“Poetry arrived in search of me. I don’t know. I don’t know where it came from, from winter or a river.”
—Pablo Neruda
When I decided it was time to retire at the age of 59, in large part because I had enough of my thirty-something boss, I was at a new juncture. A youngish senior, trying to figure out what to do with the rest of my life. I had volunteered extensively over the years taking significant leadership positions. I found several different volunteer jobs right away. These included teaching English as a second language to Chinese seniors and working with children in a low-achieving school in East Oakland. However, I knew I needed something more. Exercising, shopping, and going out to lunch with friends, also lost their glitter rather quickly. I wanted to feel alive with my mind and senses engaged. What would open the gate to lead me on a journey where I had not ventured before?
I had always liked to write, and as a history major and English minor I had done endless term papers, but I never had attempted any serious creative writing. It was bashert for me to find a daytime writing workshop, Lakeshore Writers in Oakland, which had one spot left in their spring class. The class met Thursday mornings for two and a half hours. I was willing to give it a try. I told myself, just one class couldn’t hurt. If I hated it, I just wouldn’t continue, lose the deposit, whatever.
I got to the class early that Thursday morning and chatted with the facilitator as the other women rolled in. We eyed each other. I was the oldest. What am I doing here? I was filled with doubts. I sat down on the mismatched chairs, clutching my lemon ginger tea and listening to the instructions. The class used the Amherst method. We would write on three prompts during class time, read our work out loud, and give positive feedback to each other. We were to treat everything we heard as fiction. My first prompt and I still remember it, “write about hair.” At first, I panicked; I’ve got nothing to say I thought. Then I took a breath, gulped my tea, and stared at my blank-lined notebook page. Then it came to me. I could write about my daughter’s thick mane of wild curly hair which had always been a source of drama for her. It had a life of its own. I had my storytelling about the day she came home from college when she had cut it all off, and I went to bed to recover from the shock.
And that one class was all it took. I was hooked. Who would have ever believed that I had words, sentences, images, and memories waiting to burst forth from within? It was as if I had new glasses on and could see for the first time. I started to look at things differently. I incorporated snippets of conversations everywhere in my work. I found colorful characters lurking in the supermarket checkout line, on the BART train, and in the jury pool. I went back to my old San Francisco neighborhood in my head; remembering the poppies Mrs. Mialocq used to give me over the fence; Mrs. Hetrova, the piano teacher, who hid her money in her hat; the neighbors down the street who had a drunken brawl, and my tap-dancing class on Fulton St. And I remembered the smell of my mother’s glorious lilac tree. I wrote about all of it; the fictitious and the real.
In my poem “Found” I wrote:
I went back to my old neighborhood,
wrote about the cracked skylight in the too-warm kitchen…
wrote of going downtown on the 5 Fulton with my mother and sister…
And it all came glowing back to me,
the fog shroud, the briny smells, the eucalyptus trees…
I had discovered a new world like an intrepid explorer, stumbling upon the universe of literary magazines, online submissions, and contests. A whole new vocabulary of “simultaneous submissions.” I started to submit all over in a writing frenzy. I was addicted to the process. I wrote and re-wrote every day. In the beginning, I had some surprising successes, even placing in a Writer’s Digest short story contest with an honorable mention. I didn’t realize that was a pretty big deal. There were other first-place and second-place wins, including first place in the Gemini Open poetry competition. It was a thrill seeing my work published, but then came the rejections; there were plenty of those.
I had to learn to believe in myself, which was not easy. I had to learn to call myself a “writer.”
I had to learn to live with the “shitbird” of self-doubt as the poet Philip Schultz calls the negative forces writers must contend with. Early on, a dear friend and mentor who encouraged me tremendously held a salon for me to read my poetry. It was a thrill to share my writings over tea. A rapt and appreciative audience of friends raised their eyebrows, quite stunned that I had this latent literary talent. I have done several poetry readings since, and they are inspiring and affirming for me.
Over the years, I have taken many classes and workshops and several intensive writer’s boot camps in a variety of writing genres. Anything from memoirs to poetry, children’s books, playwriting, and creative nonfiction. Every week, I collaborate with writers in two workshops which we diligently continued on Zoom during the pandemic. In a poem where I explored why I write poetry, I wrote:
Words and lines flow through my veins, inhabit my cells.
Some days I’m an explorer probing the inner chambers of my heart,
or a miner digging through memories and stories
or a deep sea diver plunging in to the abyss of my soul.
I seek clarity in a fragile reality—
Making sense of the nonsensical,
Coping with the incomprehensible…
I need to write poetry.
It’s how I breathe.
Writing poetry has helped me get through difficult times in my life like my diagnosis of breast cancer and when my husband had a serious illness. It has been my lifeline, a way to express my deepest emotions and fears. In one of my acclaimed poems, “Sanctuary.” I wrote about my cancer experience:
waiting my turn, I sit
on the leather chair
magazines unopened on my lap
admitted by default to this curious flock
a sorority I never wanted to join
quietly chirping in different languages
draped in cottons, silks, perky knits
exotic birds in festooned plumage
we steal wary glances at one another
bald beautiful birds shorn to their essence
stoic smiles, jutting cheekbones, haunted eyes
a thirty-something with a hennaed pate sits to my left
proud and elegant, so cool and hip
she cries, comforted by her mom
I sigh; she is too young for all of this
What distinguishes my poetry is that I write poetry that is relatable and straightforward. The reader does not have to decipher complicated symbolism and obscure references. I wrote a number of poems during the pandemic. My poem, “The Cuervo Gold and Clorox Blues”, was published by the San Francisco Chronicle during the beginning of the pandemic when they were publishing a poem every day.
Grocery list clutched in my gloved hand,
mask in place, fogging my glasses,
cart wiped down.
I try to keep myself from weeping.
We are all actors in a bad dream,
that doesn’t go away in the morning.
I write about societal problems like homelessness. One of my poems is about a homeless encampment watched over by an imperious giraffe in a mural on the wall of the freeway underpass; another poem is about the tragic random shooting on a freeway of a toddler sitting in his car seat, little Jasper Wu.
From “No Elegy for Jasper”:
There will be no words,
no tributes, no sonnets or verses of consolation,
borrowed from the great poets recited
for an angel named Jasper called up too soon.
My poetry questions the inexplicable, tries to find meaning in the tragedies and absurdities of life, and celebrates beauty and wonder. Sometimes it reflects my frustrations. While I was home sheltering in place during the pandemic, I had an epiphany that life was slipping by like sand in an hourglass and everything around me felt very uncertain. People were getting sick from Covid, and death was everywhere. It felt like the right time to gather my poetry and put it in a book, which is what I did. I was also facing a big birthday and wanted this book to be a legacy for my children and seven grandchildren. I entitled my book, My Runaway Hourglass, Seventy Poems Celebrating Seventy Years. It was an amazing experience to organize the book, edit my poems, and work intensively with the publisher. I was very proud when I completed it and had a book launch on Zoom. I have sent my book all over the country and have received many wonderful comments. When I hear from readers they were deeply touched by my words, I am gratified that I have been able to pierce someone’s heart with my poetry.
I continually strive to improve my craft and have collaborated closely with several well-known poets. I have completed two other chapbooks since my book and continually seek new workshops and classes besides my ongoing weekly workshops. As Neruda said, “poetry found me,” and I am eternally grateful that it did.
Joanne Jagoda is the author of My Runaway Hourglass, Seventy Poems Celebrating Seventy Years (Poetica Publications, 2020.) A first-place entrant in the Gemini Poetry Open contest and Pushcart Prize nominee, her short stories, poetry, and creative nonfiction appear online and in numerous print anthologies including The Write Launch, Burningword Literary Journal, Pure Slush, Third Harvest, Snapdragon, The Awakenings Review, Dreamers Magazine, and more. Find more on her website, joannejagoda.com
What a delight to watch you leap into writing and create so much beauty and literary success. This is why I started Lakeshore Writers, to create the space for people to discover their powerful, original voice and go wild, explore, create! So proud of all you've accomplished. I continue to be inspired by you. xo