Cover design by Henry James<\/span><\/em><\/p>\nWhen I read this book, I thought you were sharing an idea you wanted me to find. Is it a search for the meaning of words or truth that you\u2019re trying to express?<\/b><\/p>\n
I think your question is more generous than I am, in the sense that I\u2019m not thinking of sharing it. I\u2019m thinking of finding it. I don\u2019t know what it is. I\u2019m sharing it with myself or something I sense is there. But I don\u2019t get it yet until I write it, work it. It does seem like when I\u2019m doing readings that there is some sharing going on, whether it\u2019s the sharing of what I actually am trying to grapple with or with the other person connecting with their own life. That\u2019s where the thrill and the discrepa<\/span>ncy are.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\nI read your poems, and I think you\u2019re taking me somewhere, like a crossword puzzle, left, right, and down.<\/b><\/p>\n
That is what I\u2019m sort of doing but not doing it in any other realm. The lines on the page are really important to me.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\nHow would you describe your poetry?\u00a0<\/b><\/p>\n
Not formal. Dependent on sound and idea. The ideas aren\u2019t submerged exactly, but they\u2019re really the connection between sound, and there\u2019s an underlying movement that I\u2019m usually trying to track. In the readings, I\u2019ve promised myself that I will do a different reading every time. I always read the first poem because people are interested in why it\u2019s called\u00a0<\/span>Girl as Birch.<\/span><\/i>\u00a0I try to guess what this audience is going to be interested in, and I keep discovering different things.<\/span><\/p>\nThat\u2019s the mystery of poetry and how it comes about. How did you start writing poetry?<\/b><\/p>\n
When I was some age, like nine, I took an empty cinnamon jar. I wrote a litt<\/span>le poem about cinnamon. Later, I was madly in love with my English teacher, who one day wrote the word <\/span>why\u00a0<\/i>on the blackboard. I wrote a poem about the letters and the way they looked.<\/span><\/p>\nAnd then I didn\u2019t write for a long time, partly because my father didn\u2019t really want me to write. He thought my writing was very dense. I think he thought it was too isolated. He was a lawyer. He wanted me to do something with people. The day I came home from his funeral. I was flying home from Washington; I thought, oh, now I can write. Where did that come from? I didn\u2019t even know there was any restriction. I didn\u2019t know I wasn\u2019t doing want I wanted to do.<\/span><\/p>\nHow do you determine the words per line, and why are there spaces in between?<\/b><\/p>\n
It\u2019s how I think I should read it. The spacing is like music or dance. Space also [is] for thinking. This first little group:<\/span><\/p>\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0<\/span>pretending<\/span><\/i><\/p>\ncompliance\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0pliant,<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 ancient lenience<\/span><\/i><\/p>\nThose are all descriptions about the same accommod<\/span>ation of girls and birches \u2013 having to accede to the forces. Then the break is, in retrospect, to undermine that accommodation. That belief system is faulty; it\u2019s not true that you have to pretend. You don\u2019t have to be pliant. The extra space is defining again the credo, which is whatever beautiful gesture it is, that\u2019s alluring.<\/span><\/p>\nThose were the two lines that I pulled out.<\/b><\/p>\n
I spend a lot of time with words and their derivation, and that helps me or leads me. Especially in the first part of the book, there\u2019s a lot of breath spacing. Towards the middle part is the adolescent part. The first part is not only really young but also really deep. The middle part is more dealing with daily things. It\u2019s more regular in format.<\/span><\/p>\nAre we looking at a young girl who is getting older, and then she\u2019s a woman and everything else that falls in place with being a woman?<\/b><\/p>\n
Probably not everything. Some of these poems, towards the end, were written a long time ago.<\/span><\/p>\nIn \u201cOak,\u201d I could imagine this man\u2019s hand picking up the small child and comparing the weight to an azalea. Then ending with, \u201cHis newly noticed self, \/ her taproot.\u201d<\/b><\/p>\n
This is the story I was told about my father holding me. He was scared because I was so little. We\u00a0had azaleas. I don\u2019t remember how I came up with comparing her weight to an azalea, but the story was always focused on him trembling. What I think I got from the story and understood was the love of it, not just terror of dropping.<\/span><\/p>\nAnd the taproot means he\u2019s deep, and he\u2019s there for you.<\/b><\/p>\n
The deep solid sustaining thing.\u00a0Someone the other day who got the book said this is all about her father. Where is her mother? I have another book coming out that\u2019s called\u00a0<\/span>The Promise of A Normal Life.<\/span><\/i>\u00a0It\u2019s a novel.\u00a0And the mother is definitely featured there. She\u2019s not my mother.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\nWould you explain \u201cWay Too Bold\u201d for us?\u00a0<\/b><\/p>\n
I think that humiliation of putting on a swimsuit and being humiliated by the fact that she has thighs. \u201cExposed white thighs, spoke shame.\u201d At nine, the level of embarrassment is high. Maybe I can hide, maybe I can go underwater, and I can beat my father, who is rowing slowly. He\u2019s protecting me.\u00a0The boat is creaky and dry, and worn out. It was a bet, too. I don\u2019t remember winning the bet. I think I\u2019m owed a dollar fifty.<\/span><\/p>\n\u201c<\/span>My own arms cleaved the green,\u201d I love that line. \u201cOut of sight, at last, \/ unmeasured triumph.\u201d<\/b><\/p>\nI won the bet, and I won the release from embarrassment and from the quantification. I read this poem in a group somewhere, and I realized how much quantification there was. \u201cAt nine,\u201d \u201cI\u2019ll swim the Whole Lake. \/ It\u2019s a mile!\u201d And then suddenly there\u2019s no more measurement. It\u2019s unmeasured. That\u2019s a quiet little thing that\u2019s going on.<\/span><\/p>\nYou said earlier after your father had passed, you could write. He\u2019s a pretty strong character in your life.<\/b><\/p>\n
He may have still been alive when I wrote the first version of this.<\/span><\/p>\n\u201cThe Maid\u201d is next.<\/b><\/p>\n
She was a Black woman. \u201cHer dark legs drying \u2013 \/\u00a0the bleeding done.\u201d I think she had a miscarriage, and I came upon her in her room. I actually saw this when I was young. I don\u2019t remember if she said anything or if I just attributed spiritual perspective. \u201cThis is happening because it\u2019s your will, God.\u201d\u00a0I stood at the door and looked. I remember the trash can was light blue, and it did have roses painted on it. And then there was this blood or something in it. It took me a long time to get to that last line, \u201cshe stared \/ (as she must always have) \/ past me \u2013.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\nI don\u2019t remember how I did that, but I really liked it. She was in a whole different world always, not just at that moment. I was unaware of her situation and any of the details of what it was like to be black in Washington, DC, in those years. My mother was an anesthesiologist. She left at 6:30 in the morning and came back at nighttime. There had to be someone there. She also liked having someone take care of the house and do the cooking. We grew up without anyone particularly paying attention to us.<\/span><\/p>\nWhat was her name?<\/b><\/p>\n
There were so many maids. I think her name was Rebecca, but because my name is Rebecca, they changed her name. Can you believe it? She was called Louise. My mother was pretty hard to work for, very demanding. The maids changed frequently.<\/span><\/p>\n\u201cWhist, Whist, Whist.\u201d As soon as I read this, I got it immediately. Zorro.<\/b><\/p>\n
Figuring out how to spell\u00a0<\/span>whist<\/span><\/i>\u00a0was funny. I looked up Zorro again, and that\u2019s when I realized what his costume looked like \u2013 really bizarre. Why was he wearing a mask? Why did he have all those black things on? There\u2019s a lot of poems\u00a0that are sort of about race but very quietly. Even his too-white skin was stridently white.<\/span><\/p>\nI remember Zorro being so handsome.<\/b><\/p>\n
Me too. It\u2019s funny because you didn\u2019t really see him. His face was covered; all of what there was, was a mouth. And the black stallion, the drama of it all. There was a cape. It was all mystery and perfect for projection for young girls. What did we know? It was the horse. Without the horse and the rearing, the rearing was great.<\/span><\/p>\n\u201cPretending not to feel \/ his hips riding, \/ riding our bodies.\u201d Now we\u2019re getting into adult stuff.<\/b><\/p>\n
I don\u2019t really think I thought that. This is sort of good pretending. This is such a fun poem. What else did we have to look at?<\/span><\/p>\nWe\u2019re on to \u201cThe Yoga Teacher at My Feet.\u201d You write, \u201cdraws a line between my smallest toe \/ and my unknown. \/\u00a0 Twigs entwine behind thin skin. \/\u00a0\u00a0She presses my big toe \/ to trust the earth.\u201d Is this an actual experience?<\/b><\/p>\n
At least for me and for many people, when you\u2019re standing, you don\u2019t put any\u00a0weight on a big toe particularly.\u00a0In yoga, if you\u2019re pressing the big toe and the little toe, and the heel of your foot, your alignment changes. What happens is your body straightens, and breath does, in fact, go up all the way. It\u2019s very literal.<\/span><\/p>\n\u201cBut really it\u2019s their shadow \/ we observe in passing.\u201d \u201cFloaters\u201d was a real-life experience you had, and you wrote a poem about it.<\/b><\/p>\n
But the idea of what we see when we see those floaters in our vision\u00a0it\u2019s not the floaters themselves but the shadow of them. Really?\u00a0What\u2019s real? And how beautiful it all is. Of course, it has to do with life and death.<\/span><\/p>\nYou\u2019ve written a poem about something that we all see. That\u2019s your power of observation inwardly and outwardly.<\/b><\/p>\n
![\"\"](\"https:\/\/nhwritersproject.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/07\/Back-yard-pic.jpg\")
<\/span><\/p>\nA view from the author\u2019s back porch. Photo by Beverly Stoddart.<\/span><\/em><\/p>\nThe last thing I have is to talk about your friend Lilla Weinberger.<\/b><\/p>\n
She and her husband owned a bookstore in Sonoma. I met her in California. Then she moved back east. They ran a bed and breakfast for a while in the Berkshires. My daughter and her son were the same age. I would drive out to the Berkshires on the weekends often and spent a lot of time with them, and then they moved back to California and started the bookstore. I\u2019ve known her for a long time. She was a powerhouse. She worked with Obama on the health care plan. She was in charge of the West Coast. And then she worked for Senator Markey in Massachusetts\u00a0to help get him elected. She was a photographer. She was very powerful, strong-willed, and opinionated. And very supportive of writers and always of me.\u00a0It was kind of odd that I wrote this poem involving my car. My blue car. That\u2019s about her.<\/span><\/p>\n\u201cLilla, Once\u201d and \u201cMy Friend\u2019s Daughter-in-Law\u201d are poems about Lilla Weinberger.\u00a0They deal with the aftermath of her death.<\/b><\/p>\n
I wrote that [Lilla, Once,] right after she died. It was such a weird situation. I was parked on this street, and I had to turn around to go home. It was rush hour; all these cars were coming. I was on the river side of Mount Auburn Street, so I had to turn around to go back home. I parked where you were allowed to be there for two free hours. So, the vehicles were crammed in. When I did the U-turn, I heard this noise. Across the street, I saw this motorcycle that had been parked behind my car, out of sight. I apparently hit it as I went around, and it fell over. I thought,\u00a0<\/span>oh no<\/span><\/i>. I\u2019m on this side of the street; the motorcycle\u2019s over there. The motorcycle was leaking gasoline. I tried to pick it up, and it was way too heavy. I started screaming and crying because I couldn\u2019t lift it up. Lilla had died.<\/span><\/p>\nThis motorcycle was leaking gas, and I thou<\/span>ght it was going to explode. It all seemed that it was related to Lilla partly because she had also fallen. She was about to babysit one of her grandchildren at the theater. When her youngest son was three, I gave him a birthday present which was a picture of acrobats. Lo and behold, he is an acrobat, a sword swallower, and a magician for real. He learned how to do sword swallowing at this little theater called the Sebastiani Theatre. There was a lot of connection to that place. Apparently, she tripped, fell down the stairs, hit her head, and that was it. Her falling over and the motorcycle falling over seemed to be related to that and the fact that I couldn\u2019t lift either up.<\/span><\/p>\nDid someone come to help you eventually?<\/b><\/p>\n
Some men finally stopped and came over. They lifted it up. I left a note on the motorcycle, \u201cI\u2019m sorry I did this.\u201d It was my number and my name. \u201cYou can call me.\u201d I called insurance. Nothing happened. They never got back in touch with me.<\/span><\/p>\nIt all just came together in the poem.\u00a0There are usually strange men that come along right at the right moment and help.<\/span><\/p>\nThis is the advantage of sexism.\u00a0When I lived in Pittsburgh, I came upon two men fighting. Fist fighting. And I said\u00a0<\/span>Stop it<\/span><\/i>. They looked at me.\u00a0I think what I invoked was mom. I was younger than they were.\u00a0I came on so strongly they were surprised, and they stopped. We can play it both ways.<\/span><\/p>\n![\"\"](\"https:\/\/nhwritersproject.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/07\/Head-Shot-lo-res-275x300.jpg\")
<\/p>\n
Beverly Stoddart <\/span><\/i><\/p>\nBeverly Stoddart\u00a0<\/em>is a writer, author, and speaker. After 42 years of working at newspapers, she retired to write books and essays. She freelances for InDepthNH.org writing essays and author interviews, she is on the Board of Trustees of the New Hampshire Writers\u2019 Project and is a member of the Winning Speakers Toastmasters group in Windham. Her latest book is Stories from the Rolodex, mini-memoirs of journalists from the 1960s, 1970s, and 1980s. She has been married for 45 years to her husband, Michael, and has one son and a rescue dog.<\/em><\/p>\n
\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Rebecca Kaiser Gibson: Girl as Birch By\u00a0BEVERLY STODDART, InDepthNH.org Rebecca Kaiser Gibson After meeting with Rebecca Kaiser Gibson, poet, and author of\u00a0Girl as Birch, I drove home on a winding country road;\u00a0I thought about her poems. They are brilliantly real and true, especially how brave Rebecca Kaiser Gibson is to write them. She is meticulous […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":9,"featured_media":6798,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[294],"tags":[295,74,297,296],"ppma_author":[352],"yoast_head":"\n
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She is meticulous […]\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"https:\/\/nhwritersproject.org\/author-to-author-with-beverly-stoddart-rebecca-kaiser-gibson-girl-as-birch\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:site_name\" content=\"New Hampshire Writers\u2019 PROJECT\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:publisher\" content=\"https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/nhwritersproject\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:author\" content=\"https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/superhumanbook\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:published_time\" content=\"2022-07-14T15:24:30+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:modified_time\" content=\"2022-08-08T18:45:44+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:image\" content=\"https:\/\/nhwritersproject.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/07\/girlasbirchauth-1.jpg\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:width\" content=\"480\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:height\" content=\"480\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:type\" content=\"image\/jpeg\" \/>\n<meta name=\"author\" content=\"Dan Pouliot\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:card\" content=\"summary_large_image\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:creator\" content=\"@dpouliot\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:site\" content=\"@nhwritersproject\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:label1\" content=\"Written by\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data1\" content=\"Dan Pouliot\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:label2\" content=\"Est. reading time\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data2\" content=\"13 minutes\" \/>\n<script type=\"application\/ld+json\" class=\"yoast-schema-graph\">{\"@context\":\"https:\/\/schema.org\",\"@graph\":[{\"@type\":\"Article\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/nhwritersproject.org\/author-to-author-with-beverly-stoddart-rebecca-kaiser-gibson-girl-as-birch\/#article\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/nhwritersproject.org\/author-to-author-with-beverly-stoddart-rebecca-kaiser-gibson-girl-as-birch\/\"},\"author\":{\"name\":\"Dan Pouliot\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/nhwritersproject.org\/#\/schema\/person\/0005c6f01b15470603b40c85afe95541\"},\"headline\":\"Author to Author with Beverly Stoddart\",\"datePublished\":\"2022-07-14T15:24:30+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2022-08-08T18:45:44+00:00\",\"mainEntityOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/nhwritersproject.org\/author-to-author-with-beverly-stoddart-rebecca-kaiser-gibson-girl-as-birch\/\"},\"wordCount\":2751,\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/nhwritersproject.org\/#organization\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/nhwritersproject.org\/author-to-author-with-beverly-stoddart-rebecca-kaiser-gibson-girl-as-birch\/#primaryimage\"},\"thumbnailUrl\":\"https:\/\/nhwritersproject.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/07\/girlasbirchauth-1.jpg\",\"keywords\":[\"Author to Author\",\"Beverly Stoddart\",\"Girl as Birch\",\"Rebecca Kaiser Gibson\"],\"articleSection\":[\"Author to Author\"],\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\"},{\"@type\":\"WebPage\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/nhwritersproject.org\/author-to-author-with-beverly-stoddart-rebecca-kaiser-gibson-girl-as-birch\/\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/nhwritersproject.org\/author-to-author-with-beverly-stoddart-rebecca-kaiser-gibson-girl-as-birch\/\",\"name\":\"Author to Author with Beverly Stoddart - 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