WORK-SHOPPED
Kodra brings the poetic form to bear on the institualization of art, but a look back reveals the way every writer, through creation, destroys.
Before the workshop, my poem
contained the reedy boy, a cheerful red wagon, and a chirping
cricket perched atop a mossy stone wall. Cattails, smooth-worn
and brown-skinned as the Velveteen Rabbit, gathered on one line.
Burdock crowded a quaint cow pasture in stanza three, and yes,
there was a cow (although cow should not appear here a second time),
and she bore a softly clinking bell around her guileless neck. Her name,
secreted deep in benign, mocha eyes, was Bess.
A clump of burs clung to the boy’s white sock like a misplaced boutonniere.
His sun-pinked face beamed in a morning given to adventure. The red wagon
creaked along behind him, wooden side rails hiding his cargo. A gregarious brook
at the meadow’s south end bubbled in sheer joy at the prospects of this day.
The well-versed leader spoke first and soon cast out the pleasing ring of the cowbell.
The cow herself, erased from the page, a smudge of graphite the only vestige
of her warm-blooded life. Not long after this, the rabbity-skinned cattails
were rendered colorless, vague, for we all know a cattail. The Velveteen Rabbit
scuttled back to his hole, and the pasture, no longer quaint or studded
with sticky burs, paled along with the boy’s blanched face and blank socks.
The brook’s merry warbling in the middle of things, a persuaded poet
to my right insisted, muddled the grassy pasture theme. He strongly
advised that we dry it up.
We! As though the boy and the wagon and the cow
weren’t mine!
As my turn ended, we all thought we heard
a tender, pleading moo off in the thick
copse beyond the pasture’s disappearing
border, and perhaps a faint, disconsolate
blip from the bothersome cliché of a cricket.
The moss and stone wall? Gone. A mere trick
of the mind’s eye.
What the boy pulled in his wagon
(now dull and listless, no longer
cheery red in morning light),
we’ll never know, that treasure
removed within minutes
of penning my name
on the sign-in sheet,
naively swirled
tail regaling
the y.
Cathy A. Kodra writes, edits, and teaches in Knoxville, TN. Her work has appeared in Main Channel Voices, Birmingham Arts Journal, Tar Wolf Review, New Millennium Writings, Roanoke Review, Common Ground Review, The Medulla Review, Still Crazy, Slow Trains, MOTIF, Now & Then, Opium, and others. She is a contributing editor for New Millennium Writings and a member of the Board of Directors of the Knoxville Writers’ Guild. Cathy will serve as guest poetry editor of The Medulla Review in July 2011.