Poet’s Corner by Russell Bittner
Interview with Dorothy Fletcher
April is National Poetry Month—and our reigning queen is Dorothy Fletcher. One doesn’t talk about a queen either directly to her face or behind her back, so let’s not.
I first came across an instance of Dorothy’s work at Your Daily Poem when I read her piece “Living With a Man” (featured immediately below) on February 15th of last year. I subsequently sent her an e-mail, she answered enthusiastically, and here we are.
As is our habit, “Dottie” deserves a proper introduction by way of her bio before we deluge ourselves with the delight of her poetry:
Photo credit: Michael Glinski
RRB:
Dorothy, before we get started with your poetry, tell us a little something if you will about your teaching experience. I assume that teaching in Jacksonville was not quite the experience of, say, Brooklyn, NY or Oakland, CA, but you must’ve had your trials and tributions.
DKF:I have had a varied career in education. My first assignment was in a new, ultra-modern, predominantly white school, Edward H. White Senior High. My twelve-year tenure there was probably the least difficult of all my assignments. It was, however, the first time I realized that education was not the top priority for all families. After a brief time in administration, I returned to the classroom at a predominantly black, inner city school, William M. Raines Senior High. Here, I learned firsthand what it was to be in the minority. It was quite daunting, but I really learned my craft here—and found it to be one of my most rewarding times in education. My time here also served as the backdrop of my novel The Cruelest Months. I am proud to say that my book is being used at Florida State Community College in their beginning teacher program. I ended my teaching career at Samuel Wolfson Senior High which is near my home and was my alma mater. I’d come full circle, so to speak.
RRB:I appreciate the candor, Dorothy. I’m so tired of listening to politicians pay lip service to the profession. At the same time, the vast majority of parents would simply appear to be abdicating their roles while leaving the upbringing and discipline of their children to teachers. I hate to generalize—and no one’s ever going to make a proverb out of this observation—but life has taught me one thing that seems to be enormously and universally consistent: look at the child, and “see” the parent; talk with the parent and know instantly what sort of child you’ll be dealing with before he or she even shows up for the first day of school.
Enough of that (unless you disagree—and if you do, please feel free to rebut my observation). Now, on to your poetry.
“Living with a Man” is, as I said from the outset, the piece that got my attention and moved me to pick up the phone, as it were. Give us some background to it if you would.
DKF:I am definitely with you on concept that the parent is the most important teacher in anyone's life.
As for my poem, let me say this. My husband, who was also an English major and an English teacher for about fifteen years, is not a great lover of poetry. He can tolerate it, if he must, but I suspect that he’s a bit more guarded about his feelings, and poetry can “cut deep,” as they say. I wanted to honor him with my poetry, somehow. I wanted to say how much he means to me in a way that he might enjoy. So, that was how I came to write “Living with a Man.” It wasn’t too literary, since any poem that has underwear in it can’t be taken too seriously. But the ending does get back to what we have together. So, it is a win-win poem—lightness for him and feeling for me.
RRB:I think you discovered the essence of charm with this piece, Dorothy.
“Living with a Man”
means having to sleep
without covers
when you want them
windows open
when you want them
closed and tight
means confusion
in the living room
newspaper glasses
hats and dishes he
forgets to put up
and underwear lost
under the bed so
you don’t find them
when they’ve got
to be ready to wear
for luck in games men play
and you don’t understand
or even want to watch
on T.V. or hear on radio
but this man brings
a joy to your soul
makes you laugh
out loud at antics
and jokes and tickling
and he gets you
not to take the world
so seriously then when
the cold wind howls
he lets you crawl up
next to his warmth
and stay comforted
facing together the world
which looms too big
for anybody
to face alone
RRB:And “Man By Van Gogh?” Was this an exercise in ekphrasis?
DKF:Actually, this poem was not an exercise in ekphrasis, although I have tried my hand at it in a poem called “Without Glasses” that references all sorts of Impressionist paintings. “Man by Van Gogh” was inspired by my father. He was a Renaissance man if ever there was one. He could dance, sing in the choir, write insurance policies all day long, and then paint. He started by trying to copy Van Gogh paintings, and I learned at a young age what a palette knife did. It made these rich textures on the canvas that created the “fuzzy” quality many Impressionists and Expressionists embraced. Later, I was inspired by this dear old man who lived at the end of the block who grew sunflowers, like the ones Van Gogh painted—and like the ones my father copied. Then, all of these influences and inspirations came together in a poem. There is also a bit of regret in that too few children in this world have fathers who would thrill their children with gifts of art.
“Man By Van Gogh”
In a yellow straw hat
and brown, baggy trousers,
he fumbles
his way through the garden,
tilling his sunflower
beds as they grow.
He is frayed
around the edges --
a man by Van Gogh
carved out by palette knife
or life --
his frazzled hair,
his tattered smock.
Children riding bicycles
on the road nearby
study him daily.
They wave at him
as if to touch him
up with brush strokes.
They giggle at him.
He's a little bit crazy,
they whisper;
And he waves back
as he watches them go
home to their mothers
and clean, artless rooms.
RRB:And “Time and Again?” Did you once visit his house in Key West? I trust, by the way, that you may’ve read some of his “poetry.” Someone should’ve burned it—is my not so humble opinion.
DKF:I did visit the Hemingway House in Key West, and it was there I came to understand how a place can certainly impact the creative flow. It was like writer heaven. The place was so green and lush and alive with cats and sightseers, but it also provided little pockets of “magic,” for lack of a better word. I must have spent four hours there. I took the tour and sat in lawn chairs in the yard and near the verandas and wrote pages in my journal. It was wonderful. I can see how Hemingway would soak up the atmosphere and write masterpieces. As a matter of fact, the whole island of Key West was conducive to his bigger-than-life personality—Sloppy Joe’s, Captain Tony’s and so many boats with old men of the sea. I could easily have moved there.
I have not read Hemingway’s poetry, but I have read more than a few of his novels and short stories. Recently, my book club read For Whom the Bell Tolls, and I have to admit, it took Robert Jordan much too long time to blow up that bridge. Modern sensibilities are unimpressed, it seems, with introspective narrative, but I rather like it myself. I suppose, though, I’ll just take your word about the poetry and not disturb my good opinion of old Ernest.
RRB:“Modern sensibilities are unimpressed, it seems, with introspective narrative, but I rather like it myself.” I’ll keep that in mind, Dorothy.
“Time and Again”--
Reflections at Ernest Hemingway’s House
I can see him
on a morning long ago
and just like this
out in the cool garden
stroking a cat or two
who happen by
I can see what he saw
I can hear what he heard
I can feel the heartbeat
now silenced almost forty
years and I can almost
touch the magic
of his life
almost taste the pleasure
such holy places promise
and words line up
inside my brain
orderly and perfect
and I can’t believe
I’m really here
part of all
that matters in the windy
whispers time deposits
in the banyan trees
such a morning
we all need
time and again
to reverence and remember
RRB:And “Lost?” What was the impetus for this piece?
DKF:I was very much impressed and influenced by an essay written by Tess Gallagher in 1979. It was called “The Poem as Time Machine.” As her essay suggests, poems can take a person all over time, and my poems quite often do just that. They take me—and then my reader—back to earlier times and feelings of my life or the lives of others. In “Lost,” I’m rather obvious about it, I suppose. But I also think the poem mirrors thought processes as well. When I smell tobacco, I think immediately of my father who smoked pipes and cigars. Then my memory of him triggers a flight of fancy—to his desk, his humidors and his ashtrays—that takes me back to the 50s when people could light up anywhere, and the 50s make me think of TVs being brand new, which in turn makes me think if Cid Caesar—and I could keep this idea association going on forever.
“Lost”
at first I didn't know
I was two blocks east
of King Edward Cigar
Company suddenly
the wind grew sharp
pungent like Daddy's
desk humidor filled
with Virginia's finest
blend tobacco even with
car windows closed
the scent came through
I mistakenly thought
hobos lurked near the tracks
I was crossing
I could almost see them
lounging around night fires
firing up smooth smokes
they bragged were
rolled on the thighs
of young Cuban virgins
when finally I realized
where I was and what
caused my dreams to fly
back to paper foil rings
Daddy put on my fingers
I breathed deep
exhaling imaginary
plumes of soft time
RRB:And “Spider?” I think it’s very original, by the way, to write a poem to an arachnid in the second person! John Donne, as you know, wrote a poem about a flea—but in the third person.
DKF:I cannot adequately tell you how distressing this whole spider incident was. We were at a beach house, and I do not exaggerate that this spider came out of the curtains and he or she was the size of my hand. We killed it, and I thought that would be the end of it, but no! My mind kept mulling over the event. It kept occurring to me that we’d killed one of God’s magnificent creatures just because he or she looked scary. The spider had obviously been in that room for a very long time, bothering no one, except flies, and here I come with my fears and prejudices and wipe him out. How unfair! Writing a poem was the only way to quiet my thoughts and assuage my guilt. I suppose I wanted to ask the spider for forgiveness and that explains my use of the second person (as if he would even read poetry), but I tried to face up to my culpability in this matter—at least to myself.
This brings up one of the greatest delights I feel poetry provides. It offers such solace and comfort when a poet writes to come to terms with a feeling. I use poetry all the time to “get something off my chest” or to work through difficult emotions. Mind you, these may not be the poems I would submit for publication, but they serve a cathartic purpose, and I’m most grateful that I have poetry in my life.
And funny you should mention John Donne. It was he who said “any man’s death diminishes me because I am involved in Mankinde, and therefore never send to know for whom the bells tolls; it tolls for thee.” I sometimes think I need to substitute “spider” for “man” and “Creation” for “Mankinde.” Then I could understand spider incidents better and know where Ernest Hemingway got one of his novel titles.
“Spider”
I caught you unaware
in the curtain folds
sleeping, hiding, silent—
a grotesque beauty so magnificent
the very thought of you
sent me wild and frightened
from the room I was to use—
a grown Miss Muffet.
I witnessed your monstrous form
the size of my hand
eight golden brown legs
and a body the shape of mossy agates
you must have been ancient
to have grown so big
eating flies and mosquitoes
for all your life or even mine.
you were gone when I returned
with reinforcements—
husband, shoes, bravery.
you recognized the signs of prejudice
and fearfully you pressed your being
into dark corners where eventually you met
your end—ignominious and horrible—crushed
by a tennis shoe
and only for the way you looked.
Your death did not comfort me.
RRB:“Poetry as personal catharsis”: that’s just too funny, Dorothy! Yes, I’ve known, by the way, for a long time where Hemingway got the title for his arguably best-known novel. I wonder whether Donne’s brilliant title can take at least some of the credit for the success of Hemingway’s novel.
And speaking of fiction writers who borrow who borrow from poets… On to Faulkner. Tell us about “To Jill” if you will (my perfect rhyme unintended), and we’ll call it a wrap.
DKF:I’m quite proud of this poem. It won the 2006 Robert Frost Poetry Prize, and it helped get me a reading at the Library of Congress in Washington, D.C.
Many years back, someone told me that William Faulkner, a notoriously mean drunk, had a daughter who asked that he not drink at her party. He replied “No one remembers Shakespeare’s daughter!” My heart was broken when I heard that. I researched the event and found it to be true, and that was when I wrote this poem.
It is hard to understand how some with great genius can be such jerks, but alcohol, which often seems to go with great writers, certainly doesn’t help. Excess in drinking was part of the mystique of Poe, London, Hemingway, Faulkner, and a host of other writers.
So, it seemed to be time for someone to champion those who’ve been hurt by the actions of the genius in their midst. I wanted Jill Falkner to know I remember Shakespeare’s daughters—Judith and Susanna—and I also remember her. Since she died in 2008, and I never was able to connect with Jill, I hope that perhaps she senses my poem from beyond somehow.
“To Jill”
“No one remembers Shakespeare’s daughter.” (William Faulkner)
Cruel drink often colors conversations
between a famous father and a child.
He could care less that,
his words are purest poison
to her young and tender smiles.
The children of famous drinkers learn
early about sticks and stones.
They steel themselves bravely against attack—
when the bottles are brought out
or at the sound of ice cubes dropping into glass.
These children teach themselves
to ignore all pain, to slip into backgrounds
gracefully, and to let their daddies shine—
Otherwise the painful quips come out
and seek to destroy easy targets.
These poor girls eat oblivion for breakfast,
while their fathers feast upon the glory of fame.
Patiently, the children must endure and wait
for more sobering times.
Then, after all the jibes have echoed into sky
and all outrageous fortune has been borne,
and when his snoring signals the end of it—
these daughters whisper almost as in prayer
into the silent corners of their hearts,
“Susanna! Judith! I remember you!”
RRB:As well you should be proud, Dorothy! I don’t know that anyone has ever written a more fitting tribute to the victim-children of so-called “geniuses.” I’m not one for ever burning books. However, I feel they should never be published without copious footnotes to let readers know just what kind of a bastard the guy wrote them.
And before I fall off this one-issue fence I’ve been sitting on for too long, allow me to say it’s been an enormous pleasure, Dorothy, both to have “met” you through your poems and to have gotten to “know” you through your explications des textes!
And with that, I’ll say ‘Goodnight’ to you, to yours, and to our reading audience.
Photo credit: Hardy Fletcher
