Liz Warren | Storyteller

How do poems grow? They grow out of your
life.-Robert Penn Warren

     I became a writer in New Hampshire. I’m
not talking about being a professional writer, but I began to think
of myself as a writer after participating in a series of summer
literacy institutes at the University of New Hampshire. In fact, I say often… the
only good writing I ever do is when I’m in New Hampshire. As I was
preparing for this blog, I thought what on earth do I know about storytelling,
as a novice storyteller, that I can share with others? So I did what I often do
when I’m thinking. I began to look through my writer’s notebooks from my
summers in New Hampshire. And what do you know? The answer was right there in my writing!

     I wrote a lot of poems in New Hampshire.
The seeds for my poems came from personal experiences during my summer stays in
New Hampshire, or personal experiences that I called to my memory as I was
writing for my institute classes. As I reread my poems, I realized that almost
all of them told a story about a moment or time in my life. The process I went
through to capture a life experience in a poem is much like the process I am
going through now to craft a story for my Personal Stories class, here at South
Mountain Community College. In both cases, I use all of my senses – sight,
sound, smell, taste, touch, plus my emotions to create the IMAGES that
transform my life experience into a story – a story that can be related through
personal telling or through writing a poem that tells the story. Just as
the personal story that you tell has a deeper meaning hidden inside, a point to
be pondered, so does the poem. That is the true treasure.  

     As I mold my storytelling style through
the classes that I am taking at SMCC, I would like to think about how I can
integrate some of my personal story poems into my storytelling. So I leave you
with one of my personal story poems. It is an absolutely true poem about my delight in finding a little
“treasure” on the ocean floor one summer day in New Hampshire. 

Do you want to know a secret, a
secret of the sea?

Have you ever seen a snail, one
as little as can be?

So lovely like a jewel, with
swirls of milky-brown?

A snail that paves a mini-road
over sandy ground?

One that clings to speckled
rocks, to sunbathe every day?

Do you know where this snail
sleeps? Where she tucks her head away?

 

I do.

 

I found out quite by accident,
while swimming nigh the isle.

The bottom crunched with
seashells, so I scooped me up a pile.

I shook away the gravel. It
trickled back to sea.

What was left, my hand caressed –
a shell… pure white… pearly.

I turned it toward the sun – saw
pink and purples glow. I held it way up high, brought it way down low.

That’s when I discovered a
creature fast asleep –a dainty, wee Dogwinkle. I didn’t make a peep.

 

Shhh…

 

Curled up on the seashell – soft
like satin sheets,

oh… she looked quite cozy from
head to snaily feet.

I didn’t mean to rouse her, but
she began to shift.

I murmured, “Sweet dreams, Snail.
You’re such a precious gift.”

I lowered her bed slowly, to lull
on the seafloor.

“Miss Snail, may you be blanketed
by waves forevermore.”

 

Now you know a secret, a
secret of the sea.

If you keep it secret, it will
stay a mystery.

 

-Nancy Newlin (written after visiting The Isles of the
Shoals)