Today is the end of April, and thus, the end of my challenge.
I have written more poems in the last 23 days (I started on the 7th) than I have literally in years, and I must say that I have re-awoken something. While I still have insecurities about my poems and certainly would not call myself a poet, I have come a long way from the stigma I started with at the beginning of this month. I wish more people would have taken me up on the challenge so that they could experience this.
I have found what I had already begun to expect: there needs to be no reason for poetry other than life itself. It doesn't matter if it is an exciting or emotional event or something as simple as staring at toothpaste lost for ideas. Watching someone get a ticket on the freeway can be just as poetic as a few scattered Dogwood petals dancing across a hidden puddle in the alley of a big city.
Poetry is freeing in a way that short stories or essays are not in that it does not require you to explain everything. It only requires that you share and that on some level an a chord is struck. On the other hand, sound, rhythm, and word choice are almost infinitely more important than they are in longer works. I am always telling my students that poetry is meant to be performed, but beyond that your words need to catch the right mood to deliver the thing you most want to share in the appropriate light. On a more practical level, there is less there and therefore less room for error if for no other reason than it will stand out like a slug on a snowball.
Poetry is more like music than many really realize and a wrong word or off syllable is just a displeasing as a wrong note an off beat lyric. In fact, poetry has made me focus more on words and for that I am entirely grateful. I feel the new adjustments even as I write this blog.
Latonia Valincia told my class this semester that once they started writing poetry, their senses would come more alive. She went on to explain how she could taste the most subtle of flavors in recipes and foods she'd never had before.
I began to notice things I hadn't before. Not because I was looking for poem material, but perhaps just because I was looking. Today I stopped my husband from walking into a small caterpillar dangling in the air, readying himself for his cocoon. A gift of poetry or a chance notice?
I can see why Poetry Month falls in Spring. Everything is coming alive and what better way to celebrate it than awakening your senses? Many of us let them hibernate during winter, while still others let them hibernate always. Only perhaps partially awake, partially aware of everything there is to see, feel, taste, smell, and hear around them.
One thing hasn't changed. I still feel that poetry is more of a preferential genre than the others, in that given the preciseness of each poem, not every poem is going to strike a chord with you. However, I do better understand now why authors take part and write those very poems I do not get.
In fact, I am sadden at the closing of the month. Without such a challenge I'm not sure how long I will keep this up. On the other hand, I've learned I need no excuse to write a poem. In fact, about half way through, the challenge itself became completely arbitrary. I looked forward to taking pen to paper (the method I wrote most of the poems in) and fiddling with my mood and mind until words began to flow.
As I said, I don't beleive I am a poet. I think poets, true poets, have a direct infusion to something in the world that is always open, they merely occasionally cap it up to interact with normal people. It is more direct and it is easier for them. Normal people always have a cap on it and occasionally crack it open to take a peek. I am still a fiction writer who occasionally will write poetry. Though I know now that the move to becoming a poet is not a long or treacherous path or a given birth right, and that one day I may consider myself both. The more you open yourself up to the world and accept its pulse, rhythm it with your own, the easier it becomes to do so.
Meredith Purvis mentioned in a post earlier this month that, "We are afraid, it seems, to be enthusiastic, to seem naive or innocent, to be cheesy in our appreciation of the world around us." When I first read this I found it a true realization of the human existence, perhaps one of the realizations of human existence. So often we are afraid to let ourselves go, to surrender to our likes, dislikes, and even our own emotions are often kept in check. It is refreshing to find a person who takes pure unadulterated joy out of something. We can glimpse these moments with close friends and family and certainly some people are more restrained than others, but those who are willing to do it regardless of the circumstance are living, walking examples of poetry.
After all, this is what poetry asks us to do. Surrender.
Surrender to life, to emotion, to the moment. To take something in and feel it.
In "To Read Fiction" by Donald Hall, he claims that literary study is "as practical as breathing." To understand a work of literature is to understand something about human nature. To allow your mind to become more open and receptive to literature is to allow your mind to become more open and receptive to the world. It is an idea that I doubt many who do study literature would argue with, but one that few who do not, ever realize. He admits, as many would, that it is not an exact science. It is ambiguous at times and contradictory at others, but if it is so, it is only so because literature represents "whole human beings" and this existence of "shifting mixtures of permanence and change, direction and disorder" is a direct result of the state of being human.
If literature, as in prose, exposes and confirms the tangle web that is the human existence, then poetry attempts to expose the thing that is the source of that web. Poetry exposes, but does not explain, the energy source within us that causes the ambivalent reasoning that is being human. It taps into the circulatory system of our world and takes us on a ride. It reminds us that we are human, that we do feel, that we do see and that there are things to consider and appreciate.
Certainly there are many different types of poems and plenty that do go further that have calls to actions or force a certain kind of laugh or idea, but they too appeal more to innate feeling than they do to reason. Just as prose appeals more to our reason, even if it is based in emotion. The simple act of putting the sound of the thing over the explanation of the thing perhaps creates this.
In short, through my experiment, my challenge, I have gained what I feared I lacked-- a true appreciation of poetry as a form. This I think does run deeper than simply liking poetry or knowing it is good and free.
I welcome poetry back into my available repertoire for writing and expressing my ideas about the world. Now, the only thing I need to tackle is the Novel. Though I have gotten pieces up to 100 pages or so, I always fall short in finishing them and the idea of writing long things often makes me sleepy and discouraged.
My friend Mickey is trying to convince me to participation in National Novel Writing Month, which takes place in November. I suppose it is only fair, and perhaps even necessary. There will be much for me to do work wise in November and I fear sneaking chapters in won't be as easy and time fluent as sneaking poems in (especially if I fall behind as I am want to do), but given the sucess of this most recent experiment I'm afraid I will have to take Mickey up on her challenge to me and participate with the hundreds, perhaps thousands, of others who will try to start and complete a novel in a mere month.
That is quite some time away though, and now it is still April. There is still one lingering sunset falling within the month of the challenge and I owe you and April one more poem. So without further ado...
30. "Poetry's Plea"
I looked down at the blank page
Surrender! it shouted
Frightened, I shook my head
got up and walked away
but it haunted me that plea
surrender
I heard it in every little sound
the singing bird
the revving engine
the smack of flip flops
growing voices in the hall
surrender
I tasted it on my tongue
coated in sugar
smooth as cool whip
salty and tart
surrender!
It floated through the chimneys
and out the windows of nearby cafes
it hung mysteriously in my car
I breathed it in
surrender!
and every where I went
I began to see it
the lone french fry on the ground
petals dancing in the air
a slowly twisting caterpillar
the half set sun
SURRENDER
So without any choice
I returned to the paper
I returned to the blank space
begging to be filled
and let the cap off all my senses
and as my pen touched paper
I surrendered.
I have written more poems in the last 23 days (I started on the 7th) than I have literally in years, and I must say that I have re-awoken something. While I still have insecurities about my poems and certainly would not call myself a poet, I have come a long way from the stigma I started with at the beginning of this month. I wish more people would have taken me up on the challenge so that they could experience this.
I have found what I had already begun to expect: there needs to be no reason for poetry other than life itself. It doesn't matter if it is an exciting or emotional event or something as simple as staring at toothpaste lost for ideas. Watching someone get a ticket on the freeway can be just as poetic as a few scattered Dogwood petals dancing across a hidden puddle in the alley of a big city.
Poetry is freeing in a way that short stories or essays are not in that it does not require you to explain everything. It only requires that you share and that on some level an a chord is struck. On the other hand, sound, rhythm, and word choice are almost infinitely more important than they are in longer works. I am always telling my students that poetry is meant to be performed, but beyond that your words need to catch the right mood to deliver the thing you most want to share in the appropriate light. On a more practical level, there is less there and therefore less room for error if for no other reason than it will stand out like a slug on a snowball.
Poetry is more like music than many really realize and a wrong word or off syllable is just a displeasing as a wrong note an off beat lyric. In fact, poetry has made me focus more on words and for that I am entirely grateful. I feel the new adjustments even as I write this blog.
Latonia Valincia told my class this semester that once they started writing poetry, their senses would come more alive. She went on to explain how she could taste the most subtle of flavors in recipes and foods she'd never had before.
I began to notice things I hadn't before. Not because I was looking for poem material, but perhaps just because I was looking. Today I stopped my husband from walking into a small caterpillar dangling in the air, readying himself for his cocoon. A gift of poetry or a chance notice?
I can see why Poetry Month falls in Spring. Everything is coming alive and what better way to celebrate it than awakening your senses? Many of us let them hibernate during winter, while still others let them hibernate always. Only perhaps partially awake, partially aware of everything there is to see, feel, taste, smell, and hear around them.
One thing hasn't changed. I still feel that poetry is more of a preferential genre than the others, in that given the preciseness of each poem, not every poem is going to strike a chord with you. However, I do better understand now why authors take part and write those very poems I do not get.
In fact, I am sadden at the closing of the month. Without such a challenge I'm not sure how long I will keep this up. On the other hand, I've learned I need no excuse to write a poem. In fact, about half way through, the challenge itself became completely arbitrary. I looked forward to taking pen to paper (the method I wrote most of the poems in) and fiddling with my mood and mind until words began to flow.
As I said, I don't beleive I am a poet. I think poets, true poets, have a direct infusion to something in the world that is always open, they merely occasionally cap it up to interact with normal people. It is more direct and it is easier for them. Normal people always have a cap on it and occasionally crack it open to take a peek. I am still a fiction writer who occasionally will write poetry. Though I know now that the move to becoming a poet is not a long or treacherous path or a given birth right, and that one day I may consider myself both. The more you open yourself up to the world and accept its pulse, rhythm it with your own, the easier it becomes to do so.
Meredith Purvis mentioned in a post earlier this month that, "We are afraid, it seems, to be enthusiastic, to seem naive or innocent, to be cheesy in our appreciation of the world around us." When I first read this I found it a true realization of the human existence, perhaps one of the realizations of human existence. So often we are afraid to let ourselves go, to surrender to our likes, dislikes, and even our own emotions are often kept in check. It is refreshing to find a person who takes pure unadulterated joy out of something. We can glimpse these moments with close friends and family and certainly some people are more restrained than others, but those who are willing to do it regardless of the circumstance are living, walking examples of poetry.
After all, this is what poetry asks us to do. Surrender.
Surrender to life, to emotion, to the moment. To take something in and feel it.
In "To Read Fiction" by Donald Hall, he claims that literary study is "as practical as breathing." To understand a work of literature is to understand something about human nature. To allow your mind to become more open and receptive to literature is to allow your mind to become more open and receptive to the world. It is an idea that I doubt many who do study literature would argue with, but one that few who do not, ever realize. He admits, as many would, that it is not an exact science. It is ambiguous at times and contradictory at others, but if it is so, it is only so because literature represents "whole human beings" and this existence of "shifting mixtures of permanence and change, direction and disorder" is a direct result of the state of being human.
If literature, as in prose, exposes and confirms the tangle web that is the human existence, then poetry attempts to expose the thing that is the source of that web. Poetry exposes, but does not explain, the energy source within us that causes the ambivalent reasoning that is being human. It taps into the circulatory system of our world and takes us on a ride. It reminds us that we are human, that we do feel, that we do see and that there are things to consider and appreciate.
Certainly there are many different types of poems and plenty that do go further that have calls to actions or force a certain kind of laugh or idea, but they too appeal more to innate feeling than they do to reason. Just as prose appeals more to our reason, even if it is based in emotion. The simple act of putting the sound of the thing over the explanation of the thing perhaps creates this.
In short, through my experiment, my challenge, I have gained what I feared I lacked-- a true appreciation of poetry as a form. This I think does run deeper than simply liking poetry or knowing it is good and free.
I welcome poetry back into my available repertoire for writing and expressing my ideas about the world. Now, the only thing I need to tackle is the Novel. Though I have gotten pieces up to 100 pages or so, I always fall short in finishing them and the idea of writing long things often makes me sleepy and discouraged.
My friend Mickey is trying to convince me to participation in National Novel Writing Month, which takes place in November. I suppose it is only fair, and perhaps even necessary. There will be much for me to do work wise in November and I fear sneaking chapters in won't be as easy and time fluent as sneaking poems in (especially if I fall behind as I am want to do), but given the sucess of this most recent experiment I'm afraid I will have to take Mickey up on her challenge to me and participate with the hundreds, perhaps thousands, of others who will try to start and complete a novel in a mere month.
That is quite some time away though, and now it is still April. There is still one lingering sunset falling within the month of the challenge and I owe you and April one more poem. So without further ado...
30. "Poetry's Plea"
I looked down at the blank page
Surrender! it shouted
Frightened, I shook my head
got up and walked away
but it haunted me that plea
surrender
I heard it in every little sound
the singing bird
the revving engine
the smack of flip flops
growing voices in the hall
surrender
I tasted it on my tongue
coated in sugar
smooth as cool whip
salty and tart
surrender!
It floated through the chimneys
and out the windows of nearby cafes
it hung mysteriously in my car
I breathed it in
surrender!
and every where I went
I began to see it
the lone french fry on the ground
petals dancing in the air
a slowly twisting caterpillar
the half set sun
SURRENDER
So without any choice
I returned to the paper
I returned to the blank space
begging to be filled
and let the cap off all my senses
and as my pen touched paper
I surrendered.
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