There is a calmness tonight that I find unsettling. Night, I think, is one of those funny slips in the twenty-four hours of day. There are two such slips: night, before I am quite in bed, and morning, before I am quite ready to start my day beyond the walls of my parents' house. Night is for reflection -- for replaying the plot of a movie I've seen; for rewriting and recasting that film and finding in it some niche for myself. At night, I rewind conversations, wonder whether I should have held my tongue with this person, said more with another, smiled convincingly at an entirely different person, made eye contact with some stranger.
Night is perpetually on the cusp, and so, I've come to believe, is life. I see myself leaping from the ridge above adulthood to a ridge above middle age to one above old age. Are we always meant to feel unsettled? Somehow, I had imagined that with adulthood came the sense of permanence, and I begin to wonder if permanence has no place in life. And how strange that I should write of the future at night which I have just committed to reflection.
I think of night in adjectives, great piles of them, and a boy recently told me that a writer shouldn't use too many adjectives. He'd heard this from a famous writer, and I wanted to ask why she dictated such a rule? So I imagine myself stacking adjectives until they teeter, like a gleaming, insecure tower of colored glass, and if I must choose to erase one or two, how can I be certain that those I pull won't be load bearing? Now I see too that I'm using contractions. In academic writing, this is inadvisable. I've decided it will be fine here among myself, my computer screen, my elect readers.
Isn't it strange that in an era so apparently opposed to rules that it, or its inhabitants, deems too religious, too political, too __________ (fill in your own -ist here, ageist, racist, sexist, classist, etc.), there have been a proliferation of rules for written language. There always have been, of course, but now those rules have shifted. Not so much value is placed on rhyme or meter (hooray for syllabic illiterates like myself), but one must avoid other pitfalls. If I follow those rules, will my writing remind readers of T.S. Eliot, Edna St. Vincent Milay, Dylan Thomas? Or will I sound again like that teenager I once was, straining to find a place in her poem for a word like "gossamer"?
If I write instinctively, organically, my writing will be more beautiful, but it will not make sense. Does it matter if poetry, or prose even, makes any sense?
If I would tell you that tonight, for instance, I see myself as a woman in a room in Italy, on the Mediteranean, pushing open the window shutters to face the bright light of day, would you stop me and ask for an explanation?
Thursday, May 24, 2012
Thursday, May 10, 2012
On Turning 30 and Embarking on a Course of Self Improvement
I remember the day I turned ten. Well, perhaps not the day itself, but I do remember the excitement. Suddenly, I was a whole decade old! I could measure my age on both hands and with all my fingers! Now, of course, ten seems fetal, comparatively speaking. Having turned thirty nearly two months ago, I've decided it's time to face the music and muse upon the event some. The key is to think and write about the upcoming decade in a new, refreshing way. The problem is, that isn't possible. So, in an effort to be ever revolutionary, I've decided to tie the subject of thirty in with another subject: poetry.
In the midst of embarking on a new decade and of considering possible changes in the future, I enrolled in a class at my Alma Mater this spring. The class is advanced poetry writing and to my relief does not require students to write their poetry in a variety of rhymed and metered styles. I have yet to compose, in iambs, a sonnet, yet to wrangle my theme into the body of an aubade, yet to wrack my brain for words that rhyme with dyslexia in a villanelle. Nonetheless, it is a group of would-be poets, and in such cases there are certain things a would-be student (like myself) can predict. First, they will all be reasonably good at writing poetry and have an interest in doing so. Second, there will be a couple standouts who obviously have poetic plans in their future. Third, there will be someone who sits, hunched, mouth open, like a stone gargoyle, in the corner, too intimidated to speak -- that's me, although I do try to breathe through my nose.
Furthermore, prospective students will find that poetry classmates are an eclectic bunch, ranging from the flamboyantly artistic to the prep to the skater/gangsta types. They will all speak derisively of sentimentality and cliche, partaking in what I like to think of as the "Anti-cliche Cliche." And when a fellow student's poem borders on either of these, they'll speak, with great care, of their concern lest that poem should slip into the syrupy abyss.
Of course, in reality, my classmates are quite nice, quite helpful, and quite accurate when it comes to feedback, and I am enjoying myself. The real problem with the class is twofold (have you noticed, readers, that I have a tendency to list things in folds, twofold, threefold? I do apologize.): the first branch of the problem is purely me and purely mental -- and I do imply craziness here, just to be explicit. When I start writing poetry, bland and sentimental as it may be, I start thinking in poetry. I'm pretty sure it's a disease. Take, for instance, the other day. I was on my way to class, as it happens, walking across the lawn, when suddenly I noticed someone behind me, a guy, shuffling through the grass, far too close for comfort (I like to maintain a good ten feet of space between me and my fellow pedestrians -- might be a mark against living in a city one day). Instead of thinking to myself, Sheesh, this guy is invading my space! You're, like, on my heels, dude! I think as follows:
Behind me in the grass,
I hear the whisper of your shoes
to my right -- too far to pass, too
close for comfort. Are you my
shadow, come to tap my shoulder,
come to carry me away to the stars?
Please note the alliteration in close and comfort and come. Also note the reference to Peter Pan. Of course, it's drivel , and such insanity doesn't stop there. When I go to bed at night, suddenly
The night advances, dark
and vast, I stand at the window,
look at the moon, small mirror
of the sun, and wait
Then it ends. Just like that. Because I came to my senses and stopped myself. I could go on with endless examples, but I'll refrain. The gist is that, with my enrollment in this class, I'm not just a mediocre poet, I'm a mediocre poet twenty-four hours a bloody day.
The second branch of my twofold problem is much more philosophical: what good is all of this anyway? When all is said and done (yet another cliche!) what good is sitting around, discussing the best way to approach grief or addiction or joy? What difference does it make if a group of young(ish) adults finds Victorian poetry galling or collectively praises modern poetry and its tendency toward explicit language (not that we do, there's just something about modern poetry that is more explicit even when there are no swear words.)?
A few weeks ago I went to the Oregon Coast with my family. While there, I purchased a small volume called The Very Best of Archy and Mehitabel. The book contains a variety of free-verse poems written by a cockroach (Archy) and often involving his friend, the cat Mehitabel. Both characters are reincarnated beings, Archy having been a free-verse poet and Mehitabel having been at one time Cleopatra. These characters and their adventures are written by Don Marquis who created Archy and Mehitabel for his column in the New York Sun. But, in keeping with the theme I recently introduced, one poem in particular caught my attention. It is titled "a spider and a fly", and is an observed conversation between the two, taken down by Archy. The fly makes an argument as to why the spider should not eat him. The spider makes a return argument, gets ready to eat the fly, then points out that the "end would have been/ just the same if neither of/ us had spoken at all." All of which brings Archy "to think/ furiously upon the futility/ of literature."
The point is apt. Ancient, yes. Cliche, probably. Necessary, I think so. If we aren't constantly questioning the relevance of art, poetry, literature, etc., is it possible that we run the risk of losing its significance? Of course, many people believe it is redundant, that it rehashes the same questions or the same themes time and time again. Go back to Ovid, and one finds in his poetry the subject matter of much of today's poetry and much of Shakespeare's and Donne's and so on. But, does it matter?
I have probably mentioned this before, but I think it bears repeating here. My first attempt at writing poetry came when I was nine. It wasn't very good, but it was a start. I've been dabbling ever since, and I think it's significant that my first brushes with poetry came as a child, listening to the poems my parents read, "Wynken, Blynken, and Nod" for one. Something about hearing imaginative language as a child sparks interest in language.
Poetry, incidentally, has a unique position in early childhood development. This may have more to do with learning to recognize sound patterns, but poetry also encourages children to play with words. In a post for the Norfolk Early Childhood Parenting Examiner, Sharon Oberne states, "phonological awareness, letter learning, phonics, concepts about prints and fluency" are all benefits of reading or hearing poetry from a young age. Furthermore, Oberne adds that "[t]he ability for a child to identify individual sounds in words is essential when he/she is learning to connect sounds and letters. A young child needs to learn to play with language and manipulate sounds." All of this relates primarily to education and is directed more toward poetry that rhymes and has a meter. I imagine a lot of people pick up Silverstein or Seuss when they want to introduce their children to poems, but there is also the option of Lewis Carroll or Eugene Field (I just thought I ought to point out that option).
A short article on Poetry.org reiterates this point and asserts that children are natural poets, and that's true and should be encouraged. But how do we take what is valuable in childhood development and translate it to something of importance in adulthood? How can poetry be taken beyond a developmental asset?
As I mentioned above, when I take poetry writing classes, I start thinking in poetry -- not quite constantly but near it. When I'm not composing, I meditate upon topics that could turn into poems. Today while I was out walking, I went by a small pasture on the corner of two streets that have always been sort of rural and are on the verge of becoming slightly more urban (though urban really doesn't suite this town, maybe residential). In fact, there are pastures on both sides of this street corner. The one to the south is now hemmed in by housing developments and may be a housing development itself before too long. The pasture on the north side is home, in the summers, to two or three horses and bordered by only one old farm house. Right at the corner of this pasture is a creek which runs year round. Every year, the grass greens up, the irises sprout, and I love it. The thought that someone will one day dig it up to accommodate a vinyl-sided, build-by-number cracker box of a house kills me -- not literally, but you get the idea. I would welcome the chance to write a poem blasting the decadence of a civilization that sees value only in brand new homes, schools, water parks, box stores and which easily discards old buildings, old houses, old pastures -- places where past generations, our parents and grandparents, studied, worked, lived, loved, grieved losses, raised families, died. Clearly I'm too angst-ridden over all of this to write something worth reading, but why bother anyway? Who would read it? I can almost guarantee the city council wouldn't, and if they did, would it even phase them, this one frenetic voice?
Beyond all of this, poetry is often accused of not taking a strong enough stance on even greater issues, specifically human rights issues, genocides, for instance, like the Holocaust.A few years ago, Adrienne Rich wrote a piece for The Guardian (I love that website!), and in it she addresses some of the accusations leveled at poetry. She discusses allegations of poetry's complicity in "the violent realities of power." On the other hand, Rich writes that "it's not a mass-market 'product', it doesn't get sold on airport newsstands or in supermarket aisles; it's too 'difficult' for the average mind; it's too elite, but the wealthy don't bid for it at Sotheby's; it is, in short, redundant." To sum, Rich states, "poetry is either inadequate, even immoral, in the face of human suffering, or it's unprofitable, hence useless."
But, as Rich observes, "But when poetry lays its hand on our shoulder we are, to an almost physical degree, touched and moved. The imagination's roads open before us, giving the lie to that brute dictum, 'There is no alternative.'" In conclusion she says, "[t]here is always that in poetry which will not be grasped, which cannot be described, which survives our ardent attention, our critical theories, our late-night arguments." Forgive me for over-quoting here, but Rich puts it so well, why try to out do her? Essentially, my response is yes. Exactly. I would have said the same thing but in a less lyrical manner.
I may tire of reading poems on death, but I always remember the first time I heard someone read aloud Edgar Allen Poe's "Annabel Lee." One of the poems most frequently read at funerals is Dylan Thomas's most famous villanelle, "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night." I used to know the figure, but now I can't seem to find it; however, imagine writing that poem. Imagine producing something which resonates so deeply with readers that thousands of them, decades after the poem was first published, choose this poem to echo their own feelings. As a reader, though, I find in the poems a type of meditation on language, life, faith. I think of David writing his Psalms. I imagine Homer reciting The Iliad. So many poems have outlasted civilizations, and still, today, we reference them. Why? Because even now we connect with the themes in these texts, whether written two thousand years or two days ago.
I would love to write poems of significance. I would love to be a champion for something, but I find most often that what I love to write about most are small moments. After grinding my teeth over housing developments and so on this morning, I passed a park. My feelings about being a parent are ambiguous. Little kids are lovely, but I counterbalance that by constantly reminding myself that these babies are only "yours" for a brief window of time. Then those little darlings turn. What stress! What heartache! How can anyone bear it? So, as I said, I was passing the park, and I saw a large man crouching in the grass. He was blowing bubbles which his two small daughters chased and then, with great satisfaction, they clapped the shining globes between their hands. I think that man could have stayed there... and stayed there. There's a poetic moment which communicates nothing more than "hold onto this" and needs say nothing more.
And then, finally, I think about one of my favorite teachers who passed away in February. She had ALS, a disease which affects the nerve cells in the brain and spinal cord. Even though those suffering from this lose the ability to control muscle movement, they can still think clearly. My professor was able to continue writing poetry as her illness progressed by using advances in technology which allowed her to type by blinking, and, in fact, the last entry on her blog is dated only two days before she passed away. At her memorial service, a friend of hers read a poem that had been written for her son, and in it, the writer states her concerns over what her son will remember about her. She weaves in imagery and sensory language, eliciting from the listeners a sharp picture and an understanding, if a brief one, of her struggle.
Here is the beautiful thing about poetry -- it gives a voice to those with no voice, even in a very literal sense. Poetry transcends time. It lasts longer than spoken words, longer than looks, longer than touch. We remember what we felt, how it sounded in recitation. The impression of a poem lasts beyond the writing and hearing of that poem. What is the point of poetry? To me, if it accomplishes nothing more than to say "I love you" or "I miss you" in a deeply personal, deeply unique way, that is enough.
A blog you should read:
http://www.judithkpowell.com/
And the rest:
Marquis, Don (an amazon link, of all things):
http://www.amazon.com/Archy-Mehitabel-Everymans-Library-Pocket/dp/0307700925/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1336169848&sr=1-3
Oberne, Sharon.
http://www.examiner.com/article/parenting-issues-101-the-importance-of-children-s-poetry-part-three
Poetry.org.
http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/17151
Rich, Adrienne.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2006/nov/18/featuresreviews.guardianreview15
In the midst of embarking on a new decade and of considering possible changes in the future, I enrolled in a class at my Alma Mater this spring. The class is advanced poetry writing and to my relief does not require students to write their poetry in a variety of rhymed and metered styles. I have yet to compose, in iambs, a sonnet, yet to wrangle my theme into the body of an aubade, yet to wrack my brain for words that rhyme with dyslexia in a villanelle. Nonetheless, it is a group of would-be poets, and in such cases there are certain things a would-be student (like myself) can predict. First, they will all be reasonably good at writing poetry and have an interest in doing so. Second, there will be a couple standouts who obviously have poetic plans in their future. Third, there will be someone who sits, hunched, mouth open, like a stone gargoyle, in the corner, too intimidated to speak -- that's me, although I do try to breathe through my nose.
Furthermore, prospective students will find that poetry classmates are an eclectic bunch, ranging from the flamboyantly artistic to the prep to the skater/gangsta types. They will all speak derisively of sentimentality and cliche, partaking in what I like to think of as the "Anti-cliche Cliche." And when a fellow student's poem borders on either of these, they'll speak, with great care, of their concern lest that poem should slip into the syrupy abyss.
Of course, in reality, my classmates are quite nice, quite helpful, and quite accurate when it comes to feedback, and I am enjoying myself. The real problem with the class is twofold (have you noticed, readers, that I have a tendency to list things in folds, twofold, threefold? I do apologize.): the first branch of the problem is purely me and purely mental -- and I do imply craziness here, just to be explicit. When I start writing poetry, bland and sentimental as it may be, I start thinking in poetry. I'm pretty sure it's a disease. Take, for instance, the other day. I was on my way to class, as it happens, walking across the lawn, when suddenly I noticed someone behind me, a guy, shuffling through the grass, far too close for comfort (I like to maintain a good ten feet of space between me and my fellow pedestrians -- might be a mark against living in a city one day). Instead of thinking to myself, Sheesh, this guy is invading my space! You're, like, on my heels, dude! I think as follows:
Behind me in the grass,
I hear the whisper of your shoes
to my right -- too far to pass, too
close for comfort. Are you my
shadow, come to tap my shoulder,
come to carry me away to the stars?
Please note the alliteration in close and comfort and come. Also note the reference to Peter Pan. Of course, it's drivel , and such insanity doesn't stop there. When I go to bed at night, suddenly
The night advances, dark
and vast, I stand at the window,
look at the moon, small mirror
of the sun, and wait
Then it ends. Just like that. Because I came to my senses and stopped myself. I could go on with endless examples, but I'll refrain. The gist is that, with my enrollment in this class, I'm not just a mediocre poet, I'm a mediocre poet twenty-four hours a bloody day.
The second branch of my twofold problem is much more philosophical: what good is all of this anyway? When all is said and done (yet another cliche!) what good is sitting around, discussing the best way to approach grief or addiction or joy? What difference does it make if a group of young(ish) adults finds Victorian poetry galling or collectively praises modern poetry and its tendency toward explicit language (not that we do, there's just something about modern poetry that is more explicit even when there are no swear words.)?
A few weeks ago I went to the Oregon Coast with my family. While there, I purchased a small volume called The Very Best of Archy and Mehitabel. The book contains a variety of free-verse poems written by a cockroach (Archy) and often involving his friend, the cat Mehitabel. Both characters are reincarnated beings, Archy having been a free-verse poet and Mehitabel having been at one time Cleopatra. These characters and their adventures are written by Don Marquis who created Archy and Mehitabel for his column in the New York Sun. But, in keeping with the theme I recently introduced, one poem in particular caught my attention. It is titled "a spider and a fly", and is an observed conversation between the two, taken down by Archy. The fly makes an argument as to why the spider should not eat him. The spider makes a return argument, gets ready to eat the fly, then points out that the "end would have been/ just the same if neither of/ us had spoken at all." All of which brings Archy "to think/ furiously upon the futility/ of literature."
The point is apt. Ancient, yes. Cliche, probably. Necessary, I think so. If we aren't constantly questioning the relevance of art, poetry, literature, etc., is it possible that we run the risk of losing its significance? Of course, many people believe it is redundant, that it rehashes the same questions or the same themes time and time again. Go back to Ovid, and one finds in his poetry the subject matter of much of today's poetry and much of Shakespeare's and Donne's and so on. But, does it matter?
I have probably mentioned this before, but I think it bears repeating here. My first attempt at writing poetry came when I was nine. It wasn't very good, but it was a start. I've been dabbling ever since, and I think it's significant that my first brushes with poetry came as a child, listening to the poems my parents read, "Wynken, Blynken, and Nod" for one. Something about hearing imaginative language as a child sparks interest in language.
Poetry, incidentally, has a unique position in early childhood development. This may have more to do with learning to recognize sound patterns, but poetry also encourages children to play with words. In a post for the Norfolk Early Childhood Parenting Examiner, Sharon Oberne states, "phonological awareness, letter learning, phonics, concepts about prints and fluency" are all benefits of reading or hearing poetry from a young age. Furthermore, Oberne adds that "[t]he ability for a child to identify individual sounds in words is essential when he/she is learning to connect sounds and letters. A young child needs to learn to play with language and manipulate sounds." All of this relates primarily to education and is directed more toward poetry that rhymes and has a meter. I imagine a lot of people pick up Silverstein or Seuss when they want to introduce their children to poems, but there is also the option of Lewis Carroll or Eugene Field (I just thought I ought to point out that option).
A short article on Poetry.org reiterates this point and asserts that children are natural poets, and that's true and should be encouraged. But how do we take what is valuable in childhood development and translate it to something of importance in adulthood? How can poetry be taken beyond a developmental asset?
As I mentioned above, when I take poetry writing classes, I start thinking in poetry -- not quite constantly but near it. When I'm not composing, I meditate upon topics that could turn into poems. Today while I was out walking, I went by a small pasture on the corner of two streets that have always been sort of rural and are on the verge of becoming slightly more urban (though urban really doesn't suite this town, maybe residential). In fact, there are pastures on both sides of this street corner. The one to the south is now hemmed in by housing developments and may be a housing development itself before too long. The pasture on the north side is home, in the summers, to two or three horses and bordered by only one old farm house. Right at the corner of this pasture is a creek which runs year round. Every year, the grass greens up, the irises sprout, and I love it. The thought that someone will one day dig it up to accommodate a vinyl-sided, build-by-number cracker box of a house kills me -- not literally, but you get the idea. I would welcome the chance to write a poem blasting the decadence of a civilization that sees value only in brand new homes, schools, water parks, box stores and which easily discards old buildings, old houses, old pastures -- places where past generations, our parents and grandparents, studied, worked, lived, loved, grieved losses, raised families, died. Clearly I'm too angst-ridden over all of this to write something worth reading, but why bother anyway? Who would read it? I can almost guarantee the city council wouldn't, and if they did, would it even phase them, this one frenetic voice?
Beyond all of this, poetry is often accused of not taking a strong enough stance on even greater issues, specifically human rights issues, genocides, for instance, like the Holocaust.A few years ago, Adrienne Rich wrote a piece for The Guardian (I love that website!), and in it she addresses some of the accusations leveled at poetry. She discusses allegations of poetry's complicity in "the violent realities of power." On the other hand, Rich writes that "it's not a mass-market 'product', it doesn't get sold on airport newsstands or in supermarket aisles; it's too 'difficult' for the average mind; it's too elite, but the wealthy don't bid for it at Sotheby's; it is, in short, redundant." To sum, Rich states, "poetry is either inadequate, even immoral, in the face of human suffering, or it's unprofitable, hence useless."
But, as Rich observes, "But when poetry lays its hand on our shoulder we are, to an almost physical degree, touched and moved. The imagination's roads open before us, giving the lie to that brute dictum, 'There is no alternative.'" In conclusion she says, "[t]here is always that in poetry which will not be grasped, which cannot be described, which survives our ardent attention, our critical theories, our late-night arguments." Forgive me for over-quoting here, but Rich puts it so well, why try to out do her? Essentially, my response is yes. Exactly. I would have said the same thing but in a less lyrical manner.
I may tire of reading poems on death, but I always remember the first time I heard someone read aloud Edgar Allen Poe's "Annabel Lee." One of the poems most frequently read at funerals is Dylan Thomas's most famous villanelle, "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night." I used to know the figure, but now I can't seem to find it; however, imagine writing that poem. Imagine producing something which resonates so deeply with readers that thousands of them, decades after the poem was first published, choose this poem to echo their own feelings. As a reader, though, I find in the poems a type of meditation on language, life, faith. I think of David writing his Psalms. I imagine Homer reciting The Iliad. So many poems have outlasted civilizations, and still, today, we reference them. Why? Because even now we connect with the themes in these texts, whether written two thousand years or two days ago.
I would love to write poems of significance. I would love to be a champion for something, but I find most often that what I love to write about most are small moments. After grinding my teeth over housing developments and so on this morning, I passed a park. My feelings about being a parent are ambiguous. Little kids are lovely, but I counterbalance that by constantly reminding myself that these babies are only "yours" for a brief window of time. Then those little darlings turn. What stress! What heartache! How can anyone bear it? So, as I said, I was passing the park, and I saw a large man crouching in the grass. He was blowing bubbles which his two small daughters chased and then, with great satisfaction, they clapped the shining globes between their hands. I think that man could have stayed there... and stayed there. There's a poetic moment which communicates nothing more than "hold onto this" and needs say nothing more.
And then, finally, I think about one of my favorite teachers who passed away in February. She had ALS, a disease which affects the nerve cells in the brain and spinal cord. Even though those suffering from this lose the ability to control muscle movement, they can still think clearly. My professor was able to continue writing poetry as her illness progressed by using advances in technology which allowed her to type by blinking, and, in fact, the last entry on her blog is dated only two days before she passed away. At her memorial service, a friend of hers read a poem that had been written for her son, and in it, the writer states her concerns over what her son will remember about her. She weaves in imagery and sensory language, eliciting from the listeners a sharp picture and an understanding, if a brief one, of her struggle.
Here is the beautiful thing about poetry -- it gives a voice to those with no voice, even in a very literal sense. Poetry transcends time. It lasts longer than spoken words, longer than looks, longer than touch. We remember what we felt, how it sounded in recitation. The impression of a poem lasts beyond the writing and hearing of that poem. What is the point of poetry? To me, if it accomplishes nothing more than to say "I love you" or "I miss you" in a deeply personal, deeply unique way, that is enough.
A blog you should read:
http://www.judithkpowell.com/
And the rest:
Marquis, Don (an amazon link, of all things):
http://www.amazon.com/Archy-Mehitabel-Everymans-Library-Pocket/dp/0307700925/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1336169848&sr=1-3
Oberne, Sharon.
http://www.examiner.com/article/parenting-issues-101-the-importance-of-children-s-poetry-part-three
Poetry.org.
http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/17151
Rich, Adrienne.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2006/nov/18/featuresreviews.guardianreview15
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)