Hello! Welcome back to STEM Tuesday’s Writing Tips and Resources. I’m Stephanie.
Did you know that axolotls are amphibians? I hadn’t really thought about it before, but it’s true; they’re salamanders. And actually, they’re strange ones, since they don’t fully grow up, but instead stay in their “tadpole” stage, keeping their gills and living underwater completely. Very rarely, they can spontaneously morph into terrestrial animals. When this happens, their gills recede and they depend on their lungs to breathe.
Anyway, happy poetry month! If you’ve read last week’s post, you’re familiar with poems about frogs, like the informative ones found in Amphibian Acrobats. Today I’m excited to share two writerly resources with surprisingly relevant titles. The first, by a Utah poet and professor, is Real Toads, Imaginary Gardens: On Reading and Writing Poetry Forensically (2024). Its title references American poet Marianne Moore, who said that a poem is “an imaginary garden with real toads in them.” Elaborating on that, Rekdal states that a poem is “an artificial structure, yes, but one in which something genuine can live” (5). That definition sings—and croaks, and ribbits—for me. More on frog calls to come. We’ve got one long exercise today. Let’s hop to it.
Part 1 | Gathering Raw Materials
Rekdal writes that, “When it comes to reading or writing poetry, we have to balance between the forensic and the creative, between staying within the bounds of definition and fact and moving into the realm of the interpretive” (35).
Thus, the first step is to gather interesting details for your imaginary garden: nickel-sized glass frogs, perhaps. You’re free to depart from the theme of amphibians, but if you like a good challenge, start there. Think “forensically,” gathering precise words as rhetorical evidence. Imaginary gardens are curated… this is your flowery language, your favorite nature facts rearranged into poetic phrasings. With every additional noun, you’re populating the garden, constructing the banks of the pond. Give yourself at least 15 minutes to brainstorm.
After assembling a motley group of characters, setting details, and imagery, it’s time to begin considering interpretation. How will you make meaning(s) of these things? Rekdal offers this insight, “If anything, poems offer me patterns of expectation and then disregard them in ways I find either delightful, annoying, instructive, or baffling” (3). How can you invite readers to feel those emotions? What might your metaphorical toad be—your something real? Aside from lyrical language, what’s the second layer to the poem? How can you take it from not-story to story? Let’s let those thoughts percolate while we try the next part.
Part 2 | Finding and Shaping Story
The second writerly resource for today is A Swim in a Pond in the Rain by George Sanders. This book addresses structure through several guided readings of Russian short stories. He writes, “We’re always asking, of a work we’re reading (even if it’s one of our own): ‘Is it story yet?’ That’s the moment we’re seeking as we write. We’re revising and revising until we write the text up, so to speak, and it produces that ‘now it’s a story’ feeling” (50). But what is a story? He answers, “We could understand a story as simply a series of…expectation/resolution moments” (12). Isn’t that interesting? That’s also what Paisley Rekdal said about pattern, expectation, surprise. A story, or in our case, poem, has a call-and-response structure. What must come first? What details are essential? What will change? How does the poem end? How can the beginning enhance the end?
Choose an existing poem. If you’re feeling stuck, here are some suggestions: “[rain frog thorn bug bat tent], “Naming the Heartbeats,” or “Amphibians.” Before you’re tempted to read the poem in its entirety, cover up the last 2-6 lines. Read the first portion, then ask yourself these questions. What energy has the poem built up? How do you expect it to end? What ending feels so obvious that it would be disappointing? Now read the rest of the poem. What helps the poem land with a satisfying feeling?
Using your materials from part one, construct a poem that “responds alertly to itself” (Saunders, 29), that makes energy and then uses it (35), “advanc[ing] the story in a non-trivial way” (42). This is much easier said than done, but as Saunders teaches, “That’s really all a story is: a limited set of elements that we read against one another” (48). Tend your imaginary garden. Hide some toads. Find your voice, whether that frog-song is a cro-qui or a different onomatopoeia altogether. (They make lots of different calls!)
Remember that your poem, though it may turn toward a surprising resolution, doesn’t need to answer questions or conclude anything. Its power is the shared journey between writer and reader: sensing and thinking together. Poems can never avoid being situated, being about something, whether or not the author intends it. But as Paisley Rekdal wrote, “If we can all agree on the exact meaning of a poem, doesn’t that suggest the poem itself may be too narrow, even lifeless?” (Kidlit poems are the exception, in which we routinely opt for clarity and conclusions. But write this one for yourself! Poetry-joy is contagious.)
For themed writing prompts geared toward kids, check out Amazing Amphibians from our book list, specifically pages 49 (“Write a Slimy Story”) and 85 (“Write an Amphibian Haiku”). And of course, I’d love it if you clicked over to visit me at StephanieWritesForKids.com for more writerly tips and book recommendations.
Happy writing,
Stephanie
Stephanie Jackson is a mother of four kiddos ages 5-14. Her kidlit work has been published in Cricket magazine, Dirigible Balloon, and elsewhere. She holds an English creative writing degree and writes from her book-glutted home in northern Utah.
