Words on Walls

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.

Last Tuesday, I received some very thought-provoking suggestions and observations about my writing for this project thus far.  One that I’ve been mulling over for the past few days is the suggestion that I explore different forms of poetry, changing up length and structure and repetition.  I’ve played around with this suggestion a bit since then, but I’m finding the writing process difficult.  I used to write much more structured poems—in late elementary school and early middle school I especially loved Romantic poets (especially William Wordsworth) and would try to imitate their structured styles.  Since then, my poetic voice has changed quite a bit, probably from reading many more modern poets.  All in all, I think that this shift has been helpful in facilitating the expression of certain concepts, feelings, or experiences that might not lend themselves as well to a more structured form.  However, over the next few weeks, I will try to produce some pieces with more structure.  I haven’t begun thinking of these poems as a collection yet.  I have only just written many of them and so thinking about how each piece will fit into a larger body of poetry is difficult.  Nevertheless, I think that varied structure, as well as shorter and longer pieces, may very well make for a more cohesive—and interesting!—body of work.

Below, I’m including a villanelle by Dylan Thomas (1914-1953) that I’ve especially enjoyed as I begin to think once again about poetic forms.  This particular poem was written for his dying father:

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas, 1951 or 1952

As I was reminded during my meeting with my creative writing professor who will be looking closely at the poetry component of this project, one of the most important things that I can be doing to produce quality work over the next few months is simply to read lots and lots of poetry.

I’ve started out with one of my favorites, Louise Glück, the Poet Laureate for the United States in 2003-2004 and with Ted Kooser, Poet Laureate from 2004-2006, whose work I was not familiar with prior to this semester.  Although I didn’t intend to read these poets simultaneously for any particular reason, the juxtaposition of their styles and themes was striking and thought-provoking.

When I first encountered Glück’s work a few years ago, I was enthralled by her collection The Wild Iris (1992), which contemplates the garden, growth, and death as its central themes.  I found her work delicately-worded with an underlying hope that propelled me through the collection.  However, upon revisiting Glück’s work this year with her most recent publication A Village Life (2009), I was struck by her attention to mortality and to loss.  I’ve always thought of the poet’s voice as being mostly static, steadfast and confident in proclaiming that person’s specific human experience and understanding of the world.  Glück, however, reminds me that just as people themselves change, so do the voices of poets who write over a significant stretch of time.  In the case of Glück, the poet engages much more with the dark and the unknown today than she did even ten years ago.  In the title poem “A Village Life” which concludes the collection, Glück lays down her darkest thoughts without pause:

The death and uncertainty that await me

as they await all men, the shadows evaluating me

because it can take time to destroy a human being

the element of suspense

needs to be preserved—

(A Village Life, 69)

Ultimately, it was in Kooser’s Valentines (2007) that I found the messages of hope and reverence for simple moments and the depth of human relationships that I had so longed to find in Glück’s The Village Life. While Glück often comes off as a disengaged narrator speaking to a general audience, Kooser’s voice seems warmer and more intimate.  In my favorite poem of the collection, titled “For You, Friend”, Kooser begins with disarming tenderness:

“this Valentine’s Day, I intend to stand

for as long as I can on a kitchen stool

and hold back the hands of the clock

so that wherever you are, you may walk

even more lightly in your loveliness;

(Valentines, 19)

Certainly both poets have much to offer their readers, but this week of readings reminded me of the importance of remaining open to new styles and settings in poetry (Kooser writes from Nebraska and the landscape often comes out strongly in his work).  Looking forward to exploring Kooser more in the future along with some new poets.