Poetry in Everyday Things -- A Guest Post by Cristina Trapani-Scott

It's National Poetry Month! You didn't think I'd let that slip by unnoticed, did you? What better way to pass the time while waiting for spring's late arrival than to read—or write—a bit of poetry? Short on inspiration? Look no further than the things you encounter every day.

Cristina Trapani-Scott

​That's the advice of this week's guest, Cristina Trapani-Scott. I first met Cristina fourteen years ago at Bear River Writers' Conference. After the conference, we formed a writers' group with another writer we'd met there. The result was the Sister Scribes, an Ann Arbor-based group that eventually added three more members and became a source of support and motivation for all of us.

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Sister Scribes Cristina, Cyan and Nan in 2005

Cristina's debut chapbook collection of poems was published last year

​​An author, educator, and former journalist, Cristina now lives and writes in Northern Colorado. Her debut chapbook collection of poems, The Persistence of a Bathing Suit, published in 2017 by Finishing Line Press, explores the moments that fill the space between surviving a breast cancer diagnosis and accepting the inevitability of change and uncertainty. Cristina's work has appeared in the Patterson Literary Review, Hip Mama Magazine, the Driftwood, Bigger Than They Appear: An Anthology of Very Short Poems, and Sweet Lemons 2: International Writings with a Sicilian Accent. She holds an MFA in poetry and fiction from Spalding University and currently teaches creative writing and composition online.

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Find Poetry in Everyday Things
by Cristina Trapani-Scott

​April is National Poetry Month and each year it marks a whole month of celebrating this little thing that I found myself drawn to quite by accident more than 20 years ago. 

​I am not one of those poets that knew from a young age that I would be writing poetry. I don’t recall ever being thoroughly introduced to poetry as a kid beyond the handful of jingles I read in Shel Silverstein’s books and perhaps a Shakespeare sonnet. I don’t recall writing a poem until well after I completed my first round of undergrad studies. Still, even before I put marks on paper with the intention of calling them poems, I believe on some level I was aware of the poetry in ordinary things. 

​My mother, of course, made me hyper-aware of the ordinary world around me. She is an artist, and she always finds beauty in the most ordinary things. Her collection of garlic skins scattered on the top ledge of her china cabinet is a testament to this. I don’t have a physical collection of ordinary things like she does. I work in words. She works in paint. I do, in large part because of her, see the poetry in ordinary things.

​ I am aware of the poetry in a baby bird that had fallen from its nest in our backyard when I was a child. I am aware of the poetry in how my mom, my siblings, and I nurtured it by feeding it through a dropper with a solution a nearby vet had suggested. I am aware of the poetry in how the bird grew feathers and flew and perched on a curtain rod in our living room while our Brittany Spaniel, resorting to his instinct, stood on point.

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​I am aware of the poetry in the way my Nonno so attentively showed my brother and me how to play ground darts in the backyard on Father’s Day not long before Nonno died from a heart attack. I am aware of poetry in the way my brother and I used to turn bricks over in our walkway to collect roly poly bugs and watch them curl into tiny balls as we touched them. 

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​I teach creative writing at a college where students primarily are headed into business, technology, or health fields. They take my class as an elective. Many of my students have very little, if any, background in creative writing, let alone poetry (much like me when I first became curious about this thing called poetry). The first half of the class is focused on fiction, which inevitably more of the students are comfortable with. Halfway through the eight-week course, though, we shift to poetry. Many of the students admit early that they just never understood poetry, that they just never thought about writing poetry. My goal as their instructor isn’t to get them to know everything there is to know about poetry in four weeks. My goal in that four weeks is to get them to see, like my mother helped me see, that poetry has been with them their whole lives, that poetry is in the everyday things they do and see.  

​Poet Stephen Dunn said in an NPR interview, “We live with the little things much more than the large things.” I believe that to the core. I believe that has always been where I have found poetry. Even with the poetry I read, I am drawn most to the way a poet works the small things like a sculptor works clay, pushes at them until they breathe those large things on the page.

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​Sometimes, it’s easy to forget that those small things are the most important things. In their book The Poet’s Companion: A Guide to the Pleasures of Writing Poetry, Kim Addonizio and Dorianne Laux write, “And what are the ‘great’ poems about? The big subjects: death, desire, the nature of existence. They ask the big questions: Who are we? Why are we here? Where are we going? We find it difficult to believe those subjects, those questions, can be explored and contained in a poem about working at a fast food restaurant, a poem about our best friend, a poem about washing the dishes, tarring the roof, or taking a bus across town.” This is precisely where those questions are answered. This is precisely where I tell my students to search for the big things. We talk about poems that do this. 

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One that has stuck with me for a long time is Sandra M. Gilbert’s poem “Remnant” from her collection Belongings, a title that in and of itself suggests small, ordinary things. In the poem Gilbert writes of a carpet remnant in her office.

Remember the leftover
square of carpet you
unfolded in my office thirteen
years ago, two years before
the deadly surgery? Remember
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​The “you” the speaker refers to is a spouse who died unexpectedly in surgery. The carpet represents not just a physical remnant here. It points to the memory as a remnant. It points to how the spouse, too, is but a series of remnants anymore. This small, ordinary thing, the remnant, leaps into the big thing, loss.

​ U.S. Poet Laureate Billy Collins does a similar thing in a much lighter tongue and cheek moment with his poem “The Lanyard.” I use this example in my classes because I find humor to be a great way to break down preconceived notions my students inevitably come to class with about what they believe poetry has to be, and I know that many of my students have memories of twisting and tying little ribbons of plastic as gifts for parents. Of course, the poem isn’t simply about the ordinary act of tying a lanyard at camp. It’s about the big idea of how we love our mothers. 

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​ So, during this National Poetry Month (and after) celebrate the poetry in the small, ordinary things, in the colors that swirl in the soap bubbles on the dishes stacked in the kitchen sink, in the child that lies on the couch with one leg dangling off the edge, in the ordinary banter between partners on a weekday evening. There is poetic treasure in the ordinary, and it’s waiting to be mined. 

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​Find the poems that do this in books at your local bookstore, your local library, or at websites like www.poetryfoundation.org. Explore how they connect the ordinary to the extraordinary. Finally, make your own connections and see that poetry is most definitely not about the extraordinary but about the ordinary made extraordinary.

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Where do you find art in the ordinary?

For a daily dose of inspiration, subscribe to the Academy of American Poets' Poem A Day email at https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem-day​.