Meet Prudence Tippins

I enjoy writing as an extension of my spiritual practice. The Buddhist practice, “Just Like Me” is one of my favorites.  This practice asks the practitioner to sit in a public place and observe the people around her.  For each person, the practitioner reminds herself, “Just like me, this person  ______,” filling in the blank with something he or she feels or thinks and believes the other person feels or things (e.g., “has high hopes for his children,” or “gets triggered by slow traffic.”)

This exercise is where I get most of my poetry material.  I observe, then I stand in that person’s shoes in my imagination long enough to get an idea of how he or she might be feeling.  It might be a mother in a grocery store obviously frustrated by her three young children’s interest in the cereal boxes.  Or it could be a man sorting through flood wreckage.  I imagine what that person might be feeling, then I write a poem from his or her perspective.

To begin with, try writing from a perspective you might already have some familiarity with, like a fairy tale character.  Ron Koertge’s “Cinderella’s Diary” (link: http://bbzronkoertge.blogspot.com/http://bbzronkoertge.blogspot.com/) is an example.  What do you think Cinderella might be feeling after ten years of marriage?

Here’s one of my own using a different fairy tale:

The Princess and the Pea

They kicked me out, finally.
I knew it was coming.
My mother-in-law, the queen,
Had been griping about the
Rising cost of mattresses,
And even he, my prince,
Was tiring of watching me consume
Only soft-boiled eggs and milquetoast,
Him being an epicure, and all.
 
In my defense, his culinary tastes
Had resulted in a waistline
That popped at least one spring
In the 17-mattress stack per night,
And how could I bear it?
The pea alone was bad enough.
It was like sleeping on a bed
Of twisted spikes.
 
I do understand, though, in a way,
How bruises and whimpers
Can become less and less appealing
The longer one lives with them.
And besides, sensitivity is no longer the fashion.
 
I reminisce sometimes about the admiration
In the queen’s face
As I scaled the bed that first night
And the light in my husband’s eyes
The next morning
When he saw the dark circles under mine.
 
But there’s no sense in crying over
Spilt milk these days.
At least that’s the current wisdom
Espoused by today’s heroines:
Jade, Lara Croft,
Zelda, Warrior Princess
They seem to make the best of things
With nothing more than
A Ninja kick and
Well-placed sarcasm.
I admire them, really, I do,
But I can’t seem to muster their strength.
 
So here I sit at the corner of Broadway and 7^th,
Huddled in my ragged sweater
(At least it’s soft and ragged.)
Too proud to beg for coins,
Too tender to go to work,
Too slight to be noticed by philanthropists,
I simply wait
Little Match-Girl style,
For mercy.
 

After you practice with a few fairy tales, move on to someone you know who has an issue you’ve contemplated: a friend struggling with a decision over whether to divorce, for example, or a child worried about the first day of kindergarten. Then, move on to strangers, imagining their inner dialogue.

The interesting thing about this exercise is that it ends up being just as much (or more) about yourself as it is about the other person.  It’s a window to parts of yourself you may otherwise not discover.  The above poem in my case, revealed to me a certain malaise – a weakness I was feeling that had not made itself conscious yet.  There was a part of me who actually felt “too slight to be noticed by philanthropists,” as if I were slipping through the cracks of society, somehow.  It helped me recognize a need for self-nurturing and the desire to feel useful to people again.

As you write, paint a picture of the subject’s surroundings.  You can cut these details out later if you want to, but for now, notice how the details of what you see around your subject (a narrow doorway, a dark alley, a blooming dogwood) can reflect the tone of your poem, helping us feel the subject’s issue on more than one level.

When you feel comfortable, you can use this exercise as a mirroring tool.  You and your writing group or a few friends can write one about one another, looking through their eyes for a moment.  If you’re up for this one, be prepared to receive new insight about how others see you!

Selected Poems:

Julie asked me to share some poems about love for February, the month we celebrate Valentine’s Day.  Selecting poems about love hasn’t been difficult because there are so many different ways to love and so many different ways of expressing love.  Here are a few of my “love poems.”

Dark Chocolate
 Warming between my lips
It softens
Loosening its tense hold
On the flavor of desire
 
I draw it in slowly, slowly
Sliding it gently to the tongue-bed
So as not to frighten it
With sharp, white teeth
 
Buds caress its sides
It melts to liquid touch
Bending back in tentative release
Giving in to ecstasy
 
Formless now, it spreads its nectar
With abandon over the tongue
Delighting with sweet, smooth softness now, oh!
Now, sharp astringency
 
Slipping smoothly around the palate
Fearless now of teeth and destiny
Gently, finally,
Leaving only the bitterness of goodbye.

Possum
I was not a lioness this time
Sensually dangerous,
Alluring in my focused rage
 
I was a wicked, ugly creature
A possum with a stick in its side
Hissing gray and loping maniacally
 
Still, you stood
Eyes wide and breath shallow
But facing me, ready
 
I lashed with unrestrained hatred
Slashing your flesh
Again and again
 
And you stood
Blue eyes boring into mine
Insistent blue
 
You caught me when I fell
Weeping
Possum mask shed
 
Your eyes found mine
Found gratitude
Found devotion
 
Anyone can fight a lioness.
What a pleasure
To grapple with soft, rippling fur!
 
You stood your ground
To face the wire-haired
Devil possum
 
And redeemed us both.


Like Me
Sister Maple had her moment
The glorious shock of flame
So coveted by tourist and poet
Faded to an artist’s half-hearted
            watercolor swath
Inspiration passed and the artist (with the poet and the tourist)
Moved on.

Leaves that jitterbugged with the wind
Caught the sun on their shiny skin
Drain of life and fall too easily [aside]
Brittle, delicate children
Snatched away
In autumn wind

But she stands, Sister Maple, straight and strong
Stark and bare in her wide Truth
Naked open arms shameless
Dancing in the moonlight to secret songs
Offering her hidden sweetness
Her very blood to thirsty travelers


Prints
 The fog is clearing outside
And I take my coat off the hook.
Your heavy Carhardt is still on the hook beside it,
Waiting patiently, eternally, for your return
And I can almost make out the shape of your shoulders
In its form.
 
You’re no longer here to plow the snow off the driveway
So my morning walks reveal to me
The night-secrets of the nocturnal world I have joined.
 
The turkey flock was indecisive at dusk:
“A last-minute drink!” the impetuous teen-chick announced
And charged left, down the hill.
“No, no!” the turkey-hen admonished. “No more till dawn.
Follow me!” and they veered right, up the hill again
The smaller prints pouting, trailing behind.
 
The gopher we used to teasingly call “the pelt”
For the undulating brunette coat that obscures his features
Was military in his movements
One stealth mission to the stream and back, retracing his steps precisely.
 
A doe so heavy her fetlocks scraped the snow
Led a newborn the length of the drive;
The little one treading delicately beside her flank
Nuzzling, I imagine, to help lighten Mother’s load.
 
The pheasant found a hill of which to be king.
As usual, his long-suffering mate watched
From the snap-thin brown weeds
Sighing, as her husband savored his glory.
 
The rabbit circled several times
Around the compost
Evidently questioning my culinary taste
And choosing winter hunger over untouched Ramen noodles:
The diet of college students and the grieving elderly
 
And then there are boot treads
The size and shape of an aging woman
Ambling in no particular direction;
A long path of pure, clean snow beside her all the way.