A poem by Angelaurelio Soldi (7.31.19)

Another day comes before another

Living is not always

a voluntary act.

You wake up in the morning

and the day runs through you

before you know it.

You want to write a poem

but your body doesn't want to

and they still play

the same music on the radio.

If you had to mix the air for you to breathe

trouble

only trouble

what do you know?

But you walk outdoors and there it is

from yesterday weather

today arrangements and you breathe

another day of no consequence.

You'll find out only later.

My friend, Elio, wrote this poem.  He shared it with me yesterday during a visit to his home outside of Hillsborough.  It's a lovely, peaceful place with meadows, tall leafy oaks, and a long prospect from the porch to his three acre pond.  He gave me permission to post it here.  There's nothing else to say about this poem, other than when I rose this morning to walk the dog, I very consciously breathed the air.  Oh, and one more thing; if you like this poem, you'll like the poetry of William Bronk.

The habits of poetry: honesty (7.23.19)

W. H. Auden once declared--it was in an interview, I believe, though I can't recall where or when I read it--that upon finishing a new poem, he was never entirely sure he could repeat the performance.  This might have been tongue-in-cheek (ya think?), given the man's prolific output, but a truth underlies his admission.  He was never sure, from composition to composition, whether he was creating a new work of art or just being "W. H. Auden, Famous Poet."

In other words, even Auden sometimes questioned his relationship to his art, how honestly he practiced it.

Back in January, I started a kind of thematic thread about the habits of poetry (see the blog entry for January 23).  Along those lines, I've been thinking for the past week about the habit of "honesty" in poetry.

What I mean by this isn't what a generation ago was labeled "authenticity"--at least I don't mean just that--but rather "Am I being honest with myself about this poem I'm trying to write?"

And what I mean by this question is, whether I step back from a poem that I'm writing to examine my motive in writing it, to ask myself whether I really believe (in) what I'm laying down.  This might be another way of stating my commitment to the art of the poem, or its artifice, the thing I am making.  Am I really trying to listen to this poem and its demands, or am I just role-playing, being The Poet, the Man of Feeling, the Intellectual, the Wit, Mr. Wisdom?  In other words, is this stuff a poem, or bullshit?

We've established or concurred at W@1 that pretty much any piece of writing that we produce is a poem if we choose to call it a poem.  It's time we challenge that notion, individually and intimately, at the level of each composition, by asking ourselves Am I making art here, or am I simply "writing pretty"?  Am I making a poem, or am I "expressing"?

Since the middle of the 20th Century, Western poetry, and especially American poetry, has taken a decidedly personal turn.*  It has become a vehicle for personal expression, for imposing one's self upon on the world.  Each poem we write is "authentic" insofar as it "comes from the heart" and/or expresses some "truth" as we personally see things.  Read a poem that I've written and you can know something about me, the person.  You'll hear echoes of the so-called confessional poets in this line of inquiry: they may have been artists, but to much of the poetry reading public, they were memoirists who rhymed.  We read their work not so much for the art of the poetry as for clues about the writer's (tormented) life.  Thus, the authenticity of a poem is its adherence to the facts of its writer's personality.

You won't be surprised to learn that T. S. Eliot wrote about the "extinction of personality" in the art of poetry.  It has taken me a lifetime of study and thinking and my own writing to begin to understand what Eliot meant by that curious phrase.  He didn't mean annihilation in that post-WW I Modernist sense, the sense that we are mere chits in a universe of forces that are beyond our control and our understanding.  What he meant (an in this he was reacting against 100 years of poetic practice) is the poem as artifact is not personal statement; a poem is not a personal essay or a short memoir.  It's a work of art just as any painting or sculpture or musical composition or dance figure is a work of art.  In so far as a poem contains certain facts about a writer, or reveals certain aspects of a writer's personality, it is not a poem.  If it is a poem, it is for other reasons.  (And in a way, that's what we're after in W@1, I hope, to discover those reasons.)

How far we are today from that formulation!  Poetry of protest, Instagram poetry, dog poetry, so-called confessional poetry, authentic poetry--these are all forms of writing driven by personality.  What Eliot meant to describe by the phrase, "the extinction of personality," is the relation between the maker and the made: poems that are not made to be selfies, even when we use the first person pronoun in them.

So if we mean to cultivate the habit of honesty in our writing, one way of doing it is to step back from a poem we're working on and ask, Am I committed to this art or am I taking a selfie?  The question is harder to answer, or its answer is harder to determine, than it is to ask.  But therein lies the habit of honesty I'm talking about.  The more you stop and ask yourself what you're doing with a piece of writing, ask yourself honestly, the better you will get at finding that answer.  The more widely you read and experience poetry and so-called poetry, the more readily you'll recognize each kind.  And this is the habit I am urging.

For next week, then, let's each bring a poem to W@1 that we have honestly asked these questions of.  With the poem, let's each also try to come with some responses to the questions we ask.  We'll share the poems, the questions, and, if we're lucky, the answers.

* That's not to say personal/biographical poetry--or its impulse--didn't get written before Robert Lowell, Anne Sexton, Sylvia Plath, and Louis Simpson began publishing their work.  Philip Sidney: look in thy heart and write; William Wordsworth: emotion recollected in tranquility; Elizabeth Barrett Browning: how do I love thee; even Sappho: in my dripping pain. Or Ben Jonson (1616):

Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy;
My sin was too much hope of thee, loved boy:
Seven years thou wert lent to me, and I thee pay,
Exacted by thy fate, on the just day.
O could I lose all father now! for why
Will man lament the state he should envy,
To have so soon 'scaped  world's and flesh's rage,
And, if no other misery, yet age?
Rest in soft peace, and asked, say, "Here doth lie
Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry."
For whose sake henceforth all his vows be such
As what he loves may never like too much.

Page Real Estate: Imagining a Poem's "White Spaces" (7.4.19)

Happy July 4^th everyone!  Yesterday’s W@1 was interesting, to say the least: dirty limericks day.  Why was it that I was the only writer to take Curt’s topic suggestion at face value?  For those of you who weren’t there for the “reading of the bawd,” I can only say it was pretty tame, by and large, but I can’t reprint here any efforts that I shared.  Not on a blog open to the public!

Speaking of what’s not said, we discussed topics for future projects and decided on the following for next week. [1]  

Poems leave a lot of blankness on the page (literally and figuratively), what we often refer to as “white space.”  White space is so much a part of poetry that we might say that some of a poem’s meaning lies in what’s not imprinted.  Emily Dickinson’s poetry has long been read and celebrated for what’s not there, for what lurks in the pauses and textual interstices (the m dashes and the very definite [deafening? detonating?] use of punctuation).  

Go to your shelves and find a book of poems where the entire printable page is utilized typographically, margin to margin.  I am certain you won’t find many, if any.  There are two reasons for this.  One, not many writers of poetry write poems that present in such slab-like ways (Ashbery has done so, as has C. K. Williams).  And two, not very many readers collect books (or stop to read poems in journals) that are printed margin to margin—even when the poems are composed in “lines.”  No, most readers of poems expect a poem to take up relatively little of a page’s real estate. [2]

We’ve approached this idea of typographical real estate in various ways over the past year and a half through projects involving lineation, haiku and bright image poetry, the prose poem, so-called “concrete” poetry, even “list poems” and discussions of how poems end. [3]  The question we’re taking up this week is how a poem’s effect or meaning is established / felt / rendered / implied / cemented via the “white space” it creates. [4]  

Think of it this way.  Consider the text you’re reading at this moment.  It’s prose, right?  As prose, it utilizes as much of this page’s blankness—it’s white space—as possible.  The default on my word processing program, by the way, is left-right and top-bottom margins of one inch.  Ordinarily, when I write prose for Wednesdays@1 consumption, I keep the paragraphs short.  I start a new paragraph frequently.  In the past, I’ve begun new paragraphs by inserting a return between them, and have not provided an indentation at the first word.  You see here that paragraphs are not separated by returns but instead by indentations of 0.25 inches (the default on my processing program is 0.5).  

Does this technique change the meaning of the statements I’m making?

Does it affect how you interact with the text?

Does it matter?

Each instance of an indentation creates (or declines to utilize) white space, the page’s natural real estate.  Each instance also signals, typographically, that a new unit of meaning follows. [5]  And each uses exactly the same amount of return (0.25 in.) to do so.  But look more closely at the three preceding paragraphs.  Each creates (or declines to utilize) increasing amounts of the page’s real estate in succession.  Does this change the meaning of the overall text of what I’m writing here?  Does it affect how you’re interacting with the text?  Does it matter?

I think that when it comes to poetry, this kind of textual-typographical play does matter, very much so.  Here are some examples of what I’m talking about, taken from poems you’ve shared with the W@1 group over the past months.  I’ve replaced the meaningful phonemes and morphemes (typographical letters, units of sound) with relatively meaningless notations—minims.

Bennett’s “Recompense”

─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─        ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─  ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ 

─ ─  ─ ─ ─  ─ ─  ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ 

─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ 

─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ 

─ ─  ─ ─         ─ ─ ─  ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ 

─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ 

─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ 

─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ 

─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ 

─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ 

─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ 

─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ 

─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ 

─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ 

─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─  ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ 

─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ 

─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ 

─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─  ─ ─  ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ 

Doug’s “Duet # I”

─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─   ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ 

─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─  ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─   ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ 

─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─  ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ 

─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ 

─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ 

─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─  ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ 

─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─    ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ 

─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─  ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ 

─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─  ─  ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ 

─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─

Note above that the short lines interleaved throughout Doug's poem are actually continuations of the line above, wrapped due to lack of real estate to utilize for the entire line.

Janet’s “Playing God Today”

─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ 

─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─  ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ 

─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ 

─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ 

─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ 

─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─  ─ ─ ─  ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─

─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ 

─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─

─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ 

─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─  ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ 

─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ 

─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ 

─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ 

─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ 

─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ 

─ ─  ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─  ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ ─ 

I don’t know, is this even meaningful?  Perhaps not much, but it does matter.  It matters because of the amount of page space utilized in each example—the middle one, Doug’s poem, could pass for a standard prose paragraph; it takes up page real estate the way prose writing might.  I am betting that one of the many things your brain computes when it gets this space utilization “signal” from Doug’s poem is “prose.”  Yet Bennett’s and Janet’s “poems,” for all their similar graphical features—they “waste space” from a prose point of view—use page space quite differently, line by line.  What luxury!

Here is the project for next Wednesday.  Grab a poem you’ve already completed (or simply write a new one!) and consider its footprint on the page.  Ignore the text of the poem, but focus on the amount of white space that is left undisturbed by each line and/or paragraph/stanza. [6]  Then change the relationship between graphical text and surrounding white space.  You can do this by moving words around between or among lines, by adding or subtracting returns between lines/stanzas, and by adding or subtracting spaces between words and syllables within a line.  Have some fun with it.  Break your poem!  Punch new holes in the page!  Then try to put it back together in some way that is different from the original, but not gratuitously dismembered.

Give some thought to how you interact with the poem as you do this, whether it changes the poem for you for better or worse, whether it gives you new insight into the poem, etc.

Select at least one example of an altered version and bring it along with the original to our next session.  Have fun!

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[1] The others we discussed were “a return to rhyme”; “something seasonal”; “grammar, good and/or bad”; “articles & other parts of speech.”

[2] Poems made up of wide lines, that take up all or most of a page’s available real estate, test our notion of “poem,” right?  They are “prose” poems.  They are “speech” but not song.

[3] To access those projects, go to my poetry blog at http://clarkspoetryblog.blogspot.com/. 

[4] I am asking you to exercise your “negative capability” here: to see not the imprint upon the page, but the “hole in the blankness of the page” that the imprint creates.  Not only to see it, but to feel it as well, in terms of rhythm, pace, sound, and to consider from there how the poem makes you feel when you “read” it not so much as meaningful language as “lack of” or an “absence of” white space.  I suggested that this will be an experiment for us; I know it will feel weird.  And I bet it will contribute to your understanding of the poem.

[5] Newspaper text violates this “rule” of one paragraph-one unit of meaning, partly because columns of newsprint are narrow and long, making it difficult for the eye to follow the text.  One sentence paragraphs are common in this type of media.

[6] Like a field of freshly fallen snow?