Story Scientist

“Life can be like a poem that way, with the unexpected appearing in the room, not just on the page.” -PoemCrazy, by Susan Goldsmith Wooldridge

The first chapter of PoemCrazy is titled “Outlaw on a poem walk.” It was the tagline of the book that first seized me by the collar. “Freeing your life with words”

Susan G. Wooldridge begins her poignant poetry-spell with describing the perfect outlaw. One dunk in the river, and the purpose of her outdoor stroll on a whim becomes clear. It was to arrive at this particular moment. All the experiences and snippets of life which she gathered in her palms and poured into her notebook; all of them were part of a prelude. It was so cinematic when she leapt into the river, water sloshing around her torso, beating against her legs, carrying her away like stray pages from a notebook.

I don’t think she means an ordinary notebook.

I think she means a notebook with poems in it. With stories in it. A notebook which records and stores all the stray coins you pick up on the sides of the street or in the forgotten alleyways. It becomes your piggybank to draw out powerful verses from, when you need them. In such moments, the poem writes itself.

Anne Lammott pointed out in her book ‘Bird by Bird’ that she trained herself to live like a nocturnal animal. Like a hunter in the shadows, on the lookout, ready to pounce on and grasp any stray feather containing life. She learned to catch the words when they came in her notebook. Not even notebook, flashcards! Something that could fit in the back pocket of her jeans and be handy when life struck her with the happenings of a poem. Wooldridge references Lammott in her book as an example. Apparently, poets are supposed to be like collectors. We walk around minding our own business, until something snaps. Until your frustration at the cashier’s incompetence surprises you, until the rain starts falling at the perfect moment, until a word rings, rides and resonates in your ears. A word like “creamy” or a word like “whimsical” or a word like “fever”. I mean, the book’s tagline is “freeing your life with words.” So it makes sense that Lammott and Wooldridge want us to suck on language like juice from an orange. As instructed, I picked up my notebook, and as Wooldridge did along with all students in her no-nonsense poetry class, I made my own list. My list of deliciously smelling and scrumptiously sounding words (I must be hungry). Let’s try this together. This is all part of the process, I’m sure.

1. Scramble
2. Milky
3. Twisted
4. Knotted
5. Shining
6. Glamorous
7. Sticky
8. Indulgent
9. Fastidous
10. Rancour
11. Bashful
12. Carving
13. intricate

Reading a word over and over again, turning it over in my brain till I see images is what usually does the trick for me. I look at scramble, and what do I see? Not much. Just one thing. Here is me working it out:

When I hear scramble, the first thing I see is the game “Scrabble”. I’ll keep that handy.

Scrambled like jumbled letters on wooden chips,

strewn messy across a clean floor

I like that. Next, let’s work with my second image. I see muddled thoughts, scattered feelings, scattered opinions. You can’t be scattered unless you are broken. What gets broken often? Vases, laptops, screens. Aha! Mobile Screens. I like to think I get bonus points because it’s relatable and easy to visualize.

scattered with the shred of tape

cracked crunchy like the screen of my phone

I’m seeing the theme already. I see a story formulating. I see someone lying in a pool of blood or sweat, or just lying like a hot mess after a long night. Someone who is scrambled and cracked beyond repair.

I boiled on my sheets in a pool of sweat,

to which the cool breeze posed no threat

That one turned out a tad sadder than I wanted. But it’s fine. I’ll write a heck of a lot more. So here it is, the first attempt:

Scrambled

Scrambled like jumbled letters on wooden chips

strewn messy across a clean floor

scattered with the shred of tape

cracked crunchy like the screen of my phone

the sun rose extra-golden today

but I wept as I looked away

I burned on my sheets in a pool of sweat

to which the cool breeze posed no threat

Which one sounds better? Burned or Boiled? I have no clue. Haven’t figured out the punctuation rules yet, haven’t even reviewed this poem. It’s raw, but it’s a start.

This is how I fall in love with poetry every time I play with it. My notebook has a peachy blue cover with off-white pages. My process goes a bit like this: The notebook is free-for-all. Everybody is invited. Every weird thought that sounds catchy to my ears can enter. For example, I was humming a tune one time and just then, at the perfect moment, my mother began typing on her laptop beside me. For two whole seconds the clack of the keys matched the rhythm of the music I was singing. It was completely random. A poem followed, although right now I’m not sure where exactly I can find it. Poems that go in my notebook are, therefore, usually spontaneous.

Due to limited storage space, I think treat my laptop as a more exclusive party hall. Only the planned, outlined, written-for-a-singular-purpose poems go there. But the poems themselves come from all over. The orange light from my sister’s desk lamp and blue from our dim light made the whole room look purple. So I wrote this in bed, surrounded by violet light:

The blue and orange light amalgamated,

and the whole room was bathed

in purple hues.

And somehow I saw my whole

life lay out,

written all over the violet faces

glowing bright, beside me.

Here’s another brother from the same mother:

You tell me

you are the shadows,

but I see you when your heart

is breaking.

And I see the moon relfecting off

the tear in your eye,

and the glistening sweat of a nightmare

in your waking.

That one reminds me of Cha-Hyun-su from Sweet Home. Anyways, even rain has inspired me time and time again.

I trained myself

to remain untouchable

unaffected, unfazed

and when my shelter of folliage

tumbled over,

the rain tore me apart,

untrained.

And my personal favorite out of everything I have written:

Life came down in the rain

and love stirred in the empty street.

The moment was perfect as both feelings mixed like soup

and warmed me up inside.

That I opened my arms,

and I shut my eyes,

and surrendered.

I’ll end this with a poem from the book itself, written by the author’s friend Arielle about her family’s twenty-one year old cat named Jumbo.

“White puppy petal

you gorgeous milk fluff

sleep all day

lick tiny love from time

and dream”