Let’s get back to some of the basics of writing poetry, which
I will call the habits of poetry. There are many[1]—habits
of observation, habits of practice, habits of envisioning, habits of revising,
habits of interpreting or seeking meaning, habits of reading, habits of
speaking, habits of responding to inspiration and poetic ideas—some of which
are more basic than others. The more
basic the habit, the less it has specifically to do with the writing of poetry,
but the more important it may be to writing accomplished poetry.
Habit: Practical
observation
One of the most fundamental writing habits for poets is to
observe minutely. Remember Wordsworth’s
famous dictum about emotion recollected in tranquility? Your body is a sensing machine bombarded
throughout its waking hours. This
constant bombardment has implications for your emotional and mental life, which
can be amplified if you’re a writer of poetry.
Consciously observing elements of that bombardment, separating them out,
so to speak, can be a form of recollection in tranquility.
What is “practical observation,” what does it look like, and
how does it work? Some perspectives . .
.
- The practice of observation means putting yourself physically in position to observe. This means, in turn, disconnecting from other activities, like texting, checking your calendar, listening to cable TV (and even to your favorite music!), reading headlines, thinking about what’s for dinner, running errands, drinking coffee, reading, removing the lint from a lapel. WORRY. The practice of observation begins with the art (and maybe science?) of just sitting still. So go somewhere and sit. It can be a busy-noisy place or a quiet spot. It can be in your house, at your desk, or in a coffee shop or even a street corner. This “action” doesn’t have to last all day, or even an hour. Just a few minutes each day will do, so long as they are an honest few minutes.
- The practice of observation looks from the outside like you’re meditating or in a reverie. You’re sitting still and your eyes may have that far-away gaze (not glaze, mind you, but the look that says you’ve tuned out the daily). But you are by yourself and “in conversation” with the environment, not tuned into the conversation going on next to you other than to hear that one is underway as part of the totality of sound and gesture of the environment you’ve placed yourself in.
- Beyond just sitting still, the practice of observation is actual, and quite active. It is focused. You pay attention to the ambient sound of the room, trying to separate out each component (ticking of a clock, your own breathing, a distant siren, your pen on paper, etc.); you listen for the sounds beneath the sounds you’re hearing. Or you pay attention to the smells of your immediate environment, good, bad or indifferent; you note fragrances, yes, but you mainly want to note all smells, even the neutral ones. Or you pay attention to what you see: motion, color, volume, shape, near/far, and the relationships between or among these things. Or you pay attention to tastes: what’s on your tongue, your lip (could be food, could be balm, could be something foreign, like the eraser of the pencil you’re chewing on). Or to feel: air pressure in your ear or on your skin; subtle changes in temperature from moment to moment, body part to body part; the feel of the clothes you’re wearing; the pen you may be holding; or the weight of one hand in the other.
Simple in theory and a breeze to describe. Hard to do.
But with practice, you’ll get better at it, you’ll feel more attentive,
more open to the sense data all around you.
You’ll become a field recorder, literally.
Why do this? What’s
in it for you as a writer of poetry?
Paying attention. If the writing
of poetry is a form of that, then actively paying attention to your physical
environment is good practice! Also, by
simply sitting still for a few minutes every day, you may begin to establish
new “spaces” for yourself where creativity can enter.
Should you write while doing this? Not necessarily, and probably not first
thing. Leave your notebook closed and
your pen on the table. Don’t do
something, just sit there. This will be
strange at first, then weird, then annoying, then boring. You’ll find your mind wants to wander off to
stray thoughts, stuff you need to do, a conversation you had with somebody, the
government shutdown, the two people near you talking about their aches and
pains. When you feel this happening,
that’s okay. Try smiling at your mind in
a kindly way. Then focus on a single sense
input (not the music playing over the PA system, but something farther away,
the sort of stuff that goes on all the time but that we tend to tune out):
perhaps how your hand feels when you lay it on the table or desk top—trying
feeling each fingertip separately.
The clock in my library, on top of a wooden book
cabinet, resonates through
the wood: tick-tock, tick-tock. It produces this little music
all the time, though I don’t always hear it.
Except when I want to focus. Then
I listen for it and it alone. It rarely
intrudes. I have to invite it. Maybe it’s a muse. It’s certainly a musing.
Eventually, you may want to start noting down what goes on
around you. If you do, do so in as
unembellished a way as possible. Just
jot down in list form what your senses are delivering to your conscious mind.
Try this exercise for a few minutes every day.
Next week we’ll discuss the process. If you want to bring a poem in—especially if
the practice has led you to a new poem or a revision of an older one—do so, and
we’ll share. Have a good week!
[1] It
should be obvious that there are bad as well as good habits. Our goal should be to minimize the former,
maximize the latter.
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