Our first email exchange was in March of 2021. I sent her a poem and wanted to know if she thought my writing had potential. She responded I do not ever want to set myself up as a person to tell another their writing has potential or doesn’t. Potential for what? For whom? The answer could only be either a poem resonates for me, or it doesn’t. Or I like a line. But that’s only one person and one poem. I’d be worried if you felt it was worth/not worth pursuing because of a single opinion or poem. If you feel as you describe—“I want to share my experiences, both the locked and unlocked ones, with my family through writing”—this is the reason to write.
That was when I knew I had found my writing coach.
In 2012, Ronna created the first-ever Poet-in-Residence program at Mount Sinai Hospital, where she facilitated writing workshops for health care professionals. She is the Poet-in-Community at the University of Toronto, running several online workshops for students throughout the year. And as I write this, she is in residency at the Al Purdy A-Frame, where she will host an outdoor spontaneous poetry booth at the Picton library.
Ronna hears poems where others do not. She sees the poet in a person who doesn’t quite see it in themselves. She brings an awareness of poetry into me. In return, my poetry trickles down to my family—to my husband, who is not the least bit interested in poetry nor necessarily gets it but texts me two haikus while nervously sitting on the examination table waiting for the dermatologist to check his skin for a possible melanoma. And to my sixteen-year-old son, who, when he finds out that I am writing poems says, “Oh my G-d! My mom is writing poetry?” but
that same week, he purchases school supplies and comes home with a brand-new journal. Sometimes he’ll say the most peculiar phrases, and I tell him that’s the start of a poem, and after he’s done rolling his eyes, I’ll catch a glimpse of wonder on his face.
Over the last year and a half, Ronna and I have swapped hundreds of emails, phone calls, and, most recently, Zoom sessions. She has introduced me to poets such as Rilke, Phil Hall, Jericho Brown, Jane Hirshfield, C.D. Wright, Jim Harrison, Ocean Vuong, CAConrad, and Natalie Goldberg. She told me the first poem I sent her was narrative and that I should try and write into the feelings, but I had no idea what she meant by that. I wanted her to give me a step-by-step instructional guide like assembling an IKEA desk or even just some good old-fashioned Cliffs Notes.
Four months later, I had a piece of writing but was nervous about sharing it. Testing the waters, I asked her, “How will sharing my writing with you help my writing? Am I the words I write? Or are these words and thoughts writing me? It’s like I don’t want to bring life to them, but they are bringing life to me.” She replied, The paragraph above IS the writing. To answer or attempt to answer feels not the point. And I’m not sure there is an answer. That would take away from the fact that, as a reader, I am entering into that experience with you which is what I, as a writer, hope my reader will do. I don’t mean to be glib. If you want some help with a particular piece, send it and let me know where you are stuck or struggling. If you’d like to know if something resonates with me or if you are wondering something about it, send the work and let me know what you’re wondering.
She called that piece of writing a prose poem.
What I didn’t know was that I was writing from that place where unspoken words drift in my head and nestle inside my heart, sometimes in a hypnotic way. I gave myself permission to listen and write from that part: I now realize it was/is a place you could not possibly give someone else directions to. I needed to see, hear, and feel it on my own. I no longer force or manufacture poems. If it’s not flowing, I’m not going to keep hacking at it, but I will leave the door open. There’s always a poem lingering. Will I have the courage to let it in?
At the end of September, Ronna and I will finally meet in person. She is still very cautious with Covid-19, so we will sit outside in her backyard with masks on and review my work. I’ll tell her how much I love discovering the end line to my poems. And that sometimes endings end at a place of opening. When our time together is over, I imagine she’ll ask if I have any more questions, and I will ask the question at least ten times in my head before the words spill out of my mouth: If I hold my breath, can I hug you?
Peg Cherrin-Myers is an emerging haiku and haibun poet living in southeast Michigan. Her work has appeared in: Haiku Dialogue - The Haiku Foundation, Failed Haiku - a Journal of English Senryu, Haiku in Action - Nick Virgilio Haiku Association, Frogpond - The Journal of the Haiku Society of America, and forthcoming in Kingfisher Journal and Stanchion. She was a finalist for the First Annual Trailblazer Contest in 2021. Find her on Twitter: @pegcherrinmyers