Just finishing "Coming After, Essays on Poetry" by Alice Notley. I'll admit it was a bit of a struggle, it's taken me nearly two weeks to get through. Like a lot of other books of on poetics, it's composed of a series of essays, some more dense that others. Felt like I was wading in dark water against a strong current many times.
.
My eternal frustration in attempting to educate myself, especially in the field of poetry, seems to be that the available texts on the subject don't seem to be written on any sort of learning curve. They're either extreme beginning types'a stuff (Avoid abstractions! No cliches! Use strong imagery! Consider your line-breaks! Dadadadada...) or they're written in a manner just out of my reach. A language I can't understand, a logic I can't follow. Many of Notley's judgments on poems seem arbitrary to me; her leaps of association when interpreting pieces far-fetched. It is possible that her writing is flawed, but that is not I call I am near informed enough to make.
.
Of course, I'm not giving up. My solution at the moment is to just continue plugging away. If I read enough, practice enough, eventually this will all seem less baffling. It just kills me that I know I could do this all much more efficiently if there were resources for people in my position, to guide them. A syllabus of sorts for the non-collegiate. I suppose I'm just very mundane-minded for a poet. Goal oriented. I can read poems and enjoy them, have opinions, entertain postulations about what the poem is saying how the poet achieved the voice and rhythm of the poem. I'm just so afraid I'm wrong. WRONG. Teaching myself, ingraining myself with the wrong principals.
.
And then of course it boils down to that vexing, never-ending question: What is poetry supposed to be, what is art supposed to be, why do we suppose anything, because really, really who's to say? I don't know, of course. I keep teasing myself with the idea that there is a right answer to all of this, an Objective. Correct. Answer. To-It-All. I want to believe in the Truth, goddammit. Because without some form of conviction, I'm just floundering. But is there truth in art, in anything? Catch me on different days, and I'll give you different answers.
.
And maybe that's the ultimate answer, haha.
.
But whatever all that means, whatever I conclude, I know one thing: I want to go to school. I want to learn. And I want my voice to be heard; I want to publish and reach an audience who can enjoy my work. And I want to be knowledgeable to teach enough someday. All this requires learning about poetic conventions and schools of thought and techniques and history, greatly beyond what I already grasp. So whether I believe in it all or not, I need to learn it. Then again, I wonder if this is true. The idea that you have to learn Da Rules in order to break them. It's an old adage often repeated to me by teachers, and lately, myself. It's a comforting idea behind why I'm doing this all. But is it true? (And there's the question again!) I guess when I think about it, though it seems like being free from all convention can in some cases lead to innovation and genius, I don't have that sort of great mind. Thinking so would be beyond arrogant (and then of course the voice chants in my head, there you go judging yourself by the standards of others, what do you care, just do what's right, what's really truly right-- well how do i know?-- listen to your intuition, what else do you have!-- oh but again i'm probably just fooling myself, arrogance again)
.
What. Ever. I like learning. So I will learn. I like reading poetry. So I will read poetry. I feel the need to reach out with my words, it's the only thing that give me purpose sometimes. So I will publish.
.
So I'm back on the same path, nothing changed, perhaps a little surer.
.
My eternal frustration in attempting to educate myself, especially in the field of poetry, seems to be that the available texts on the subject don't seem to be written on any sort of learning curve. They're either extreme beginning types'a stuff (Avoid abstractions! No cliches! Use strong imagery! Consider your line-breaks! Dadadadada...) or they're written in a manner just out of my reach. A language I can't understand, a logic I can't follow. Many of Notley's judgments on poems seem arbitrary to me; her leaps of association when interpreting pieces far-fetched. It is possible that her writing is flawed, but that is not I call I am near informed enough to make.
.
Where do I get started, how do I make the bridge between where I am, fairly far beyond the beginner's level, and a place where I can understand works of criticism that, at the moment, seem impossibly complex? The answer is probably "school" which is beyond frustrating to me, since I'm in a position where I'm trying to use my poetic talent to get into school. And also just unfair. Why does poetry, the understanding and enjoyment of it, have to be such a rarefied thing? The thing that always floors me in the reading of many modern journals and essays is the level of snobbery. I just can't. How they look down their noses on everyone who is not part of their club! And why? I read so many complaints about how the masses are too stupid to appreciate poetry, but who has a hope if poetry is written solely to be dissected by academics? Shouldn't there be resources for people who want to take part in the art, as an audience and perhaps as artists, who for whatever reason can't or don't want to be English majors?
.Of course, I'm not giving up. My solution at the moment is to just continue plugging away. If I read enough, practice enough, eventually this will all seem less baffling. It just kills me that I know I could do this all much more efficiently if there were resources for people in my position, to guide them. A syllabus of sorts for the non-collegiate. I suppose I'm just very mundane-minded for a poet. Goal oriented. I can read poems and enjoy them, have opinions, entertain postulations about what the poem is saying how the poet achieved the voice and rhythm of the poem. I'm just so afraid I'm wrong. WRONG. Teaching myself, ingraining myself with the wrong principals.
.
And then of course it boils down to that vexing, never-ending question: What is poetry supposed to be, what is art supposed to be, why do we suppose anything, because really, really who's to say? I don't know, of course. I keep teasing myself with the idea that there is a right answer to all of this, an Objective. Correct. Answer. To-It-All. I want to believe in the Truth, goddammit. Because without some form of conviction, I'm just floundering. But is there truth in art, in anything? Catch me on different days, and I'll give you different answers.
.
And maybe that's the ultimate answer, haha.
.
But whatever all that means, whatever I conclude, I know one thing: I want to go to school. I want to learn. And I want my voice to be heard; I want to publish and reach an audience who can enjoy my work. And I want to be knowledgeable to teach enough someday. All this requires learning about poetic conventions and schools of thought and techniques and history, greatly beyond what I already grasp. So whether I believe in it all or not, I need to learn it. Then again, I wonder if this is true. The idea that you have to learn Da Rules in order to break them. It's an old adage often repeated to me by teachers, and lately, myself. It's a comforting idea behind why I'm doing this all. But is it true? (And there's the question again!) I guess when I think about it, though it seems like being free from all convention can in some cases lead to innovation and genius, I don't have that sort of great mind. Thinking so would be beyond arrogant (and then of course the voice chants in my head, there you go judging yourself by the standards of others, what do you care, just do what's right, what's really truly right-- well how do i know?-- listen to your intuition, what else do you have!-- oh but again i'm probably just fooling myself, arrogance again)
.
What. Ever. I like learning. So I will learn. I like reading poetry. So I will read poetry. I feel the need to reach out with my words, it's the only thing that give me purpose sometimes. So I will publish.
.
So I'm back on the same path, nothing changed, perhaps a little surer.
Ah, "Uncertainty" - It is the writer's malady.
ReplyDeleteBut more, it is the fuel that propels the writer. It is for want of knowing, to be more certain, it must be written to get it out.
A dichotomy - for certain.
You may never be certain and so for the lack of certainty, know you will always have sufficient fuel to propel . . . and to sustain.
Keep writing. So you will know.