Max Cairnduff, on his literary website Pechorin's Journal (which I strongly recommend, by the way), recently posted a review of the novel "Leaving the Atocha Station" by Ben Lerner. The book deals with the nature of poetry and this has induced me to make some remarks of my own on that topic. It's about to turn into a double post. Today I'm going to discuss the qualities that make poetry effective. In the next post I'll analyze some examples that show how that effectiveness is achieved.
Sometimes in my rambles through other blogs I come upon a person who writes verse and posts it. Occasionally some of it is passably good, but unfortunately most of it is awful. I won't give specific examples because I really don't want to hurt people's feelings. I understand that these people are immensely proud of what they've done -- they've written poetry -- isn't that wonderful? But they can't see that what they've written isn't really poetry: first, they are too close to it; second, they are totally unfamiliar with any of the basics of poetic composition; and third, they have no sense of rhythm or metaphorical construction.
Their "poetry" is about as good as my figure drawing -- that is, embarrassingly bad. I 've said before that my friend who is a trained artist informed me of that fact, and after she pointed out things that were wrong, like the proportion of the human body, I agreed with her. But my point is, I couldn't really see it at first; I was proud of what I'd done because it was something I'd never tried before, but I was too close to it and I didn't have any technique. I'm sure these blog versifiers can't see their flaws, either. I'm not condemning them for that, but I do have to say, some of the stuff just makes me squirm.
Their "poetry" is about as good as my figure drawing -- that is, embarrassingly bad. I 've said before that my friend who is a trained artist informed me of that fact, and after she pointed out things that were wrong, like the proportion of the human body, I agreed with her. But my point is, I couldn't really see it at first; I was proud of what I'd done because it was something I'd never tried before, but I was too close to it and I didn't have any technique. I'm sure these blog versifiers can't see their flaws, either. I'm not condemning them for that, but I do have to say, some of the stuff just makes me squirm.
To make poetry, it takes more than simply adding some rhyme and limping meter to a sequence of words. So what does turn versification into poetry? I'm going to quote a paragraph from Max Cairnduff's review. The character in the novel, Adam, is living in Spain but he doesn't speak Spanish well at all. Therefore: "For much of the book then the bulk of Adam’s conversations are notional. Things are said to him, but whether what he understands is what was meant is far from clear. That sounds potentially annoying but instead it’s very funny, and something more than that – it’s a metaphor for poetry itself. Adam understands Spanish as a reader understands a poem. Sensed meanings, which may or may not be intended. Multiplicities of interpretations, those chosen coming as much from what Adam brings to the conversation as to what was actually said. Adam’s conversations exist in the space between him and the words he understands, like poetry exists in the gap between the reader and the words on the page." [My boldface in both cases]
With writers of doggerel, there is no such gap. The sentiments expressed might just as well be rendered directly in prose, and probably better done so, because there wouldn't be all those distracting misapplications of rhythm and rhyme.
I wrote that kind of poetry when I was in high school. Some of it wasn't too bad -- I had a little poems included in a college anthology as the prefatory piece and one of my profs said it reminded him of Emily Dickinson. However, my balloon was quickly popped when as an English major in my sophomore year I took the requisite Introduction to Poetry course. I discovered what good poetry really is and I immediately said, "I can't do anything like this," and I quit writing the form. I haven't written anything since except a few poems for one of the later Ki'shto'ba volumes, which were absolutely essential to the story. Whether they are considered any good, only time will tell. I can always use the excuse that they were actually written by a giant termite in an alien language and translated by Prf. Kaitrin Oliva in the 30th century, so I'm merely channeling them from the future! (LOL)
What poetry does is to take words and put them together in special ways that suggest far more than the sense of the words themselves. How this is accomplished I'll discuss in that later post, where I'll give examples. Poetry is not easy and can't be understood with one superficial skimming -- to be appreciated properly, a poem requires strenuous attention. In illustration I want to conclude with another experience of my own.
At one point during my college days, the Head Librarian Dr. Ellsworth Mason, who was a Joyce scholar and also taught in the English Department from time to time, asked a few students over to his house to talk about poetry. One of the poems was the very simple and familiar "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" by Robert Frost. I'll print it here:
Whose woods these are I think I know,
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
We all read the poem and Dr. Mason asked us to interpret it and we sat there and read it over and pondered, and the silence grew and everybody got embarrassed, or at least I did. It's just a few words describing a momentary event in the day of a particular man, right? And yet there is a shift of tone in that last stanza. I'm happy to note that I'm the one who finally had the breakthrough. I said something like this: the poem is about the allure of death, but the poet's sense of duty and responsibility wins the battle. He rejects the escape that death would provide and recognizes that he must carry on to the natural end of the road before he can rest. And Dr. Mason said that was exactly right. I was so pleased!
That changed my view of poetry forever. I never looked at a true poem as something superficial again. The poetry of "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" exists in that "gap between the reader and the words on the page."
That changed my view of poetry forever. I never looked at a true poem as something superficial again. The poetry of "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" exists in that "gap between the reader and the words on the page."
