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Journey into Poetry: Anne M. Doe Overstreet

By Anne M. Doe Overstreet 13 Comments

Curious Cat Poetry Journey Anne Doe Overstreet tweetspeakpoetry.com
I sit on my brother’s porch, breathing in the honeysuckle’s incense (Lonicera sempervirens), trying to identify that first step, that first choosing, when I knew I would write. I cannot remember a time when there was not a passion for cadence and knowing and naming.

I come from a family that read hungrily and constantly; there was music—banjo to clarinet to piano—and hikes beside copper-colored ponds, beneath the huff and shrug of spruce at places like Peaks of Otter, reciting the names of deciduous trees. In between, stillness, time to reflect. And within that, Walter Farley’s novels and Webster’s Dictionary, the 1970 edition, I Capture the Castle and World Book Encyclopedia, which opened up the universe and made me hungry to understand why a Tennessee Walking Horse was what it was. But I cannot tease it apart, say, here I begin, here I turn my face toward a different tree line, moving from reader and listener to writer. It doesn’t begin. It doesn’t end.

I had a flute teacher once who stood me on a wooden floor and told me to feel the planed boards under my feet and to think of oak roots, to hold a middle G for as long as I could sustain the largeness of the tree, root to branch, with my breath and mind. We did this over and over again. That note will always sound like damp earth and acorn meat to me, and smell like tarnished silver. Another teacher argued passionately about whether hot chocolate had any part of texture that could be called grainy. Each time I try another variety of cocoa, I am tempted to dip into the dregs to retest the theory. I know these moments shaped my work because I recollect them vividly.

It’s all of a piece: the amalgam of sugar and milk and chocolate, the oak-root note. I want to follow something deeper in.

The beach down the hill is composed of pea- to pumpkin-sized rocks and gritty sand. That sand is a myriad of shapes, hexahedrons, spikey stars, honeycombs, colors ranging from saffron to blush to azure. I cannot recall a time when such things did not fascinate me, and I don’t know exactly when that fascination moved onto the page. I pull up a chair and grab a book on geology. This is also a pivotal moment.

I keep turning, the road branching out behind and in front of me. I want to know everything and I want time to examine the architecture of a checkered mallow. Where else can such desires co-exist so exquisitely, where else is permission given for such fascination with simply everything, but poetry?

Photo by Maccio Capatonda. Creative Commons, via Flickr. Post by Anne M. Doe Overstreet, author of Delicate Machinery Suspended: Poems

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Anne M. Doe Overstreet
Anne M. Doe Overstreet
Anne M. Doe Overstreet is the author of Delicate Machinery Suspended. Founder and editor at Spine-Line editing, she is also the associate editor of DMQ Review.
Anne M. Doe Overstreet
Latest posts by Anne M. Doe Overstreet (see all)
  • Poetry Classroom: Sour Plums - January 30, 2013
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Filed Under: journey into poetry, poetry

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About Anne M. Doe Overstreet

Anne M. Doe Overstreet is the author of Delicate Machinery Suspended. Founder and editor at Spine-Line editing, she is also the associate editor of DMQ Review.

Comments

  1. L.L. Barkat says

    April 23, 2012 at 8:26 am

    This is just so beautiful Anne.

    *Naming* feels to me like a form of love (which is why, when names are mis-used I suppose we feel so violated).

    Reply
  2. Maureen Doallas says

    April 23, 2012 at 12:01 pm

    Beautifully written, Anne. Your description of the beach shows what a remarkable observer you are, and why you’re a poet.

    Reply
  3. Simply Darlene says

    April 23, 2012 at 3:47 pm

    poetical permission
    reminds me of
    auto emission
    tests
    because many fail
    and those poor poetical
    types?
    they flail about with
    clipped
    wings
    and red “non-approval”
    stamped across
    foreheads.
    good thing that
    nasty ink
    tastes
    good.

    (I dunno where that came from, it just did. Maybe it’s our 2nd day of sunshine and a weekend with no snow. And maybe I want to stamp someone across the forehead who once told me “no.” Either way, thanks for this. And I’ll try not to feel a poetical fool in the midst of such beauty. Love that feline image too, even though I don’t fancy cats.)

    Blessings.

    Reply
  4. Charity Singleton says

    April 23, 2012 at 7:13 pm

    The fascination of simply everything is why I write, too. There’s nothing outside the purview of the poet. Your journey makes for beautiful verse all it’s own.

    Reply
  5. Matthew Kreider says

    April 23, 2012 at 8:36 pm

    Once a child pulls open a silver retractable tube telescope, the scientist in her has no choice but to search for names. And a notebook for poems. What a beautiful lens, Anne.

    Reply
  6. Will Willingham says

    April 23, 2012 at 10:32 pm

    “I want to know everything and I want time to examine…”

    This just makes me want to examine even more.

    Reply
  7. Tania Runyan says

    April 24, 2012 at 12:02 am

    Anne, you are a beautiful poet, and, apparently, a beautiful prose writer as well. This piece really resonated with me. I have played violin my whole life, and without a doubt that practice has informed the rhythm of my work. Once a violin teacher had me play Images on the violin. “Play the smell of bread baking. Open string, no vibrato. Just the smell of bread from your bow.” Lovely how it all works together!

    Reply
  8. Anne Overstreet says

    April 25, 2012 at 11:15 pm

    Tania, I cannot imagine what my work would be without music in the mix, can you? Something very different, I think. And, ah, I do wish I could play the violin! The two instruments that open doors in my head most, are the French Horn and the cello. Oddly enough, the accordian makes me want to write prose… hmmm.

    Reply
  9. Anne Overstreet says

    April 25, 2012 at 11:28 pm

    (for Darlene, even though cats are not your favorite thing, and perhaps not quite as yummy as yours)

    tasty ink’s
    a good thing
    even sputtering like
    the red Tercel
    that noses ’round the block
    keeping its metaphorical
    head down, focused on
    the page, no shocks, just a juddering nib
    or pencil lead, any
    type
    of instrument that rows
    the line toward
    submission
    we accept,
    will do, for now
    just write

    Reply
  10. Simply Darlene says

    April 26, 2012 at 9:49 am

    Dudette
    miss Anne,
    I reckon (yes,
    I do) that
    a crayon
    will suffice.
    Many
    kind
    thanks to
    you! And
    blessings.

    Reply
  11. Kimberlee Conway Ireton says

    April 27, 2012 at 1:47 pm

    Anne, What a beautiful post. I have your book of poetry sitting on my nightstand, waiting for me to be done with the women’s retreat I’m leading this weekend, so I can sip and savor your words. If they’re anything like as lovely as the words of this essay, I’m in for a delectable treat. 🙂

    Reply
  12. Anne Overstreet says

    April 29, 2012 at 11:37 pm

    Thank you, Kimberlee. What a lovely thing to say. I think when I read poetry just before sleeping, my dreams are different, more slant, than when I read fiction. Perhaps you will dream of whales and pomegranates! 🙂

    Reply
  13. Steve Lawton says

    November 18, 2013 at 5:52 pm

    Anne–when words can illuminate a wandering idea, shedding soft light ahead and behind, it is a lovely thing. When the words compel a reader to participate, (as did yours) we understand the power of poetry that Dr. Nick sought when he said, “I want to leave the world with one good poem.” He knew that doing so would change the world. He (and Nelle Vander Aark) changed mine.

    Reply

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