Frenchtown Writing Retreat
This past weekend I took a writing retreat with the National Writing Project from Rutgers University. This was my time to get away and focus on my writing. The car was packed with only the bare essentials needed for survival: guitar, laptop, running gear, journals, a research project, and Ralph Keyes The Courage to Write. I mean really roughing it like a Hemmingway or Joseph Conrad. Six others would join the stay the weekend; just so happens that I was the only man. Never a complaint from me.
The National Inn was a scene out of some unwritten novel: restored colonial house, jute rugs, burlap lampshades, leather sofas, leopard printed pillows, wooden chests, old-world maps. Sagging windowpanes. Dim lighting. Walls thickly painted in earth tones. Perhaps it the Rathskellar, a basement tavern, that anointed the Inn as a retreat. Blocks away the Deleware, bloated from rain, dredging muddy waters out to sea.
Unfortunately I didn’t accomplish as much writing as planned; you never do. Rather this weekend was a time to get together with writers to talk about the craft. Edward Ramond, author and former high school teacher, joined us Friday evening for a poetry reading. Saturday morning Bill Connolly, of the Rowan NWP site, led a discussion about publication. Teachers as writers. Teachers as publishers. Inspiration enough.
The retreat was capped by a writing marathon. As my final piece, I wrote a reflection of the weekend past. Not so much poetry as snippets of conversation. Very much an “insider” piece. Each line is the to a thread of conversation woven through the entire weekend. Out of context it takes a whole new meaning. Consider it the punch line to a joke you didn’t hear.
Memories of Frenchtown
Muscleman the Catholic Priest,
Rathskeller late nites,
Define flirt – sexual or intellectual?
Never had a chance to say goodbye,
Oh well, see you in Nashville,
Bill’s valiant rescue of the garden-grill mice,
Rhonda and the road,
Are you wearing a bra?
Cala lillies look like a woman’s… SHH!
I am an ass-model; Assman,
Brokeback and his dancing dudes,
Laundromat literacy: inside the dryer,
Thank you,
Until we retreat again…
For now – let’s grill.
The National Inn was a scene out of some unwritten novel: restored colonial house, jute rugs, burlap lampshades, leather sofas, leopard printed pillows, wooden chests, old-world maps. Sagging windowpanes. Dim lighting. Walls thickly painted in earth tones. Perhaps it the Rathskellar, a basement tavern, that anointed the Inn as a retreat. Blocks away the Deleware, bloated from rain, dredging muddy waters out to sea.
Unfortunately I didn’t accomplish as much writing as planned; you never do. Rather this weekend was a time to get together with writers to talk about the craft. Edward Ramond, author and former high school teacher, joined us Friday evening for a poetry reading. Saturday morning Bill Connolly, of the Rowan NWP site, led a discussion about publication. Teachers as writers. Teachers as publishers. Inspiration enough.
The retreat was capped by a writing marathon. As my final piece, I wrote a reflection of the weekend past. Not so much poetry as snippets of conversation. Very much an “insider” piece. Each line is the to a thread of conversation woven through the entire weekend. Out of context it takes a whole new meaning. Consider it the punch line to a joke you didn’t hear.
Memories of Frenchtown
Muscleman the Catholic Priest,
Rathskeller late nites,
Define flirt – sexual or intellectual?
Never had a chance to say goodbye,
Oh well, see you in Nashville,
Bill’s valiant rescue of the garden-grill mice,
Rhonda and the road,
Are you wearing a bra?
Cala lillies look like a woman’s… SHH!
I am an ass-model; Assman,
Brokeback and his dancing dudes,
Laundromat literacy: inside the dryer,
Thank you,
Until we retreat again…
For now – let’s grill.
Tags:
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
Links to this post:
Create a Link
<< Home