Light, Darkness and Poetry Personified Unpleasantly

Like most things that I start that don't have specific deadlines, I have been VERY delinquent with this. I had great intentions, but they floundered in the mire of daily life and trying to be a mother, wife, professional, friend, and the plethora of other things we try to do.
Lately I have felt that I have failed in many ways. And this blog was one of the failings. So, today I was going to delete it. I was going to move on.
Then I read the comments posted and I was heartened to keep trying.

I am still working on Kim Addonizio's book and one line has stayed with me through it -- and through this as well. Forgive the language, but it spoke-- "Poetry is a b****. It wants your energy, your intelligence, your spirit, your time. No wonder you want to avoid it" (57). This spoke to me, because I can't seem to write these days, no matter my intentions, needs or drive. And as I was reading, I found myself even more taken in as Addonizio states: "Secretly you feel too boring or stupid to write good poetry. You felt ugly as a child; you still do. You don't know if you can truly love anyone. You are afraid to leave the house some days. You can't make small talk. Or you talk too much, and lie in bed in the middle of the night regretting the things you said." So often when I am reading I find myself wishing I could have the same experience as the author or the character, that what I am reading is better than my life. But this screamed at me. THIS IS ME!!! And it was so terrifying, so disturbing, that I had to put it away for a while.
But she goes on to quote Sri Aurobindo (Indian yogi, poet and political leader) "You carry in yourself all the obstacles necessary to make your realization perfect. Always you will see that within you the shadow and the light are equal. If you discover a very black hole, a thick shadow, be sure there is somewhere in you a great light. It is up to you to know how to use the one to realize the other."
I am not sure I agree with the whole premise stated here, but I do love the idea that even though I am wallowing in self-pity, drowning in regret, stimied in condescension, there IS a Light that can draw me out. And while Aurobindo states that the light and dark are equal I know the Light is Stronger, Mightier and Better if only I can hold on.

So, your comments have been a glimpse of light for me. I will strive to see more of it. I wiill strive to be more light. And I won't let Poetry intimidate me further. I will make Poetry my muse instead of allowing her to make her toy.

Devouring Delicious Poetry --

Because I have felt that I needed to do something to kick start my writing again, and because my first option of finding a good writing group close to home has failed, I have done what has served me well in the past – I have found a good book. I am currently reading Ordinary Genuis by Kim Addonizio. And so far, I have been impressed. Rather than a “here’s what poetry is” sort of book, I have found it more of the “these work for me” sort. She connects with poetry that I am fond of such as Wilfred Owen’s “Dulce Et Decorum Est” (fantastic poem for sound, imagery and general word choice).

And the second thing I have been doing is reading a LOT of poetry. I am digging out my old textbooks from which I taught – the trusty Norton Anthologies, the books of poetry that I have collected over the years and anything that looks remotely interesting from the public library (although I think that I must have burst a blood vessel in one librarian’s forehead when I asked where the poetry section was – not sure anyone had ever asked him that before).

But really, I have been, as Mark Strand so aptly put it, “eating poetry.” Luckily, poetry is calorie-free (which agrees with my Weight Watcher’s plan).

It is working; I am writing more comfortably every day, and even more than once a day – stealing moments in the backyard to write American Sentences while my kids play with the neighbours, snatching moments to scribble down my thoughts about my friend’s brother’s death, thieving time while the beans braize for supper.

Soon and very soon, I hope to have more to put up here of my own, but the perfectionist in me is not yet willing to share them...

So, for those of you who are unfamiliar with Mark Strand, here’s one of my personal favourites.

Eating Poetryby Mark Strand

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.

The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.

The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.
Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.

She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
she screams.

I am a new man.
I snarl at her and bark.
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.

Stallings

I’ve had a particular idea for a long time. Part of it came to me in a dream, and part has been stewing for a while, popping up now and then – mostly in the middle of the night when I am least likely to actually get up and write it down.[1] But somehow, every time I try to work this onto paper I seem to freeze. I am not sure if it intimidation, laziness or if it is just that the idea hasn’t not become yet.
I often wonder if other writers have this problem. It really isn’t “writer’s block” per se, because I know the basics of what I want to write; it seems more like I am stalling, like a young driver in a standard car at a light that has just turned green. I jerk the gear shift around, trying to find first and then lose it when I try to pull my foot off the clutch. And just as the young driver gets frustrated and flustered by each time he or she fails to achieve motion, and gets even more distressed by the fact the drivers behind them are less than sympathetic, I am distressed by my lack of motion.
But as I was reading the blog of a gifted poet and fellow Word Guild member, Violet Nesdoly, the sub-line for her blog “Promptings” is a quote from Eliza Thomas. It struck me. It says “Write it down, whatever it is. It may surprise you.” This encouraged me to seek out Eliza Thomas, an author with whom I was not familiar. Which of course is completely fitting with Nesdoly’s title. Her blog has continued to “Prompt” me to think about things and discover new things, ideas and people. This was my way to stop stalling.

Maybe I don’t need to have all the details worked out, as I often do before I start. Maybe knowing whether this is a short story, a poem or something else isn’t important at this point. Maybe, just writing it down is what I need to do.

And maybe, just maybe, the results of "writing it down" will be my next post. I will try to make it a surprise.






[1] Taking a side path for a moment – why is it that some of my best ideas come to me in the wee hours? I have taken to keeping a notebook and pen beside the bed, but that doesn’t solve the issue of light. I don’t want to wake my husband up just because I have had an epiphany. I am considering buying a book light or a flashlight for the purpose. What I have been doing up until now is 1) trying desperately to remember what my idea was, 2) scribbling in the dark and hoping that it will be legible in the light of day, or 3) tromping off to the bathroom to quickly scratch down the thought. But none of these are good solutions as 1) usually doesn’t work as I have a horrid memory since having children, 2) doesn’t always work for the obvious reasons, and 3) wakes me up so much that I usually end up lying awake for hours afterwards or I just get up and go to the computer. So, I think I just convinced myself of what I need to do. Sad and strangely ironic, that I have to write it all down to come to this conclusion. Oh look, I am surprised.

Beginnings

Beginnings are both exciting and terrifying. When I start something new, I am always excited about the possibilities, and really, at the beginning of anything, the possibilities are endless. This is most likely the reason why beginnings are terrifying too.
So, here I am beginning a "real" presence online. Not because I have profound and esoteric things to share, but because a writer these days must be willing to put themselves "out there."
And while I am not not a "beginner" writer -- I have been writing for years, I am very new to the public sharing of my work as I have been self-conscious and, well, a little intimidated by the GREAT writers to actually expose myself in this way.

Here's how my perspective changed:
In February, I had a fit of insanity or possibly it was the Spirit leading, I don't wish to presume. Nevertheless I decided to send in a poem that I had had published the year before. It was my first poetic publication and I don't really know what possessed, but I sent it in. And a couple of months ago, I was honoured to receive the Award of Merit for Poetry from the Word Guild at their gala awards ceremony in Mississauga, Ontario.
It was an amazing moment for me. I was recognized by other established writers, and by other wonderful poets, one of my new favourites especially D.S. Martin. And then a few short weeks later, I had another amazing moment -- I received the judge's comments for my poem. It was both humbling and encouraging. The judge, a poet and professor of poetry, gave me a very impressive grade and also some very helpful comments; it was these words that have spawned my newfound wish to share in a grander scope. "I hope to see more of your work in print soon" she said.
So, here's a beginning. While I will sometimes publish some of my poems here, I am hoping to use this as a sounding board, a place of discussion and well, a general "composting" place (to use my creative writing professor's words).

Please comment. I will welcome any and all comments.

God bless.

For your interest, here is the poem that won the Award of Merit from the Word Guild:


In My Father’s Field

A perfect number they stand
Spawned from the same lot
Tortured: cut, pounded, pierced, strung

Three former fence posts
Sixty some years later
Now willow trees
Tall, alive
Branches and roots intermingling
Joined by more than nature

On either side
Linked by wire and pain with those
Not chosen to grow
Linked with those posts whose purpose
Is still only to keep out or in

Meant to enclose
The living with the dead
Barbs and nails
Once invaders now
Family
Grown essential
Into and through each heart
Binding together
Past and future

Out of utility, death, pain
Willow beauty
Love

© Lori Wiens-MacDonald
Canadian Adventist Messenger January 2008