cart. Startled
and amused, we both laughed and I blurted, “Have you fallen for me?” I actually
felt my depression kicked away in an instant by this accidental humor. I
imagined the gods on Mount
Olympus
Because of
my Goddard experience, I began to take myself seriously as a writer. I was
thrilled when my poem “Oddly American” was accepted by a respected poetry
journal. I was also thrilled when the editor of the journal called to ask my
approval before making a minor grammatical change in the poem. Having worked as
a secretary for so many years, respect was a foreign substance. Writing has
always had a healing affect on me especially during difficult times. Music also
has a healing affect, whether Antonio Vivaldi or David Byrne, there is that
gentle jump in the heart that signals joy. Once in a dream I heard a voice say,
“Still, the music plays.” The music played at Goddard and does still.
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