I’m going to be offering weekly poetry lessons, complete with exercises and reading recommendations. These will be primarily craft lessons, although some will be designed to get you to think about content, purpose and the rest.
Here’s the first:
WHY WRITE POETRY ANYWAY?
Samuel Johnson once wrote that nobody but a jackass ever wrote a line for any reason but money, but then Samuel Johnson wasn’t a poet. Still, a lot of beginning poets have a vague idea that somewhere down the line money will flow in. In a moment, we’ll see how and why they are wrong. First, though, before we get into lessons proper, let’s take a look at the possible motives for writing poetry.
1: Self-expression. If you are motivated by the need to express yourself, then shut down this blog and write any way you want to, any thing you want to. Self-expression has no rules, no structure, no formats, no literary aspects at all. Whatever goes on the page is just fine. So, if you want to write the following:
I’ve never been happier in my life except when I was happier and
Being happy in life is all that counts except for maybe money and
Good times and collecting bottle caps and sailing water filled balloons down
From the tops of buildings and stuff like that.
Well, then, great, you go right ahead. Don’t be bothered by the fact that you’ve used the word “and” five times in four lines and that you haven’t communicated anything to anyone, so that all you are doing is babbling, which cannot possibly be of interest to anyone but yourself.
You don’t need to be bothered by any of that because your goal was to express yourself and you achieved that. You just didn’t express anything to anyone else or create a piece of art.
2: Commercial. Many young poets have the idea that after they serve an apprenticeship, money will follow. If you are writing poetry, let me disabuse you of that notion right now. Poetry doesn’t pay anything. In fact, it costs money to be a poet. You have to pay postage to send stuff out and most of the magazines you will publish in do not pay anything. When you get a book out, the chances are your publisher will lose money on it and will pay you in copies of the book, which you will have to promote and sell. Or you will have to publish it yourself, which costs money. Naturally, promoting a book costs money. It is especially expensive to promote something that no one wants, as is the case with poetry. Richard Wilbur used to complain that party guests would not even steal one of his books from his home. So, if you’re writing poetry in order to make a few bucks, stop right now and instead move to L.A. and write for TV. One TV script will pay more than you’ll make in a career as a poet.
3: Literary. Okay, here’s the real reason to write poetry. You do it because you are an artist and this is your medium for creation. Your intent is to communicate something of importance, either an idea, an insight or a feeling to an audience, no matter how small. You are writing as both an act of creation and of communication. You have something to offer and you want other people to have an opportunity to pick up on it.
Will the masses pick it up and adore you, shower you with ego strokes? Thankfully, no. Chances are you will never hear from your audience. Every once in a while, though, you’ll get a hit; someone will get in touch and say, “Nice work” and you’ll know you’ve communicated. Once, I got a call from a college student in Illinois who had read something of mine in a magazine, tracked me down at the college where I worked and called me in my office just to say, “Thanks.” He said he needed to read my work and it came to his attention at just the right time. Those things don’t happen much, but when they do it’s a big payoff. If you’re not writing from a literary motive, it will never happen. Self-expression and commerciality do not communicate the way literary does.
Reading list:
For commercial poetry, find a Rod McKuen book. In the sixties and seventies he was the best selling poet around and the stuff he wrote was loved by a bazillion people, probably the same ones who love Dan Brown novels. You might also read Judith Viorst.
For self-expression, read Richard Brautigan, a hippie poet from the sixties and seventies who scrawled whatever occurred to him down and never revised or shaped any of it.
You might note that none of those people are easy to find today. That’s because poems written for their motives have no lasting value.
For literary poetry, you can find a thousand examples on your own.
Here’s an exercise:
1: Write down whatever occurs to you. Let it be as spontaneous as possible, with no thought or direction. Don’t worry about whether it makes sense or not, has an internal logic or any other literary value. Just make sure you get it on paper. Be satisfied with whatever happens.
2: Now, tell yourself that you want to make money off of what you just wrote. What will you have to do to make it commercial? Maybe you’ll have to shape it into a song; don’t forget that the guy who wrote “Achy-Breaky Heart” made 12 million dollars off of it. Perhaps you’ll have to change it into a short story or a TV script.
For the sake of this exercise, you don’t have to really carry out the changes, just explore them.
3: Turn it into a literary poem.
More next week.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Five More Things a Poet Needs
6: Patience
Nothing in the arts – any of the arts – comes quickly. Sure, we read about the song that was finished in fifteen minutes or the story that came flowing out in a half an hour but those are very rare exceptions and if you examine them closely, you’ll see that most of the time they’d have been much, much better if more time and care had been taken with them.
The good ones that came quickly? Usually, the artist has been carrying them around in her head for months, working them out, worrying them into the shape that emerges.
Most of the time, though, a good piece of work comes slowly, agonizingy slowly. You have to wait it out. Often, you feel it will never come and, if you don’t have the necessary patience, you’ll become frustrated and will ruin the piece by either rushing it or abandoning it.
7: The Ability to Reject Models
Too much of the time, poetry does not reflect real life. It doesn’t go into the heart, mind and soul and demonstrate the complexities there. Instead, it is based on other poems. It’s only natural; reading work we admire makes us want to write. If I’m stuck, I take Ted Berrigan’s books off of the shelves, read through them randomly and before long I’m ready to write.
What I do not do is try to write a Ted Berrigan poem. Berrigan is inspiration, not a pattern. What makes Ted Berrigan worth reading is that he is the only man who can write the way he does. If I try to imitate him, the result is forced, inauthentic and lacking in soul.
My task as an artist is to reject him as a model and find my own way, which is another reason poets need patience; it takes a long time to find out who you are as an artist.
Television, movies and genre books are based on other episodes of TV, movies and genre books and we’ve all seen the results: diminishing audiences, boredom and rejection.
Why should poetry go down that road?
8: A Good Library.
When I ask younger poets who they read, an astonishing number confess that they don’t read poetry at all. This might sound contradictory, considering that I just called for poets to reject models, but you can’t write good poetry if you don’t read it. In fact, I’ll take it a step further: you can’t write anything well if you don’t read poetry. You have to develop a sensitivity to the language. You have to learn how words work and why the first word that pops into your head is not the best one. You have to learn when and why to break lines and stanzas.
Like any skill, there’s a lot of basic craft to be learned and, with poetry, you have to reach a point where you sense these things.
Only by reading widely and indiscriminately can you build up that intuitive sense that will lead you to the next thing a poet needs:
9: Originality.
When I was younger, I used to pick up a W. S. Merwin book and after going through a few poems, I’d be of two minds. I’d admire the hell out of what he was doing and go into despair because I knew I could never do that.
It took a long time for me to realize what I’m going to tell you now: I’m not and never will be W. S. Merwin and that’s okay. The world doesn’t need another Merwin; we already have one. What the world needs is for me to be the best me I can be. I’m vain enough to believe that I’ve got something reasonably important to say, a unique view of what we laughingly call reality and that a few people at least can benefit from an exposure to my thoughts and feelings.
If I’m busy trying to become the next Merwin, then no one is going to hear me.
What’s true for me is true for all poets. We need to hear your own unique voice, to be exposed to your own uniqueness. And that’s one more reason why you have to reject models and delve ever more deeply into your own mind, heart and soul.
When I tell young poets these things, someone invariably says, “I’m eighteen. What have I got to say?” I answer by giving them Flannery O’Connor’s quote: If a writer survives childhood, he has a lifetime of material.
10: A Strong but Controlled Ego
From the previous discussion, it should be obvious that a poet needs a healthy sense of her own self-worth. You need a strong but controlled ego; you cannot go around believing that you are better than other people, because you are not and believing that you are will lead you into lying to yourself and invalidate both your work and your life.
You must, however, believe you have something worthwhile to share and the ability to share it. You need to be able to see yourself as strong enough to pull off the challenge you have set for yourself: writing good, strong original poems that offer a voice, an idea and an emotional effect that can’t be had anywhere else.
That calls for a certain amount of ego, a healthy self-respect. You have to keep the ego in a box, though; it must apply to your work and your work only. Begin thinking of yourself as bigger and better than other people and you lose the connection; how can you create good work for people you hold in contempt?
6: Patience
Nothing in the arts – any of the arts – comes quickly. Sure, we read about the song that was finished in fifteen minutes or the story that came flowing out in a half an hour but those are very rare exceptions and if you examine them closely, you’ll see that most of the time they’d have been much, much better if more time and care had been taken with them.
The good ones that came quickly? Usually, the artist has been carrying them around in her head for months, working them out, worrying them into the shape that emerges.
Most of the time, though, a good piece of work comes slowly, agonizingy slowly. You have to wait it out. Often, you feel it will never come and, if you don’t have the necessary patience, you’ll become frustrated and will ruin the piece by either rushing it or abandoning it.
7: The Ability to Reject Models
Too much of the time, poetry does not reflect real life. It doesn’t go into the heart, mind and soul and demonstrate the complexities there. Instead, it is based on other poems. It’s only natural; reading work we admire makes us want to write. If I’m stuck, I take Ted Berrigan’s books off of the shelves, read through them randomly and before long I’m ready to write.
What I do not do is try to write a Ted Berrigan poem. Berrigan is inspiration, not a pattern. What makes Ted Berrigan worth reading is that he is the only man who can write the way he does. If I try to imitate him, the result is forced, inauthentic and lacking in soul.
My task as an artist is to reject him as a model and find my own way, which is another reason poets need patience; it takes a long time to find out who you are as an artist.
Television, movies and genre books are based on other episodes of TV, movies and genre books and we’ve all seen the results: diminishing audiences, boredom and rejection.
Why should poetry go down that road?
8: A Good Library.
When I ask younger poets who they read, an astonishing number confess that they don’t read poetry at all. This might sound contradictory, considering that I just called for poets to reject models, but you can’t write good poetry if you don’t read it. In fact, I’ll take it a step further: you can’t write anything well if you don’t read poetry. You have to develop a sensitivity to the language. You have to learn how words work and why the first word that pops into your head is not the best one. You have to learn when and why to break lines and stanzas.
Like any skill, there’s a lot of basic craft to be learned and, with poetry, you have to reach a point where you sense these things.
Only by reading widely and indiscriminately can you build up that intuitive sense that will lead you to the next thing a poet needs:
9: Originality.
When I was younger, I used to pick up a W. S. Merwin book and after going through a few poems, I’d be of two minds. I’d admire the hell out of what he was doing and go into despair because I knew I could never do that.
It took a long time for me to realize what I’m going to tell you now: I’m not and never will be W. S. Merwin and that’s okay. The world doesn’t need another Merwin; we already have one. What the world needs is for me to be the best me I can be. I’m vain enough to believe that I’ve got something reasonably important to say, a unique view of what we laughingly call reality and that a few people at least can benefit from an exposure to my thoughts and feelings.
If I’m busy trying to become the next Merwin, then no one is going to hear me.
What’s true for me is true for all poets. We need to hear your own unique voice, to be exposed to your own uniqueness. And that’s one more reason why you have to reject models and delve ever more deeply into your own mind, heart and soul.
When I tell young poets these things, someone invariably says, “I’m eighteen. What have I got to say?” I answer by giving them Flannery O’Connor’s quote: If a writer survives childhood, he has a lifetime of material.
10: A Strong but Controlled Ego
From the previous discussion, it should be obvious that a poet needs a healthy sense of her own self-worth. You need a strong but controlled ego; you cannot go around believing that you are better than other people, because you are not and believing that you are will lead you into lying to yourself and invalidate both your work and your life.
You must, however, believe you have something worthwhile to share and the ability to share it. You need to be able to see yourself as strong enough to pull off the challenge you have set for yourself: writing good, strong original poems that offer a voice, an idea and an emotional effect that can’t be had anywhere else.
That calls for a certain amount of ego, a healthy self-respect. You have to keep the ego in a box, though; it must apply to your work and your work only. Begin thinking of yourself as bigger and better than other people and you lose the connection; how can you create good work for people you hold in contempt?