If anyone has read my last four posts (poems I through IV) it's possible I've come to look pretty arrogant. What did I mean putting up such an odd collection of rather poor efforts?
In fact this is an experiment. Poems III and IV are posted for the purposes of comparison. The poem I wrote at sixteen has a lot of lifeless extras, it's rough and immature and its vocabulary strikes me as limited. The poem I wrote a couple of weeks ago is more polished and each word carefully chosen, and moreover it is thoroughly ossified because it flow was so sluggish I was not able to complete the verse.
I suspect that the immature poem has "that spark" flitting about its words somewhere. It's the mark of a wild feeling that I used to associate with composing. It's real, it's a necessary component of true art, and I believe I've lost it.
Poems I and II (obviously, two versions of the same poem) are an experiment - me fishing around in my soul to see if any of that spark is still left and, if so, what's clogging it up. I'm not into self-revelation so I'll not say what I think I may have found. However the result itself interests me and may interest others. Someone may wish to imitate the experiment. It's short and fascinating.
Between nine and ten on the clock, when my body was winding down for sleep, I put myself into a sort of half-trance, my eyes open only enough to see the screen, my fingers moving automatically to type the words as they came to me, awareness of any bodily comfort greatly diminished. I did not have to think about the rhyme; it just came. So with the meter (which I notice is a mundane four beats per line, but interestingly enough not primarily imabic - in my mind iambs sound lazy.) Of course the words are the most interesting.
This morning I made the poem more coherent, substituting a few words and phrases. Although I used the same method to find one word as I had when looking for the whole poem, this process did involve some intelligent interpretation on my part.
There is only one way to read a poem like this. The reader must not try to "interpret" it, as that usually means deciphering a larger signification that seems to lurk behind the whole. A poem like this, however, is actually as inarticulate as it appears. There is meaning there, but it is superificial; that is, it is contained in whatever about the poem strikes you on a first reading or two, provided you pay sufficient attention. The meaning is not behind the sentences, rather it is in the words. You will hear it in the way the words sound upon your ear, in the half-rememberings that certain found or borrowed phrases will trigger in you, and in the emotion that the progress of one line to another stirs in you.
I call this a partly-poem. My ideal whole-poem would have the spark, the honesty, and the feeling on the one hand, and the ingenous structure and high articulation on the other. That is, feeling and intelligence would be married.
Thoughts?
4 comments:
I adore Poem III because it is so relatable. You put feelings into words, not ever an easy thing to do, and not only is that accomplished excellently, but the words seem to recreate in the present that moment of beauty captured in the poem; everything seems to climax in the line, "It is not heaviness of feet that pulls me down to take a seat..."
Your Poem II is very intriguing, and I happen to like it a lot. I felt many differing emotions one after another very strongly while reading it. My first thought after finishing was simply that this was an incredible piece of art that could invoke such feeling from freeform words. (I didn't take it to have a 'hidden meaning' or subtle message, and today I had to laugh when I read your explanation that readers should not try to interpret too much...)
And as to arrogance, darling, it's your blog after all, and posting on one topic or another is not a sign of arrogance any more than simply HAVING a blog is.
Later!
Emily
Oh, dear...must I now repent of blogging as well? Must I repent of being me? Must I repent of being?
Er...that was a bit exxagerated. Let's just say it may be quite arrogant to post my half-formed worldview so freely but on the other hand I very humbly thank you for participating. Yes, Poem III is one of my favorites, and Josh likes it as well. I'm glad you could understand Poem II, that you could feel it rather. The emotions are very strong, as you say. A certian, more masculine brain with which we are both aquainted did not really undergo that experience when reading the poem...
You laugh at my caution, which shows that you understand a lot about poetry, but I myself needed such an explanation when I first started in on T.S. Eliot, which is far more intelligable than Poems I and II. I think there's an appearance of carefully articulated meaning, by way of sentence structure, that renders my I and II poems essentially dishonest (along with a lot of other modern art) and that is one way of failing as art. They are powerful and intriguing and a good excercise but I don't believe they are timeless examples of an enduring form.
I did learn though that starting with a powerful image is important. Images unlock deep emotions and those emotions can be channelled into words. When you do this you find yourself using words in ways that are quite imaginative. To use this in more structured art, to harness this power without breaking it, that is the trick.
If you have any of your own, whether experimental or serious, I'd love to publish them. Nothing would please me more than sharing and discussing the act of creation.
I liked 1, and . I didn't try to catch the sense of 1: the rhythm was too strong for that and I simply went along to the end. Perhaps I didn't like 2 so well because I was paying more attention to the sense of the words. 3 is wonderful. The line about the brances-- lovely, so very like images that stick in my mind of 'masculine' trees, the big strong ones, that seem to clench and tear apart the sky in their black fists.
I don't think it's really materially more conceited to post thoughts in poetry than it would be in prose. I asked Ruben about this and he informs me that poetry is harder, but some people (like me) have an equally hard time writing essays.
Well you should know the difference. Your own poem about trees against the sky is far more memorable than this one.
By the way I know you have your own domain of beauty elsewhere on the web, but I'll offer you, like Emily, the opportunity to submit any new creative efforts and use this place as an interactive foray into the activities of art. It would be delightful.
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