Poetry from Daily Life: Learn to look deeply before picking up a pen

My guest on Poetry from Daily Life this week is Michael Salinger, who lives in Mentor, Ohio, a suburb of Cleveland. Michael says that his first poem was published in Scholastic magazine in fourth grade, and his second published piece came in his early twenties. Since then, he has written plays, short stories, essays, and professional and technical writing as an engineer. Projects he’s proud of include collaborations with his partner, Sara Holbrook: "Dreaming Big and Small," and their teaching book from Scholastic: "From Striving to Thriving Writers." An unusual fact about Michael? He makes metal sculptures from scrap metal and found objects. ~ David L. Harrison

The easiest way to incorporate poetry into one’s daily life is not to read or write poetry.

I’m only half-joking here. I advocate adopting the poet’s eye in our day-to-day lives, unencumbered by pen or keyboard. Take the time to simply notice the details that may slip away as we plow through all the stimuli bombarding us in social-media-friendly chunks. Cut through the static and allow yourself to become a little bored. Look at that crack in the ceiling until its outline becomes the silhouette of a past love; listen to that train whistle carried on a breeze through your bedroom window; notice that clump of toadstools that emerged overnight, looking like an army marching toward your front door.

Richard Feynman, the quantum physicist, said, “Everything is interesting if you go into it deeply enough.” That’s the poet’s eye: the conscious effort to see detail, pattern, and the music in the everyday. So much may depend on that red wheelbarrow, but equally important is a burnt-out lightbulb in your bathroom or the house finch dutifully bringing twig after twig into the birdhouse your son made.

Be on the lookout for these little pearls of imagery as you go about your day. Think about them and wonder: What do they represent? What are these little snapshots a metaphor for? How does that tree branch wave in the spring breeze? Move your arm in the same manner and imagine — what else moves this way? What comparison would uproot this observation from your brain and deposit it like a Polaroid picture into another’s?

That’s the poet’s job: to recreate an instant of time with enough detail that the reader or listener feels as if they are standing next to you, experiencing the moment filtered through their personal lens of experience. Because that’s the best we can do. We cannot make our audience feel the same as we do, but we can recreate the instant so that they interpret it as if they were there. This requires going deeply enough and going deeply enough requires practice.

A baseball hitter hones their skill by taking pitches from a machine and hitting the ball into a net, developing muscle memory that will kick in during a real game. We poets need to sharpen our observation of sensory input in the same manner. Practice makes a difference, and I contend that a poet can practice sans paper and pen.

Practice your poet’s eye, ear, nose, tongue, and fingertips. Look until the edges blur and a bigger pattern emerges; listen until you are reminded of something else. What memory does the odor of that semi-truck exhaust evoke? What emotion feels like a sprinkle of citric acid licked from your lips? When was the last time you felt like you were wrapped in a down comforter because of something someone said to you?

Then, when you’ve rehearsed and a poet’s scrutiny has become second nature, pick up that pen.

Michael Salinger and Sara Holbrook have visited schools across the United States and more than 50 other countries, providing author visits, professional development and classroom workshops in writing, comprehension strategies, and public speaking for students K-12. For more information, go online to https://www.outspokenlit.com/.