“The music of my wife,” Claude says in French-tinged English and gestures upstairs. His wife, Raymonde, is vacuuming. His smile is soft, framed with affectionate wrinkles.
They are my hosts in Auvillar, a small village in the south of France where I will spend the next eight days attending poetry workshops and sitting by the river writing—with a lot of good wine, bread and cheese consumed in between.
This heavenly abroad experience is led by UT’s Director of Creative Writing Marilyn Kallet as part of the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts’ writing residency programs. The program’s tagline is “Everything is poetry in Auvillar,” and it’s entirely true: the cobbled streets frequented by pilgrims headed to Spain, the winding Garonne bordering the town, the giant dog taken in by Claude and Raymonde which they christened “Monsieur Texas” after some friendly American visitors.
The ten of us vary in age—and experience. I am the youngest, one of three undergraduates, and while many of the attendees have published entire books of poetry, I have published exactly one poem: a third grade ode to water that won a prize at Ijams Nature Center, thankyouverymuch. We are students, recent grads, professors, professionals. We are writers. We are *clears throat and fights a self-conscious blush* poets.
This is a hard word for me to use to describe myself. I have written poetry in some form or another since elementary school, but “poet” is a serious ascription. I tend to describe my hobbies and interests in “sort-ofs.” I sort of sing. I sort of play basketball. I sort of write poems sometimes, but they’re not any good or anything.
My instinct is to hide a little, to hesitate, to self-deprecate. I wish there was a quota for these types of things. How many four-chord songs do you write before you are a musician? How many crappy lines about middle school drama do you have to write before you call yourself a poet?
The other participants are unashamedly, fearlessly poets. In undergraduate creative writing classes, it’s common to hear “This isn’t very good, but here it goes” before he or she begins to read. These words don’t exist here.
Kallet, whose very appearance and elegant way of being evoke poetry, performs her work with confidence and good humor that is contagious — if you haven’t seen her at a “Writers in the Library” reading, you’re missing out. Her confidence manages to be inspiring without being intimidating. Still, each morning when we read our poems aloud, I have to quell the urge to give a disclaimer, to still my shaking hands.
This manifests itself in my performance ability. When we do a practice run of our work for the final reading in front of the whole village, I read too quickly, stumbling over easy words and distracting the pretend audience with fidgety movement. Kallet tells me to project, to stand still, to make sure not to lock my knees, to breathe. My extreme fear of having my words rejected has overcome my instinctual ability to take in oxygen.
The nervousness only grows on the day of the reading—I am too distracted even to be heartbroken about preparing to leave this beautiful country, though this will come later. Finally, everyone takes their seats. Claude and Raymonde have come, grinning at me like proud grandparents.
Their kindness is comforting. All week they have provided me with bountiful breakfasts and surprisingly good conversations considering we each only speak a little of the others’ language. I have written a poem for them, an ode to Monsieur Texas—a small gift of gratitude for their hospitality.
I walk to the front of the room, paper in hand, heart racing, but the voice speaking is surely not my own. It is self-assured, reciting the French translation of my first two lines with a better accent than I’ve had all week. With my eyes fixed upon Claude and Raymonde my hands do not tremble. My words are strong.
I am a writer. I am a singer. I am a poet. I am myself for just a moment—unabashedly, fearlessly. My words try to capture Raymonde making her “music,” Claude remembering how I take my coffee—the small moments that have made this week of poetry more than any workshop.
By the end I am smiling as I read a love poem for a dog, for a couple, for a village, for a country. I look up from the page. They are smiling too.
Claire Dodson is a senior in English. She can be reached at [email protected].
