“I want you to write down two things: beauty and truth.”

So began the poetry workshop, held in the LCR, with Taylor Mali, the performance poet who visited Masters on April 18. While we discussed the importance of rhythm, rhyme scheme and silence in crafting a musical poem, it was primarily honesty which we would spend an hour talking about, writing about, and thinking about.  

Mali advised not to write the most beautiful thing we could think of, because those words had most likely had been transformed into a cliché.  We were told that writing a true phrase is unique and, the more raw the truth, the more beauty there would be in it, revealing itself all on its own.  

It’s a difficult thing to bare your feelings, in front of your peers, but especially in front of a renowned poet. We were all very much aware of Mali’s ability to judge our writing from a serious artistic perspective.  But I think this tugging sense of unease that comes with telling the whole truth, and nothing but, is exactly what Mali wanted us all to feel.  He wanted us to get a little uncomfortable in our skin, to feel vulnerable.  He knew it would force us to be honest.  

Our assignment was to describe our room from a third-person perspective, in such a way that the objects told a story of who we were as people.  The more specific details we included, the better our poems would be.  Called on to share an object in my room, I chose a stuffed animal.  Questioned until I turned red, I wound up revealing its exact location (bookshelf), the kind of animal it was (rabbit), when I’d gotten it (right when I came home from the hospital), any memories I had with it, why it was sentimental to me….  I was pushed out of my comfort zone for sure.  

Mali even encouraged us to burst into song at some point in the middle of our poems, if not for the reward of a special free pen with a poem inside and “Mali points,” (aka the respect and approval of Taylor Mali), then for the reward of trying something new and freeing pent-up emotion.  

I learned afterwards when I interviewed him that he valued poetry not only for its literary value but also for its purpose to entertain an audience: a combination of expressing one’s thoughts in a beautiful way, and then really embodying them in a performance.   

“The best poets can teach you how to live, and also write poetry that is entertaining.  I want readers who claim I have helped them understand their own lives better,” Mali said.  

After an hour of learning with my peers and hearing them deliver very personal poetry, I’ll admit I left the workshop feeling a little nervous.  But I also knew that these lessons Mali had given us would be invaluable as we continued to write poetry not to in search of beauty, but in search of our own truth: a perspective no one else could have.