Unexpectedly, I found Poetry at Work.
I was sitting in a meeting, one of those interminable, stifling meetings that recurred weekly, a regular meeting that had to be attended. It didn’t matter that each meeting repeated its predecessor, that 90 minutes was set aside for what could be covered in less than 90 seconds.
Attendance was required. Suggesting an alternative (like meeting annually) or skipping the meeting altogether was unthinkable; the fate of global capitalism hinged on seven people sitting in a small conference room every week and boring themselves.
Discussion was repetitious. Differences were repetitious. Even the occasional conflicts were repetitious.
And then one day, as I desperately tried to stifle a yawn, I heard it. I heard it in the repetition. The language had a cadence and rhythm. It actually had a kind of music.
It was poetry at work.
That personal epiphany actually happened some five years ago. I found it in a meeting. Elizabeth Bishop found it at a filling station.
Filling Station
Oh, but it is dirty!
—this little filling station,
oil-soaked, oil-permeated
to a disturbing, over-all
black translucency.
Be careful with that match!
Father wears a dirty,
oil-soaked monkey suit
that cuts him under the arms,
and several quick and saucy
and greasy sons assist him
(it’s a family filling station),
all quite thoroughly dirty.
Do they live in the station?
It has a cement porch
behind the pumps, and on it
a set of crushed and grease-
impregnated wickerwork;
on the wicker sofa
a dirty dog, quite comfy.
Some comic books provide
the only note of color—
of certain color. They lie
upon a big dim doily
draping a taboret
(part of the set), beside
a big hirsute begonia.
Why the extraneous plant?
Why the taboret?
Why, oh why, the doily?
(Embroidered in daisy stitch
with marguerites, I think,
and heavy with gray crochet.)
Somebody embroidered the doily.
Somebody waters the plant,
or oils it, maybe. Somebody
arranges the rows of cans
so that they softly say:
esso—so—so—so
to high-strung automobiles.
Somebody loves us all.
(From The Complete Poems 1927-1979 by Elizabeth Bishop.)
Today we’re celebrating Poetry at Work Day 2016 (that’s #PoetryatWorkDay on Twitter). We celebrate it in a thousand different ways, perhaps even more. We read a poem aloud to our fellow workers, or read it silently. We put a Poetry at Work Day poster on the wall of our office, our cubicle, our kitchen, our college classroom, our truck or bus—wherever our work might happen. We look for the poetry in our work, and we write about it. We share it, for poetry is always meant to be shared, read aloud, listened to, and cherished.
We have a resource to help you celebrate from our own L.L. Barkat. Entitled Celebrate Poetry at Work Day, it’s filled with suggestions and ideas for ways to participate, celebrate, and enjoy.
Today, via Noisetrade, you can download an ebook version (pdf, epub or mobi) of my Poetry at Work, Tweetspeak Poetry’s companion guide to Poetry at Work Day. Or you can order the print version.
The poems we find in and write about work are as varied as the work we do. But poetry is there, in all work, speaking to us, singing to us, reminding us that no matter what work we do, it is work that helps provide a common human bond across languages and cultures.
If you’d like to share a poem about poetry at work, we invite you to post it or link to it in the comments below.
Come, celebrate Poetry at Work Day 2016 with us.
Post by Glynn Young, author of the novels Dancing Priest and A Light Shining, and Poetry at Work.
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How to Read a Poem uses images like the mouse, the hive, the switch (from the Billy Collins poem)—to guide readers into new ways of understanding poems. Anthology included.
“I require all our incoming poetry students—in the MFA I direct—to buy and read this book.”
—Jeanetta Calhoun Mish
- A History of Children’s Stories: “The Haunted Wood” by Sam Leith - May 20, 2025
- World War II Had Its Poets, Too - May 15, 2025
- Czeslaw Milosz, 1946-1953: “Poet in the New World” - May 13, 2025
Sandra Heska King says
Here’s one (slightly edited) I posted on my blog a couple years ago when we were discussing Poetry at Work through the Book Club. This was in response to Glynn’s challenge in chapter 3 to find a little poetry in my workspace.
My Workspace
No closet pocketed the clothes back then, so
his bed tucked in that space under the ceiling slant
where he peeled wall paper during nap time.
I imagine cowboy boots kicked careless in the corner,
hat hung on peg while Roy Rogers ticked time.
Some years later, his mom exchanged the twin for double
and lined it parallel to the window
that overlooks the field. We slept there once when we
came home to visit. The room’s so cold.
Our son’s crib nestled on that wall
before it gave way to a rollaway
and then bunks where he wrestled pillows and
hung Goldberg and Stone Cold Steve on the walls
and lined up matchbox cars on the sill OCD so.
He used a fan year ’round and burrowed under quilts.
When he left home, I moved my desk up from
the basement and set it where I
can see the field and watch the seasons change
and view the wild life past the sill.
Here I wrestle words and try to tell it slant…
and I turn on a space heater in winter.
Glynn says
Work – it takes all forms, places, experiences. Thanks for sharing this, Sandra!
L. L. Barkat says
I really love the ticking clock sounds of this part:
“No closet pocketed the clothes back then, so
his bed tucked in that space under the ceiling slant
where he peeled wall paper during nap time.
I imagine cowboy boots kicked careless in the corner,
hat hung on peg while Roy Rogers ticked time.”
Mary Sayler says
Thanks, Glynn. I just highlighted your post on the Christian Poets & Writers blog http://www.christianpoetsandwriters.com.
Glynn says
Mary – thank you!
Monica Sharman says
I find myself thinking about poetic (or maybe just clever/amusing) names for businesses. Or maybe they’re just bad puns.
“Curl Up and Dye” (hair salon)
“Jack the Clipper” (again, hair salon)
“Bin There, Dump That” (bin/dumpster rental, drop-off, and pick-up)
“Sit Means Sit” (dog obedience school) — this one is more effective than funny
I’m sure I’ll find more later. 🙂
Glynn says
There is a manicure business enar my house called Tip O’Nails. And I could see “Jack the Clipper” as a title for a detective story about Surelocked Homes.
Christina Hubbard says
Great post. Loved sharing it. The process of work for me most days:
Cogs snick snack tap into place, turning wheels.
Laundry, started. Emails, answered.
Heart thumps. Feet pad pavement. Whistle for the dog.
Shower later.
A bolt slid out of the cog back at the conifer.
Click clack, go back.
Dentist appointments, unchecked…
Focus on clacking. The snapping, tapping.
Ideas come. Walk around again to make room for idea rush.
Oncoming dog. Shoot!
Watch how the trees sway, swish, so wheels tick tack crank.
Where’s my phone?
And move. Follow your steps round paved track, until
The ideas breathe.
Third time around.
Wheels and cogs will break, but breathing creates.
I am the clock. I tick,
Slowly.
Hummus wrap for lunch.
Moving to make the wheels turn. Click clack snap click.
Walking to churn it out.
Glynn says
Thanks for sharing this, Christina! Wonderful!