Community Through Poetry in Albany

Tonight is the final Second Wednesday Poetry Drop-In Workshop with Alison Seevak at the Albany Public Library from 7-9 p.m. Alison has been leading this for ten years. It is free and open to all ages, and I have met people from ten to 85 years old, all with something to share of their lives, their perspective. Alison calls herself a “facilitator,” and that term more than anything else defines the session. The library website calls this a workshop, but technically it is not; rather, it is a place where people produce ideas and share them with a small and diverse community of writers.

She tells newcomers, “We’ll write and then share. Even if you think you don’t want to read, you might want to consider it.” She talks about the power of hearing oneself read aloud, that “you never know—it might be something someone else needs to hear.”

There is no feedback, which is a boon for those of us who just want to write and not be judged. What this does is create an open atmosphere. Alison’s matter-of-fact approach and her passion come through, as she is someone who is as comfortable with dealing in poetry as she is with breathing. After she has everyone say his or her name, she stands up with a stack of paper and then walks around the donut-shaped arrangement of desks where we sit facing each other, to distribute the prompt. The prompt changes—once it was a strawberry, once we chose from her selection of postcards, and sometimes she takes us through a scaffolding process of making a list before writing.

Tonight, the first prompt is a poem about what’s in a boy’s head. There are just under twenty of us, but the number has been larger or smaller, with a core group of regulars. One of the regulars, sitting next to me, Frances, who spins gossamer out of language, makes a sound of recognition at the author’s name, a Czech poet, who I’ve never heard of, and Alison makes a comment to Frances. Once everyone has the poem, she reads it aloud. Then we all write for 20 minutes, including Alison, because she always participates, always shares. This is the best model of teaching—facilitating and sharing. People learn best from each other with someone to guide them. And she is a professional teacher, to kids, and in her own life is a mother to a little girl.

We have already introduced ourselves, but when we read aloud, we mention our names again, upon the request of Tom, another regular. We all know he is going to ask. Elsie has not come with him this time—they are both older and I feel concern when she doesn’t appear, because she seems frail. Tom comes from the school of rhyme, and his poems are always tied together perfectly. He reads first, and we all laugh, because he builds humor in his poems.

Then we work around the circle. Someone new, Carmen, has focused deeply on dental floss and popcorn—her poem is like an onion—you keep peeling and it continues. It is the polar opposite of my style, I realize, which tends to go outwards. Her dark brown, almost black hair frames her face sharply, capping her head, with thick blunt cut bangs over her eyes. Everyone is rapt as she speaks, murmuring surprise and delight, but not saying anything, honoring her space. We continue around the circle, hearing the variety, what each person has gleaned from the prompt—to say what’s inside our head, or if we want, inside our heart, or our body, or whatever else. Most people have gone with the ‘head’ prompt, and all sorts of things pop out—stuffed animals, the natural world, literature, the minutae of daily life, childhood. There are laughs, there is silence, there are moist eyes and smiles, the range of human emotion.

After everyone reads, we take a ten minute break to enjoy the goodies some of us have brought. Usually Alison brings some cookies, but tonight we want to celebrate her. And tonight before we began, Ronnie Davis, the head librarian, came to thank Alison for her dedication with a bouquet of flowers.

One regular who used to come for years but hasn’t lately, Liz, asks me, as we much on cookies, “so is anyone else taking this over?” I say I don’t know. I only heard from another regular, Emmy, that this was the last session. “It’s about community,” says Liz. “Yes,” I say, realizing that for the first time that it is more than about writing, that this ties us together. Liz starts talking about the first Thursday open mic here at the Edith Stone room, for years, which is scheduled after a poetry reading. I go to the readings, but leave before the open mic, but that is Liz’ passion, reading aloud.


Poetry has figured prominently in Albany for a while. We have a poet Laureate, Christina Hutchins, who leads the open mic. She was selected for the position in summer of 2008 by the Albany Arts Committee.

As stated on the City of Albany web page:  “The year 2008 is Albany’s Centennial year and is thus a fitting time to begin a Poet Laureate program that will help us celebrate our shared history and community. The honorary position of Poet Laureate is given to a writer who uses poetry to express and celebrate a spirit of community throughout the year and to foster a love of poetry and literature among citizens young and old. “ 

Christina is another leader in the community, then. In a time where values seem to head more towards money-making than the arts, a time when the arts have little funding in the U.S., Albany has made a statement in supporting them, a model for other cities to reckon with. The fact that Albany has supported the writing group with Alison for ten years is considerable enough, let alone the fact that we have a poet to represent us to the world.


We do one more round, as Alison hands out another prompt and we write for twenty minutes, and share. Before we leave, I thank Alison for being a “facilitator,” praise her for being unique. Others join in. I ask her about her decision to leave. She explains that she is just taking a break, that the program is not ending, and that the library did not initiate this. They don’t necessarily want a substitute or replacement because they have built up a relationship of trust with Alison. She is unique, as the library of Albany is. As Ronnie Davis says, “we have always supported poetry in the community.” And in that, the library has brought the community together.