In the latest edition of "Village Voice," Boston Public Radio's recurring conversation about poetry, Jim and Margery get a lesson in evocative writing from poet Richard Blanco.
Blanco is the fifth presidential inaugural poet in U.S. history. His new book, "How To Love A Country," deals with sociopolitical issues that shadow America.
"I just wanted to take a little deep dive into one of the golden rules of creative writing, called show don't tell," he said. "I don't know [that] we always know how that really works in a poem, and in our lives, so I'm going to walk you through this, and you'll be my students today."
Blanco reads through his own poem, "Looking for The Gulf Motel," calling out his use of "the language of experience," using sensory details to bring the listener or reader more fully into the work.
Looking for The Gulf Motel
Marco Island, Florida
There should be nothing here I don't remember ...
The Gulf Motel with mermaid lampposts and ship's wheel in the lobby should still be rising out of the sand like a cake decoration.
My brother and I should still be pretending we don't know our parents, embarrassing us as they roll the luggage cart past the front desk loaded with our scruffy suitcases, two-dozen loaves of Cuban bread, brown bags bulging with enough mangoes to last the entire week, our espresso pot, the pressure cooker -- and a pork roast reeking garlic through the lobby. All because we can't afford to eat out, not even on vacation, only two hours from our home in Miami, but far enough away to be thrilled by whiter sands on the west coast of Florida, where I should still be for the first time watching the sun set instead of rise over the ocean.
There should be nothing here I don't remember ...
My mother should still be in the kitchenette of The Gulf Motel, her daisy sandals from Kmart squeaking across the linoleum, still gorgeous in her teal swimsuit and amber earrings stirring a pot of arroz-con-pollo, adding sprinkles of onion powder and dollops of tomato sauce. My father should still be in a terrycloth jacket smoking, clinking a glass of amber whiskey in the sunset at the Gulf Motel, watching us dive into the pool, two boys he'll never see grow into men who will be proud of him.
There should be nothing here I don't remember ...
My brother and I should still be playing Parcheesi, my father should still be alive, slow dancing with my mother on the sliding-glass balcony of The Gulf Motel. No music, only the waves keeping time, a song only their minds hear ten-thousand nights back to their life in Cuba. My mother's face should still be resting against his b are chest like the moon resting on the sea, the stars should be turning around them.
There should be nothing here I don't remember ...
My brother should still be thirteen, sneaking rum int he bathroom, sculpting naked women from sand. I should still be eight years old dazzled by seashells and how many seconds I hold my breath underwater -- but I'm not. I am thirty-eight, driving up Collier Boulevard, looking for The Gulf Motel, for everything that should still be, but isn't. I want to blame the condos, their shadows for ruining the beach and my past, I want to chase the snowbirds away with their tacky mansions and yachts, I want to turn the golf courses back into mangroves, I want to find The Guf Motel exactly as it was and pretend for a moment, nothing is lost.
