Poetry Workshop Unites Albany Writers

Alison Seevak has been leading poetry workshops at the Albany Library for 10 years. They were free and open to all ages, and I have met people from 10 to 85 years old, all with something to share of their lives, their perspectives. Last Wednesday, she led the group for the last time.

Alison calls herself a "facilitator," and that term more than anything else defines the session. The library website calls this a workshop, but technically it is not; rather, it is a place where people produce ideas and share them with a small and diverse community of writers.

She tells newcomers, "We'll write and then share. Even if you think you don't want to read, you might want to consider it."

Poetry has figured prominently in Albany for a while. Catharine Taylor coordinates a poetry reading series at the library. We have a Poet Laureate, Christina Hutchins, who leads a monthly open mic. She was selected for the position in summer 2008 by the Albany Arts Committee.

As stated on the city of Albany web page: "The year 2008 is Albany's Centennial year and is thus a fitting time to begin a Poet Laureate program that will help us celebrate our shared history and community. The honorary position of Poet Laureate is given to a writer who uses poetry to express and celebrate a spirit of community throughout the year and to foster a love of poetry and literature among citizens young and old."

In a time where values seem to head more toward money-making than the arts, a time when the arts have little funding in the United States, Albany has made a statement in supporting them, a model for other cities to reckon with. The fact that Albany has supported the writing group for 10 years is considerable enough, let alone that we have a poet to represent us to the world.

Alison talks about the power of hearing oneself read aloud, that "you never know—it might be something someone else needs to hear."

There is no feedback, which is a boon for those of us who just want to write and not be judged. What this does is create an open atmosphere.

Alison's matter-of-fact approach and her passion come through, as she is as comfortable with dealing in poetry as she is with breathing.

After she has everyone in the group say his or her name, she stands up with a stack of paper and then walks around the donut-shaped arrangement of desks, where we sit facing each other, to distribute the prompt. The prompt changes—once it was a strawberry, once we chose from her selection of postcards, and sometimes she takes us through a scaffolding process of making a list before writing. Tonight, the first prompt is a poem by a Czech poet about what's in a boy's head.

There are just fewer than 20 of us, but the number has been larger or smaller over the years, with a core group of regulars. One of the regulars, sitting next to me, is Frances, who spins gossamer out of language. She makes a sound of recognition at the author's name, a Czech poet I've never heard of. Once everyone has the poem, she reads it aloud.

Then we all write for 20 minutes, including Alison, because she always participates, always shares. This is the best model of teaching—facilitating and sharing. People learn best with someone to guide them. And Alison is a professional teacher, to kids, and in her own life as a mother to a little girl.

We have already introduced ourselves, but when we read aloud, we mention our names again, upon the request of Tom, another regular. We all know he is going to ask. It's not the first time. Elizabeth has not come with him tonight—they are both older and I feel concern when she doesn't appear, because she seems frail.

Tim comes from the school of rhyme, and his poems are always tied together perfectly. He reads first, and we all laugh, because he builds humor in his poems. Then we work around the circle.

Someone new, Carmen, has focused deeply on dental floss and popcorn—her poem is like an onion—you keep peeling and it continues. It is the polar opposite of my style, which tends to go outwards. Her dark brown, almost black, hair frames her face sharply, capping her head, with thick blunt-cut bangs over her eyes. Everyone is rapt as she speaks, murmuring surprise and delight.

We continue around the circle, hearing what each person has gleaned from the prompt—to say what's inside our heads, or if we want, inside our hearts, or our bodies, or whatever else. Most people have gone with the "head" prompt, and all sorts of ideas pop out—stuffed animals, the natural world, literature, the minutae of daily life, childhood. There are laughs, there is silence, there are smiles adn moist eyes: the range of human emotion.

After everyone reads, we take a 10-minute break to enjoy goodies some of us brought. Usually Alison brings cookies, but tonight we want to celebrate her. And tonight before we began, Ronnie Davis, head librarian, comes in to thank Alison for her dedication with a bouquet of flowers.

Liz, one regular who used to come for years, but hasn't lately, asks me, as we snack, "So is anyone else taking this over?" I say I don't know. I only heard from another regular, Emmy, that this was the last session.

"It's about community," says Liz.

"Yes," I say, realizing that for the first time that it is more than about writing, that this ties us together.

We do one more round, as Alison hands out another prompt and we write for 20 minutes, then share. Before we leave, I thank Alison for being a facilitator, praise her for being unique. Others join in. I ask her about her decision to leave. She explains she is just taking a break, that the program is not ending, and that library staff members did not initiate this. They don't necessarily want a substitute or replacement because they have built up a relationship with Alison. She is unique, as is the library of Albany.

As Ronnie Davis says, "we have always supported poetry in the community." And in that, the library has brought the community together.