---

Tish Davis

Quilting Prose

Including Squares That “Stretch the Truth”

Photo by Raul Cacho Oses on Unsplash

More than a dozen years ago, I was a member of a writer’s workshop. After critiquing a member’s piece, I suggested a possible remedy for a weak spot. The poet curtly replied, “But that’s not how it really happened!”

The purpose of this article is not to turn writers into good liars, but to offer for consideration that one’s play-by-play autobiographical account, while meaningful to the author, isn’t always a good dance partner. When commenting on his haibun “Running with the Yaks,” cho’s former editor, Bob Lucky, notes:

. . . at some point in my haibun-writing career, I realized two things. First, as much fun as I’ve had in living, not that much of what I’ve done is terribly exciting. I get up and go to work like everyone else I know; I just do it somewhere else. Second, as I got drawn more and more into prose poetry and flash fiction, I began to understand better Amy Hempel’s line:

“I leave a lot out when I tell the truth”
          ~ From the story “The Harvest”

I’ve found the same thing with my tanka prose. Tanka is often referred to as a little song, and when one or more are combined with prose, the resulting composition has its own melody: not only can a writer leave out the truth or portions of it, but truth can also be rearranged or re-shaped via poetic imagination. Consider for example, my tanka prose “August Night.”

---

August Night

The humid air petrifies my body with a stillness that hangs heavy as I spend my first night in what was once the maid’s apartment on the third floor of this rundown lakefront home.

the thud
of a gull against my door,
the landlord's dog
digging in the sand?
something the lake wants to whisper

---

This piece is based on my first experience living alone in Lorain, Ohio. I’d rented a third-floor furnished apartment which was indeed once the maid’s apartment back in Lorain’s wealthy days. Those first few nights living on the third floor of a home without air conditioning or a fan were miserable. I was also afraid that one of the strangers on the sidewalk below might wander up the L- shaped wooden staircase. (I love Alfred Hitchcock movies, especially The Birds.)

However, the place was not rundown: My landlord meticulously maintained both house and property and lived with his family on the main and second level. The family also did not have dog. Since the home was within walking distance of Lake Erie and the sandy beach a perfect playground for any dog, real or imagined, I made one up! That detail, along with the “rundown” description, helped to create the mood I wanted to convey.

My tanka prose “Sign” is an example of disguising one’s autobiography.

---

Sign

on wooden stilts
next to Father
I'm delicately balanced
and follow in his steps
picking peaches

The sign that bears my father’s name now dangles from the weathered arm of the post at the front gate. I take the shingle down because I am his only child, and carefully wrap it in the blanket brought from home.

new line posts
and barbed wire
razor sharp
the buyer renames
our family farm

---

My paternal grandparents owned a vineyard in northern Ohio and sold their grapes to Welch’s. My father and uncles, who all had day jobs, spent many off-work hours trimming, composting, and doing whatever else was necessary to support the farm and family business. But deaths and my mother’s recurring illness took an ugly toll. We kids were split up, without notice, and sent far away to live with maternal relatives. As my paternal grandmother’s health also began to decline, the sale of back acreage didn’t provide enough income to sustain a crew of hired hands.

Fast forward forty-plus years to the Farmer’s Market in Boulder, Colorado, where I would not only spend time with my lovely baby granddaughter, but also meet some of my daughter-in-law’s relatives who grow peaches in Palisade. With childhood memories forgotten or incomplete, that day made me aware of something I would never have. And I longed for it. I began researching peaches. Even though the events weren’t part of my life, they stemmed from my life experience, and to write “Sign” in anything but the first person would be the lie.

I would compare this type of writing to quilting. A typical quilt is composed of three layers joined by needle and thread: the backing, the batting (insulation material), and the quilt top. While all three contribute to the quilt’s utility, the top surface is where the artistry comes in, where quilters apply different decorative techniques to make the quilt come alive. In “August Night,” I scrapped a few squares of truth and replaced them with squares of fiction. When I wrote “Sign,” my research helped me select the best colors and fabric that would make that “quilt” come alive.

With “Sign” in particular, my autobiography isn’t visible when one views the quilt top. The details are in the backing, on white cloth stitched with white thread. When they’re writing prose based on autobiography, I encourage poets to consider not only the omission of truth, but also what can be gained by stitching together colorful squares and imagined fabrics.

---

Notes:

1. Excerpt from “A Commentary on My Haibun, Running with the Yaks” by Bob Lucky (contemporary haibun online, July 2018, vol. 14, no. 2).
2. “August Night” first published in Atlas Poetica, Issue 23 (2015).
3. “Sign” first published in Modern Haibun and Tanka Prose (Summer 2009).

---

Tish Davis lives in Northern Ohio. Her tanka and related forms have appeared in numerous online and print publications. When she isn’t busy with work and grandchildren she enjoys exploring the local parks with her husband and three dogs.