Dead as Winter: a misfit poem

*Zach Hively

​This is challenging me. *gulp
Making art is vulnerable enough. Sharing art is a whole other practice. At least with publishing, I (typically) don’t have to perceive the responses to my work in real time.* It’s not like singing, which is probably the single most terrifying thing I’ve ever done in public.

*Though I will confess, the few times I’ve spotted someone at a restaurant reading my column in the paper, I absolutely spied on them. Trying to figure out which line got a reaction, or when they gave up and turned the page: this was fun.

But I have this pesky philosophy as a teacher and as a publisher: if I’m asking people to go through an experience, I will put myself through it too.

So, last night, I taught a Misfit Poetry workshop on Zoom through Casa Urraca Press. The participants (very game, every last one of them) walked away with drafts of two poems. I did too.

And I committed myself to sharing one of those, here, today.

Now what is a misfit poem? It’s my term (which may exist elsewhere too) for a poem that places two completely distinct subjects on equal footing in order to discover what they have to say to each other. More often than not, this conversation takes writers to new places—when they trust what emerges.

(I use this technique in all kinds of writing, especially humor columns. It’s not exclusive to poetry. But poetry, by nature, is easier to play with in a workshop setting.)

Short version: We start by recognizing whatever things, little or big, have been catching our attention lately. Pam Houston calls these things “glimmers,” which I just adore. They catch our attention for reasons; they resonate with us, somehow, as we are at that point in time.
​
Two of my glimmers yesterday were my rosemary plant blooming in the window, and this unreal way the water in the creek near here is flowing over top of the ice.

And so, here’s the poem that emerged, as it exists today, sixteen hours after its creation:
Dead as Winter
 
Snowstorm—this wild herb,
yellowing, dropping,
flips me the flowers
from the back of the guest room,
rosemary throwing lavender fuck-yous
to the out-of-doors as a balm
to me, keeping life afloat,
audaciously tiny.
 
Strata—backward,
motion over stillness,
ice floats underwater
in the creek, my creek,
this magic trick frozen
without freezing, rules
bent, the crook slipping
out, free.
 
Can't stop the brash from brashing.
The snow that melts, waters.
Will wonders never ... no.
Not until we return to
whatever unknown we slip into,
buoyant, brazen
after the singularity,
dead as winter.

The challenge for me here is not sharing my writing. I’ve thickened those calluses by now. It’s not even sharing something so new; as just about any writer on deadline understands, I often send off pieces that I’ve barely reread.
​
But those are somehow more cerebral, less transparent, than a poem. Sharing a poem that came from my own glimmers before I’ve had the chance to let it simmer, let it cure, let it settle?
Whew.

I mean, I think I like this poem. I can see it finding a home somewhere. I wrote it while abiding by the rules of the game we were playing in Misfit Poetry—rules I’m now free to break in revision. If I choose to.

For now, though, I’m going to let it simmer, cure, settle. I can’t be certain its finished yet, the way a piece of woodwork isn’t finished until it’s … you know … got the finish put on it.

We’ll see what happens! I’d love to know what you think, though. And if you want to unlock the secrets of writing misfit poems? Well … let me know that too, as I’m looking to book another workshop this spring.

Zach’s Substack is free. The free stuff today will remain free tomorrow. Someday, he might offer additional stuff. Zach+, as it were. You can tell Zach that you value his work by pledging a future paid subscription to additional stuff. You won't be charged unless he enables payments, and he’ll give a heads-up beforehand.

​