Writing in Advanced Poetry Workshop I vs. Advanced Poetry Workshop II

Just the other day in workshop, Ariana brought up a point that I completely agree with. Last semester, when she and I were both taking our first poetry workshop, we stuck very closely to the prompts or exercises offered in the reader which Lytton provided. This semester, though, in our second workshop, we both have noticed that we’ve been straying from the reader. I know that I personally have been straying a lot from the suggested exercises. I recently began to think about why this is, and what this says about my development as a poet.

I think one major difference between this semester’s class and last semester’s class is the focus: poetic address vs. sound. I know for me personally, it is easier to experiment with poetic address than it is with sound, probably because I just don’t know as much about sound. I can recognize things like assonance and alliteration, repetition of sounds, vowel quality, hardness and softness of consonants, and I can even try to make inferences about how these things affect my reading of the poem. However, when it comes to things like meter, or the article we read on extreme Welsh meter, I feel like there is so much I just don’t know about sound, and thus can’t utilize (intentionally and craftily) in my own experimentation with poems. So this is probably one reason I end up straying so much from the exercises which ask us to really try to consider sound in ways that I’m just not comfortable with yet.

Another difference, I think, which is possibly more indicative of my own growth as a poet (as opposed to my own limitations), is that I am actually more comfortable allowing my poems to go where they need to. I don’t think that I am diverging from the prompts out of purely laziness or unwillingness to try to work with things like meter, but more so out of my ability to recognize when the poem needs to break from the prompt, or may be better off doing so. I am more aware of my own poetry, and of my own poetics. What about others for whom this is there second poetry workshop? Do you feel that having to write a poetic statement at the end of last semester helped you to develop as a poet? Do you find yourselves straying from the exercises a lot? And for those in Poetry I right now? Do you find yourselves sticking more rigidly to the prompts? Disclaimer: I don’t mean to imply that those for whom this is their second workshop are more “developed” as poets, because I’m sure this is not the case. I’m just interested in how having previously taken a workshop with Lytton affects my willingness/unwillingness to write within the exercises.

Some of My Favorite Poems are Songs… Or Some of My Favorite Songs are Poems

Music is a pretty pervasive part of my life. I’m always hooked up to headphones, and I’m addicted to Spotify’s Discover Weekly playlists—they are what get me through my Mondays. Although I don’t always listen to songs for their lyrical quality (in fact I listen to a lot of songs with no lyrics at all), I find that some of my favorite poetry is that which I discover in a song. I don’t mean to equate song lyrics to poems—I’m sure some artists consider their lyrics poetry, others might shudder at the notion. However, there are some lines of some songs that hit me so hard with emotion that I don’t know another way to describe them: they are poetic. For example, take Akron/Family’s song “River”:

And you are no longer river to me
And you are no longer river to me
Though your coarsing remain
Eager to acquaint me
And you are no longer docile stream
And you are no longer docile stream
Though your patience proves you into ease

And once this spark met kindling
Forgets its gentle ambling
Becoming heat, becoming steam
Becoming luminescent glee
Atoms splinter, sparkling
Alive and nimble symmetry
And all along, this glistening
Blankets we and everything
Shadows dance triumphantly
A wordless whisper sighs and pleas
Little deaths envelope thee
You and I and a flame make three
You and I and a flame make three
You and I and a flame make three

And you are not glassy bay to me
And you are not glassy bay to me
Though my tired fleet abides in your gentle breeze
And you are now vast and open sea
And my mind travels you endlessly
And you beckon, toss and toss and swallow me

And once this spark met kindling
Forgets its gentle ambling
Becoming heat, becoming steam
Becoming luminescent glee
Atoms splinter, sparkling
Alive and nimble symmetry
And all along, this glistening
Blankets we and everything
Shadows dance triumphantly
A wordless whisper sighs and pleas
Little deaths envelop thee
You and I and a flame make three

It’s a beautiful freaking song, and you should all listen to it. I wonder, though, if a lot of what makes songs like this one speak so much to me is not just the quality of the words, but the way these words sound as they are performed vocally, accompanied by instruments. If this song were performed as a twangy country tune (I hate country music), would I have even noticed the lyrics enough to appreciate them? Further, those lyric-less songs I mentioned earlier, many of them have a similar emotional importance to me, so much so that, again, I don’t know a way to describe them other than poetic. But there are no words. So, does poetry, or at least my notion of what allows something to be “poetic” extend beyond language, or rather, beyond the language of words? Words are so important to me, the sentence is a comfortable and familiar friend. So this notion that maybe poetry can be expressed outside words is really strange. What do you think?

Also, while we are talking about music… I know Lytton created the Spotify playlist to go along with this class, but I think it would also be really cool to create a collaborative playlist with any Spotify users in the class. We could add music that is poetry, inspires poetry, reminds us of poetry, or that we’d just like to share with our fellow poets. Let me know if you’d be down!

“letters don’t talk” and the tension between poetry and music

Throughout the semester, I’ve been struggling with the tension between words as something that makes sense and words as conglomerates of sounds.  In what way are words representations of greater things, and to what extent do words speak for themselves?  Is a word itself without the proper context, and does a “proper context” even exist? I’ve been attempting, in my own writing, to use words just for their sounds and their connotations, not necessarily their denotations.  Throughout this growing process, I’ve continually found solace in the musical work of poets whom I’ve grown close to.

This week, I’ve been delving deeper into Mary Lambert’s EP letters don’t talk as well as her poetry blog to try and discover how she makes the connection between words and sounds so seamless from poetry to lyrics.  I think that, for the most part, her music and her poetry tend to lend more power to the words themselves and their vibes than the sound.  However, the way she articulates the words and sings them is reminiscent of the spoken word tradition more so than the conventions associated with a song:

“This heart is tired and old/This heart is charcoal and cold/This heart throws the white flag where it gets hard and numb” (Mary Lambert. This Heart. Dungeness Records, 2010-2012. MP3.)  While the lyrics do contain rhyme and fit nicely into the music, the song feels as if it was written on the page and then set to music, rather than the words being written to a particular tune.  Simply because the lyrics hold so much weight, I can’t see the song being more than a vehicle for the lyrics, just as form is an extension of the content according to Charles Olson.

Just as a last thought, I looked into some of her poetry, particularly a poem she read when she came to campus in the spring, called “Pistolwhip.” You can find a video of her reading it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rpNEQE0ph0o. The way she sings and her poetry do have very different sounds, but the delivery is so in sync and one bleeds into the other and vice versa so much that even her song, “Body Love” (recorded in two separate parts) is a reading of poetry set to song. I almost wish I had a more musical mind, because I’d like to be able to challenge myself and write poetry the way she does, with a deep connection to music and rhythm but able to stand alone.

Meditative Sound

So I went to a GOLD workshop this afternoon on breathing and meditation, and the Buddhist woman leading the workshop told us that ‘all sound is meditative’ and played a really awesome recording of Tibetan singing bowls which blew my mind (the creation of the noise is as much a meditative exercise as listening to it). But she was saying, in the tradition of mindfulness, that someone laughing or talking loudly or cars beeping outside your window – all these sounds can be meditative.

Is poetic sound on the page, in our minds, wherever we feel it resonates, meditative? Is it more or less meditative if it makes sense, instead of simply being ‘nonsense’ language? I had never thought of poetry as particularly meditative, but neither had car horns struck me in such a manner before this exercise. What makes a sound more naturally meditative? It’s lethargy, it’s sweetness, it’s softness? If it calms our racing thoughts? Can a poem be meditative for one person, and not for another?

Is your poetry meditative – or do you know of any poetry that you would describe as meditative?  Is the creation of poetic sound as much of a meditative exercise as the ‘listening/reading’ the sound?

When I googled ‘Meditative Poetry’ I found a wiki article about Eastern and European traditions, in which meditative poetry ‘combines the religious practice of meditation with verse’. It is not, though it can be confused with, poetry written simply to relax someone or give them release. It does not, however, really seem to get at what would be considered meditative poetry (meditations written in verse?). It sites Edward Taylor (a Puritan minister, so forgive the funny speeelings [sp]) as a meditative poet – I have pasted a poem below. Feel free to respond to that poem, the difference between Western and Eastern meditative poetry, or any of the above mumbling.

What Love is this of thine, that Cannot bee
In thine Infinity, O Lord, Confinde,
Unless it in thy very Person see,
Infinity, and Finity Conjoyn’d?
What hath thy Godhead, as not satisfide
Marri’de our Manhood, making it its Bride?
Oh, Matchless Love! filling Heaven to the brim!
O’re running it: all running o’re beside
This World! Nay Overflowing Hell; wherein
For thine Elect, there rose a mighty Tide!
That there our Veans might through thy Person bleed,
To quench those flames, that else would on us feed.
Oh! that thy Love might overflow my Heart!
To fire the same with Love: for Love I would.
But oh! my streight’ned Breast! my Lifeless Sparke!
My Fireless Flame! What Chilly Love, and Cold?
In measure small! In Manner Chilly! See.
Lord blow the Coal: Thy Love Enflame in mee.

The Omnipresent Narrator

So, I was looking into narrators this week because I’m struggling with appropriately characterizing a narrator in one of my poems. My preliminary research suggests there are three types of narrators in poetry:

  1. A narrator who is involved, perhaps as a main character, in the events of the story
  2. A narrator who is present and tells what she observes
  3. A narrator relating events completely outside a moment she was present for

Can you switch between these narrators in the same poem? What would be the effects? If you switch the narrator, must you always switch the person? It seems 1 and 2 could be interchangeable with some chronology work, but not 3. Are certain narrators omniscient?

Every piece of poetry has a narrator (Or is that actually true?) – every piece of poetry with a story has a narrator. How separate can the narrator ever be from the poet – is the narrator not always, in some ways, a reflection of the poet?

For example, when thinking about writing minorities, would I always be writing the minority experience through the lens of a white woman, perhaps through the lens of a white woman’s certain lack of privilege? Is there any way to disengage from my own truth in a poem, and simply write what the poem wants to be?

Or is the fact that I am the person in which the poem originated going to color it so much that it, and the narrator within it, can never truly be separate from me?

How People View Language Differently

The other day in class we were discussing Adrian Blevins and how he “praises the sentence.” This has made me think a lot about whether or not I believe in the sentence or the line. I think the answer is both–how can I chose one over the other? I create sentences in poetry all the time–not necessarily as much as “lines” per say, but sentences do play a part in poetry. While lines allow for more creativity and format, sentences can be considered lines–can’t they? I feel like I’m not making much sense. But aren’t both of them essential to writing poetry? In my opinion, all sentences are lines but not all lines are sentences.

Later in the article, Blevins talks about how sentences are given meaning every single time we read them, ”
[sentences] take on a whole second, third, or hundredth life, saying many things at once in a multitude of shapes and forms.” Yet in my “Understanding Poetry” class with Doggett, we talk about how words are signifiers in a semantic system. Words don’t actually carry meaning because they signify something different for each person. These conflicting views have made me think a lot about how I view language.

As a creative writer, I like to think that words have meaning. One day in class I believe it was Christy who said the words “molasses sludge” run together. I was questioning that statement–according to Eagleton’s pov–how could the words run together if they don’t actually mean anything–they are just signifiers for a universal “sludge” that no one has ever seen? But in my opinion, they certainly do. I agree that words conjure up different images for different people, but I don’t think words are meaningless.
My AP US teacher always would say “Remember kids, words mean things.” And while that memory brings a smile to my face, I agree that they certainly do.
Arianna

MY POETRY is whatever I think I am

I want to agree with Amiri Baraka, hug him and kiss him and say YES! That’s EXACTLY WHAT POETRY IS. And then I want to talk to him about how dumb people who think poetry should be anything else are. I want to say I am right, this is the way. My heart does little pauses whenever I think about doing this though. Not out of excitement but out of the vague guilt that says, “You’re wrong Carolina. Poetry is so much more than just you.”

Whatever I think I am is relative to everyone else. I am everyone I have ever met and all the thoughts that have been shared with me. In that way, it can’t really be my poetry, as I am only recycling thoughts and ideas. I feel so defensive of my poetry though, as you all witnessed in class when I told Meghan I didn’t care (I’m sorry!). Why is that? I feel like it’s me there on the page, trying to show you my insides. And then when people don’t understand it I just want to say, well, so what? You don’t HAVE TO understand. I’m misunderstood, that’s the point, duh.

But, it’s not something to which we should say so what, even if we want to (my mistake). It does matter. Poetry is one of the only methods that two people can truly understand each other and if we are thinking only of who we are and not about who everyone else is, then how will we achieve the goals we wish to? How will we master this art. I guess we should find a balance. Sacrifice some of the qualities we feel are exclusive to ourselves so that we can successfully speak to somebody else in their language.

 

 

Notebooks and the Writing Process

When John Gallaher was here, I noticed that he was writing sentences (or line or observations, who knows?) in a notebook throughout the class. At the end of class, I asked him “Why do you use a small notebook?” He passionately responded that he liked being able to carry it around in his pocket, so that he could write something down as soon as it came into his mind. He talked about the mead notebooks, and how the plastic cover protects it if, for example, he threw the notebook onto a table at a bar. He was so enthusiastic about this notebook, even noting the changes the Mead notebooks have gone through the years (they replaced the plastic back cover with a cardboard one, and they shrunk the size of the spiral , which made it more difficult to slide pens into loops). It was easy to tell that he was obsessed with these notebooks.

Continue reading “Notebooks and the Writing Process”

Language is not Neutral

TwERK, LaTasha N Nevada Diggs

 

Following on from our conversations about access/familiarity/language yesterday, it’s worth quoting poet and critic Joyelle McSweeney’s thoughts on Diggs’s poetry, from the Poetry Foundation website:

 

Diggs’s work is truly hybrid: languages and modes are grafted together and furl out insistently from each bound splice. In a review of TwERK for the online literary site Montevidayo, poet Joyelle McSweeney writes, “Language is not a neutral tool, and the history of the peoples who belong to these language[s] and the hegemonic forces that would distress, suppress or obliterate both the languages and their peoples is what makes these poems so fierce, fraught, bladey and mobile. The showiness and flaunt of these poems are like the fierceness of the drag balls Diggs salutes in one poem: a visible weapon, a tactic simultaneously offensive and defensive, a wargame for the whole body. Diggs’s poems truly work the whole body of the poem, the whole body of sound, the whole body of history, the whole body of voice and ear, the whole body of language and the ability of the page to be its own sonic syntax; they articulate and rotate joints that seemed fixed; they are bawdy and triumphant and they more than work. They TwERK.”

Four Hinterland Abstractions

I read a poem recently, titled “Four Hinterland Abstractions,” by Ray Young Bear, and published in The New Yorker a little over a month ago. It is choc-a-block full of things, things I loved and things I didn’t understand.

Let’s think about the word “hinterland” to start. According to research (Wikipedia), a hinterland is “the land behind,” as in, the land behind a seaside town or port. In the first of four parts, the speaker describes a truck that “tipped / over on the interstate / somewhere”. The speaker says “this valley / was sculpted by the once lovely / wings of a vulture”. Here, the hinterland is not literally the land behind a body of water, but the land that was left behind.

This theme of ancestry and history continues in the second part, where nighttime fireflies compel the speaker and his children to “place ourselves / beside the weeping / willow grandfather”. Here, the mention of children and grandfather in the same stanza accentuates the generational quality of not only family but our lives on this earth. I love the way the above lines are formatted. The verb “weeping” and “grandfather” seem to go together in my mind, and on first reading I ignored the word “willow” by accident. It seemed to personify the tree, and was well done on the writer’s part.

The third part of the poem was the most confusing to me. It was more abstract. I got caught by the lines “a winsome / ghost that’s awash in green / & yellow pulsating colors”. What does this mean? How does it relate to hinterland?

The fourth and final part was also beautiful. The speaker meets a man, possibly a young soldier “wearing boots covered / with ochre grains of distant / battlefields”. The battlefields are the hinterlands, the far away place. The soldier “reached down / & crushed several into small / clouds,” only adding to their place in the background of the past, while he stands in the foreground, the present.