The best writing advice I ever received was from my college professor, Dr. Jack Simons, who would get red in the face when reprimanding us for using cliches. The shade he turned when someone wrote that “tears streamed down” anyone’s face was something to behold. If a student was absent during our 8 AM poetry class, he would call them from his cell phone, wake them up, and we would watch as they inevitably slumped in ten minutes later, sheepish and disheveled.
I learned so much from that class.
Dr. Simons was constantly reminding us that using big, intimidating words, flowery descriptions, and obscure lingo was the sign of someone trying to sound like a writer. True writers knew when to use sharp, concrete language that could cut through the clutter of modern life, evoke all five senses, and touch - somehow - on universal human truths.
This is exactly what Jeffrey Bilbro does in his poetry. By using words like cuts and churns, stutter and swabs, warty and scraggly, snow-muffed and skeletal, even turds and tufts, he gives his readers a lumpy patch of earth to sit upon as we read. We feel the grit, the rocky soil, and ache for the soft phrases he surprises us with in-between, like:
We rest upon the grace of water
Forgive us for moving so far from home
Reading poetry like Bilbro’s is a grounding exercise. Perhaps you’ve heard of the current trend among young adults of intentionally setting aside time to walk barefoot in the grass or make sure their body has some form of direct contact with the earth. The internet is full of suggestions as to the benefits of “earthing,” such as better sleep, a connection to the earth’s core energy, help with muscle inflammation, a way of reducing stress, and a means of achieving all around better vibes, man. You can even buy “earthing” bed sheets, but don’t ask me to explain how those work.
This is all, no doubt, an attempt to push back against our modern obsession with screens, Ubereats, and Zoom calls where we can secretly get away with pairing our dress-shirts with pajama pants. When nature becomes optional (there is a farmer tilling the soil somewhere, but most of us sit in front of our laptops in ergonomic office chairs) it is viewed as some prehistoric artifact, where camping is like a trip to a museum; an activity we force on ourselves for our own betterment even though we’d rather be watching the latest episode of Severance from our living room couch.
But if we are talking about introducing grounding rhythms, in addition to touching grass and learning to identify local birds, I would also suggest we read a bit more poetry. Not just any poetry, but the kind that gives us a place to stand as we process an experience, emotion, or philosophy of life.
As the poetry editor at Fathom Magazine for over six years, my most regular advice to veteran and budding poets alike was: give your reader a place to stand. What I meant was, don’t dive straight into the feeling, experience, or truth before creating some sort of tangible image first. Otherwise, you are giving them a hat without anywhere to hang it. You’re asking them to sit and ponder your words without offering them any place to sit. It can be a beach towel on the ground, a thrift store couch, or a folding chair - take your pick - but they need to be able to see, hear, taste, touch, or smell it.
Some examples of this in Bilbro’s collection:
In Dying Light we hear his toddler’s “inconsolable wail,” and any parent, sibling, or person who has inhabited the same house as a child can hear the urgent, high-pitched, cry causing ripples of disturbance. In Distant, we see “a quilt, hand stitched by your aunt,” and though it will conjure up different colors and patterns for every reader, it provides a universal, concrete backdrop for the rest of the poem.
In Sunflower, we see ditch flowers, that incomparable contrast between hard and soft, druggery and beauty, before we are called to “settle down in the margin” with them. In Migrations, we hear cranes murmur in the early morning, in The Train Home, we feel “jostled together,” standing “shoulder-to-shoulder” and in Midlife Crisis, we wash “Saturday’s dishes at dusk.”
The best poets allow you to feel the leaves crunching under your feet before they wax eloquent about what crunchy leaves represent. After you finish reading this article on your phone, enjoy the rest of your coffee, but then: consider putting on some real pants, watering your ficus, and maybe even reading some poetry. Exile’s Journey is a good place to start.
