Words on Walls

Duke Today just posted an article discussing the BorderWork(s) Humanities Labs and interviewing Robin Kirk, my advisor.  The article includes a couple of audio clips of me reading two of my poems “Durham” and “After Abeyei” to the right of the text.

Here’s the article in Duke Today:

http://today.duke.edu/2012/02/borderworks

At the beginning of A New Geography of Poets is a quote that I find quite meaningful in light of my year of writing.  The quote is as follows:

“There always was a relationship between poet and place.  Placeless poetry, existing in the non-geography of ideas, is a modern invention and not a very fortunate one.” -Archibald MacLeish

This collection of poetry is organized thoughtfully and unconventionally; the compilers and editors, Charles Stetler, Edward Field, and Gerald Locklin organize the poetry in accordance with where the poets live.  In the introduction, the editors explain their motivations for compiling the collection, writing, “It is not our interest to settle for mere landscape poetry but to choose poems that reveal the spirit of the place and of the poet, aiming for a balance between inner and outer geography” (xvii).  This intention behind the collection aligns almost exactly with the direction of my exploration of the relationship between poetry and poet this semester.  Last semester, I began to think about how to write on the topic of walls and borders, mainly in the context of social divisions.  What followed was a period of more serious contemplation about the significance of place in poetry, whether real or imaginary, foreign or familiar to the poet.  In particular, the idea of internal landscapes began to fascinate me as I considered how to write about the human experience.  While not many of the poets openly draw a connection between inner and outer landscapes, this collection admirably highlights the connection between poet and the places about which they write, allowing unspoken parallels between human being and landscape to come into focus.

Best of Faiz Ahmed Faiz (2011) by Faiz Ahmed Faiz

Faiz’s work, translated from its original Urdu into English brings with it a sense of honesty and richly visceral language.  While I often hesitate to read translations of a poet’s work simply because some of the rhythm and sounds are inevitably lost in translations, Faiz’s work often seems to transcend the boundaries of language.  As I look to shape my own writing style and poetic voice, I find myself particularly drawn to the manner in which Faiz’s personal life mingles with his philosophical and existential musings in his poetry.  Faiz’s poem “The Subject of Poetry” perhaps demonstrates this coexistence of themes most aptly.   He writes:

“On every side stand high walls on constant guard

Behind which is buried the youth of countless men and women,

On every side are seen the burial ground of dreams

That illumin the minds of millions till today…

These are, and there must be many such subjects more…

But her softly opening lips

And her body’s bewitching curves

Work a magic unbelievable….

These are the subject of my verse,

The haunts of a poet’s mind,

And nothing else.”

Not only is this poem fascinating in the way that it shifts theme so quickly and unapologetically, but I also find it quite encouraging as a writer.  So often, I find myself intending to write about a particular topic and then writing about something else altogether.  This shift in subject matter can even prove a bit embarrassing; I find myself moving toward a notion of poetry as the vehicle for solemn and well-formulated musings on the human experience and the richness of life and I suddenly discover in the midst of writing that I am putting down on paper an experience that most readers would find far from serious or even eloquent.  Faiz reminds me that there is a place for poetry that speaks of simple thoughts and the distractions, joys, and occurrences of the personal life.  In fact, he reminds me that these “less profound” moments are often the most relatable and perhaps even the most personally relevant for many readers.

I often forget how closely intertwined reading and writing are.  I know that many writers insist that in order to hone the craft of writing, one must read as much as possible and as consistently as possible.  Still, sometimes sitting in front of a blank page I imagine that my lack of inspiration stems from forces much deeper than a simple lack of reading.

Two days ago, I began to read poetry again, for the first time in a few weeks.  One of my advisors had suggested the writings of Faiz Ahmed Faiz, an Urdu poet.  As I began to flip through the pages of Faiz’s “Best Of” Collection, I felt myself longing once again to write.  I applied to Duke’s Archaeology trip in Israel largely because I imagined that the experiences of the trip might allow me to write new kinds of content in my poetry.  While I consistently wrote journal entries during my two weeks in Israel, it wasn’t until two days ago that I began to write any poetry about my time in the Holy Land.  Among the most marked effects of my experience writing this thesis, I have found my notions about the compositions of poetry largely de-romanticized.  Of course, I had been writing poems for several years before beginning this project, but over the past semester, I have been struck again and again by how important consistency and revision are to writing the pieces I hold the most dear.  Below I leave you with an example, a poem about the Jaffa Gate that I wrote not while enjoying the sunset in Jerusalem but rather after mulling over the experiences of the trip for many days and finally sitting down to see what I might write, a little nervous that I might produce nothing at all.  Thankfully, that wasn’t what happened.

At the Jaffa Gate

the walls here are
barricades and             fortresses
so stubbornly a part of the landscape they feel alive
battle-worn from centuries of holding in tradition
and spent from straining against newness mercilessly pressing in
(change has little patience in this city)

but,
this century, this season, this afternoon
stones are scattered
sliced by shops and stalls
tourists flow like tides around the gates
maybe slowing to let their fingertips brush the past
maybe
but,
soon enough they will forget
to wonder if the wall is armor or art

it is both, i think
soaking in the stillness of the sun’s last rays
it is both because now it stands scarred
by swirling sands of time, by the desert’s fury, by man’s greed
yet as day sinks to darkness
for a second the stone is gilded gold and
glows delicately, as proud and pretty as a sculpture
healed for the ten thousandth time by the cooling of the day
armor and art

16 January 2012

And now, something by Faiz:

Bahar Aayee (Spring Has Come)

By Faiz Ahmed Faiz

A couple of weeks ago, one of my thesis advisors, Dr. Sumathi Ramaswamy, brought to my attention the work of Zarina Hashmi.  Hashmi is a printmaker who works with maps and speaks to the concept of home.  I love the way that she takes maps out of their traditional contexts as images in books and on the internet, created to help users navigate their surroundings, and presents them in such a way that they stand beautifully on their own.  My particular favorite of the three that I share below is the map with the Arabic script behind it (Travels with Rani, 2008). As I begin to think about how to put together an exhibit of my work this year, I want to return to this piece and play with the possibility of juxtaposing text and image.  Depending on what text I’m working with, I may incorporate maps as images.  In particular, the poem “After Abyei” comes to mind as one that could be especially enhanced by the incorporation of maps.

These images are from the Luhring Augustine Gallery webpage. (http://www.luhringaugustine.com/artists/zarina-hashmi)

This week, I was struck once again by the chaos of writing first drafts.  For me, first drafts of poems have always been full of scribbles and arrows and substituted words.  I’ve learned to try my best not to stress about the quality of writing coming out when I first set words down on paper;  instead, I concentrate on identifying the themes and questions that are rising from the writing.  Often, all that remains from the first draft when I finish a poem is a few lines, but nevertheless, I need to put in the time to sit down and find those lines..  One of my favorite writers, Anne Lamott, explores the importance of less-than-perfect first drafts in her book Bird By Bird:

“For me and most of the other writers I know, writing is not rapturous. In fact, the only way I can get anything written at all is to write really, really shitty first drafts. The first draft is the child’s draft, where you let it all pour out and then let it romp all over the place, knowing that no one is going to see it and that you can shape it later. You just let this childlike part of you channel whatever voices and visions come through and onto the page. If one of the characters wants to say, “Well, so what, Mr. Poopy Pants?,” you let her. No one is going to see it. If the kid wants to get into really sentimental, weepy, emotional territory, you let him. Just get it all down on paper because there may be something great in those six crazy pages that you would never have gotten to by more rational, grown-up means. There may be something in the very last line of the very last paragraph on page six that you just love, that is so beautiful or wild that you now know what you’re supposed to be writing about, more or less, or in what direction you might go — but there was no way to get to this without first getting through the first five and a half pages.”

In light of her advice, I find myself excited rather than anxious when a first draft like the one below comes into being:

Coincidentally, the poem that came out of the scraps of paper pictured above came from my reflections on writing the other poems in my distinction project.  Here it is (as of now!):

At First

At first, words came

Slowly: crept out to dance on the crests

Of my fingertips, on the lines of my lips

Then fled to shadowed corners when I reached out

To catch them, to hold them

I fled too.

To desolate spaces where I could

Whisper somethings without substance

Where silence came easily

And I let it settle in because I was certain

There was nothing of worth to say

Then, just as dust began to film every hope, every thought

The words emerged or maybe

Returned

From his glance across the road

From her hummed harmonies

From our midnight conversations

Words for him: the one working two jobs

With toddler twins waiting

At home on a sun-flooded porch

And for her, who crafts notes so piercing

Her melodies bring down strongholds

And him who makes walls his stepping stones

To launch into worlds where nothing

Can hold him to the ground

Not gravity

Not weakness

Not fear of falling

So, if you rest here awhile

I will try to

Spread out words like laundry

So they will have space to dry

Space to breathe

Into the desolate spaces

You will see:

They are made to catch the light

To catch your breath

To bring down strongholds with a song

28 November 2011

This past week, I received some very helpful feedback from the members of my At Home/On the Wall independent study.  We talked about the poems and short stories that I have written thus far, mostly exploring which pieces they liked or disliked and why they felt that way.  I was surprised in some cases; a few of the pieces I felt the most sheepish about  were those they appreciated the most and vice versa.  There was a lot of discussion of when voice is “convincing” or “authentic” and when it is not.  My classmates and advisors generally recognized and confirmed that I was having difficulty speaking through other voices—for example, from the perspective of a resident of Belfast or Israel.  Instead, my independent study members agreed that the pieces that were most eloquent or interesting were those in which I spoke from my own perspective.  I’m not quite sure what to do with this problem, or whether it really is a problem.   On one hand, it seems entirely natural to speak with the most ease in your own voice.  Also, I often want to speak the most in my own voice.  There is a lot to process at Duke and many aspects of life here that I find quite relevant to my thesis topic of walls and borders.  On the other hand, I have so much respect for writers who can slip seamlessly from one voice into another and I would love to develop this ability.  I know that it will take time as well as a lot of effort (both in writing and rewriting as well as simply becoming a more acute observer of everyday conversations and speech patterns/dialect).  Still, I think that having a versatile voice in my writing is certainly something to strive for in the long run.  However, as I start to think about pulling together a collection of pieces from the portfolio, I think that I will tend to select very sparingly from the poems that are not in my own voice.  In this case, they just seem to have less of a place in the project than the others.

On another note, I’ve been able to play around with the new camera that I got for this project a few weeks ago.  Fall at Duke is such a beautiful time to take pictures, so I’ve been able to use the scenery as an opportunity to experiment with the various settings on the camera in preparation for taking photos of the people I interview as well as of my trip to Israel over Winter Break.