On Poetry

Poetry I think is very well defined by Ursula K. LeGuin as "patterned intensity of language".

To me, poetry is among the purest, perhaps the singe purest, linguistic art.

Art, to me, is self-expression, but by this I do not mean expression of the personality or ego. Surely, these have plentiful expression -- perhaps they are themselves nothing more than expression. But art from my perspective is the expression, the pressing-out, the coming-into-the-outer-word, of the inner being.

The inner being is both that which is most uniquely individual and that which is most universal in each of us.

I know that I am in the presence of truly great art when I say of it, "that is precisely what I would have done with that medium, to present that message. It could not be better demonstrated." When I see Andy Goldsworthy's works, for example, I am in complete awe. And I think I may have stated elsewhere that I believe that no visual art is more purely art than Goldsworthy's, in part because there is nothing between Goldsworthy and his art: the art is an expression not only of Goldsworthy's nature, but the nature of his medium; he has given voice to ice and stone and wood and leaf: the voice they themselves have, but only with a situation of amazing miraculous probability would they ever exhibit that voice... but with the human mind and heart and hand and will at work, that voice rings out clearly. Goldsworthy's work comes as close as I think I have ever seen any work to what Tolkien calls "subcreation".

When I am in the presence of paper and pencil and suddenly words begin to come, and I am in no way forcing the words, but channeling them gently: this is when the best poetry comes, and I hesitate to call it my own. It has come through me, but it belongs ultimately to all.

This does not mean I will never assert my copyright vigorously, but I am talking here about art, not about law.

These Trenches is an example of something remarkable in poetry. I composed this piece, in the sense that I was ready at the moment that words flowed, they came through me, it was my hand tapping the keyboard. Yet I can read this piece and experience the same shuddering emotion I would experience from any great work of poetry. This may sound egotistical, but I assure my reader that it is precisely not ego in the recognition of the value of a piece such as this.

Indeed, I am inclined to believe that ego is a considerable impediment to the poet. When not composing, it may be fine to be inflated as a dirigible, but when Poetry calls, ego must be swept away. In my experience (and I have been writing poetry off and on for a little over thirty years), poetry is often very bad when one tries to make it happen. It is often very good when it happens on its own.

Where does this leave the poet as a practitioner?

It might seem as though the best poetry would be produced by someone who never thought about structure, musicality, metre, diction, tone, and so on... and yet this proves often not to be the case. Sometimes poets who have been working for only a few years and who are completely untrained produce amazingly fine work, it's true. Especially persons first hearing the call of Poetry write excellent work, and they should probably be grateful to some events in their lives that opened that window. They may well be frustrated as the window closes; they may so far despair of the loss (as they experience it) to commit suicide, or to wish to do so.

The tradition of speaking of the Muse is, in my experience, not fatuous: but the Muse is not outside of the self. The Muse, and the Muse's gift, which is Music, is within: part of me and yet not me, just as I am part of the world and yet also my own being. We who are called by the Muse respond to something within us, which if denied might produce tremendous energy, but also might produce horrific injury.

The power of the Muse is the full power of human being, but just as in anything else I am far from fully realized as a human, just so in poetry. Poetry, then, becomes a model for me of what it may be to be human.

Just as life calls to me in a broad and tremendous challenge, so does Poetry, but Poetry is more focused by far than life in its entirety. Still, to be better at giving Poetry an opportunity to come into mental and physical being is to be better at being human.

How is this to be done?

Consider LeGuin's definition: poetry is patterned intensity of language. This can take any number of different forms. Rhyme is a pattern, so is rhythm and metre, so is diction, and so on. All the elements classically associated with poetry, all the elements associated with language generally, are patterns. When the patterns are intensified, like sunrays condensed with a magnifying glass and focused on paper, something incendiary occurs.

Just as visual artists must prepare their bodies to manipulate their media as fits the needs of their art, poets must prepare themselves.

Vast numbers of words may be placed into a line of poetry in almost infinite combinations, but as one begins to arrange groups of words, the range of possibilities narrows. With experience, one comes to know when one is saying not enough and when one is saying too much.

Contemplation, observation, meditation: these are considerable parts of the poetic life.

But these not be solitary or quiet pursuits, not outwardly, at any rate: they are states of the mind, the heart, the will far more than of the body.

One must strive to understand that as a poet, one is an instrument of poetry, and just as each different sort of instrument has a different range of sounds, so each poet expresses a certain range. I will never approach Homer as a poet, for I shall never have his command of Greek. I will never approach Shakespeare as a poet, because I am not an instrument of iambic pentameter. But neither of them shall ever approach me, because neither regard nature or the power of the Germanic roots of English as I do.

To achieve intensity of language, I have tended very strongly over the past twenty years to restrict my vocabulary when communicating poetry to words deriving from Anglo-Saxon. I do slip, sometimes purposefully, sometimes explainably, but increasingly my understanding of etymology has fed my poetic activity.

Surely, this is not desirable for all poets any more than it is desirable for clarinets to be the only instrument in a symphony orchestra.

Each poet must discover her or his own voice. For some it is through particular forms (so one might associate Shakespeare with the sonnet, for example). For others it may be through subject matter or tone (so one might associate Poe or Plath with gloom, for example). For me, assonance, restricted diction, and musicality of phrasing have been guiding principles.