When is good not enough?

[RhymeSmith]

... why dig up old styles and replough the same old furrows?

Ever consider that trying to fill the furrow with something new might itself be a challenge?

I love metaphors!

 

[ishtat]

Different strokes?

Because we contribute to this discussion board there is perhaps an underlying assumption that all talented artists will benefit from interacting with their peers. This assumption appears to preface BB's thinking.

However, is there still not a place for some poets if they wish, to isolate themselves, do their own thing, make mistakes etc. We, most of us perhaps may well be frustrated by what we perceive to be a stumbling or stunted talent but that particular talent may prefer working and work better that way.

Some plants grow well in the jungle others do better in a pot on their own.

 

[bogusbrig]

I guess the message is, worry about your own work and let other people take care of theirs and if you don't like something, ignore it.

 

[RhymeSmith]

I guess the message is, worry about your own work and let other people take care of theirs and if you don't like something, ignore it.

I don't think that was the message at all. The opintions I saw were pretty diverse.

For my part, I'm sorry if I offended you. It was inadvertent, I assure you.

 

[bogusbrig]

I don't think that was the message at all. The opintions I saw were pretty diverse.

For my part, I'm sorry if I offended you. It was inadvertent, I assure you.

Hey I'm not offended. I'm never offended. I was just posturing at trying to be realistic.

 

[Angeline]

I guess the message is, worry about your own work and let other people take care of theirs and if you don't like something, ignore it.

Not from me, sweety.

I think my message is that if you see talent in someone and you want to get involved, do it. That involves a certain amount of commitment to read that person's work, give them feedback, encourage them, try to inspire them, and so on, but when you think about it, it's really no different from what editors do with their authors every day. If you think someone is good enough to merit that and you're willing to make some level of comitment to help that person, go for it.

And thank you for doing reviews for me today, even if it appears there are no poems today. Back to bed with me now.

 

[Tzara]

The question I keep asking myself is: To what extent is a mastery of the technique of Petrarchan love sonnets a guarantee of status as a 21st Century poet?

I don't know that Tzara was implying that it was such a guarantee — merely that this was something that might stretch Bogus Brig.

What El said.

 

[Tzara]

It was something similar to this that got me on the lines of thinking about this. I might as well start at the top and criticize the best (if Nobel prize winning equates with the best). I remember reading Seamus Heaney's collection Death Of A Naturalist some thirty years ago and it blowing my mind and wishing I could write like him (although I never wrote poetry in those days). When I read his collection Seeing Things in the nineties and though the book got rave reviews, I was soooo disappointed. I thought the poems were just Seamus Heaney writing Seamus Heaney. He just bored me because I felt I had read all the poems before. OK raising this icon I am asking for trouble but I get much the same feeling when I read his later poems, though I must admit, I seldom read him now because he doesn't excite me.

Part of the reason I picked Newman as an analogy was because I think he didn't get stuck in a rut. Granted, the basic image he painted remained pretty much the same for years and years, but he explored all sorts of other aspects of painting (scale, color, primed vs. unprimed canvas, etc.) while using the basic image to achor things thematically.

On the other hand, Ad Reinhart seemed to basically paint the same painting over and over again--a 60 inch square with a very closely valued cross painted on it in minute variations of black. He was probably exploring something else, but I don't see it in him.

So my point, if I have one and I'm not sure I do, is that the artist or poet may actually be exploring something that isn't immediately apparent to the reader. If the reader happened to be told what that thing was, they may not find it interesting, of course. But the fact that the reader does not apprehend growth or "stretching" in a poet doesn't mean that some kind of variation or exploration isn't occurring.

But it never hurts to comment. What I meant by my earlier remarks was that I think a criticism like "I'd like to see you stretch your boundaries" is kind of difficult to interpret. Does that mean change something about word choice, form, length, narrative viewpoint? Does that mean something thematic like write about war, or animals, or philosophy instead of love or personal relationships or whatever it is that the poet normally writes about?

What I think might work better would be to look at the poem in question and try to articulate what it is about that poem that bothers you. God knows that isn't easy to do--I suck at it. But the more specific one can be in comment, I think the better chance that the comment will turn out to be useful to the poet whose work is being commented upon.

This is a very interesting thread, by the way. Thanks for starting it.

 

[lorencino]

I don't know that Tzara was implying that it was such a guarantee — merely that this was something that might stretch Bogus Brig.

Of course, you are quite right, but it did set me thinking about the issue I raised.

If you have a look back through past threads you will find many vigorous discussions of the un- or importance of form. To say that this has been hashed out would be an understatement.

Or resurrected rather than raised, it would seem. It must be frustrating for the veterans here to see old discussions reappearing after the issues had been thoroughly exhausted in the past. On the other hand, if people were to never revisit conversations that have occurred, we would eventually be silenced. I'm sure that all of our conversations can be linked thematically, if not in specifics, to previous generations. Personally I like revising old decisions or just clearing the pathways of my aging and decaying memory.

BTW which non-rhyming Auden sonnets did you have in mind? Auden was the consummate master of formal poetry in the 20th Century.

Here it is (I should not have used the plural for there is only one that I know of). This poem is so unusual because of it's lack of rhyme while still within the sonnet family. The absence of rhyme is tangible and there is a power in the rhythm that is not soothed by rhyme. Personally I prefer it to "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day for, though not more lovely, it is exceeding intemperate and appeals to my stubborn heart. Obviously this extreme departure could only have been accomplished so successfully by someone who was a master of the form in the first place.

W.H. Auden - The Secret Agent

Control of the passes was, he saw, the key
To this new district, but who would get it?
He, the trained spy, had walked into the trap
For a bogus guide, seduced by the old tricks.
At Greenhearth was a fine site for a dam
And easy power, had they pushed the rail
Some stations nearer. They ignored his wires:
The bridges were unbuilt and trouble coming.

The street music seemed gracious now to one
For weeks up in the desert. Woken by water
Running away in the dark, he often had
Reproached the night for a companion
Dreamed of already. They would shoot, of course,
Parting easily two that were never joined.

January 1928
Copyright 1976

 

[lorencino]

In a Nutshell

Being novice artist in any field means standing in a crossfire bombardment of mixed messages.

Study a genre, understand it profoundly and become a master of that particular expression, or you're not a Real Artist.

Clear your mind from all petty influences, find you own voice, your own distinctive artistic fingerprint and hone it to perfection, or you're not a Real Artist.

Constantly conquer more range, explore new territory, reject what you've learned and re-invent yourself, over and over, or you're not a Real Artist.

This is art, says critic A. No way, THIS is art says critic B. My way or the highway says critic C.

No wonder some people stop trying.

Liar, you are a master of the succinct route to the bullseye.

However, your conclusion could just as easily have been: "No wonder some people feel that they'll just continue to please themselves while the bigmouths go on arguing with each other." (Not quite as succinctly worded as your conclusion, which confirms my opinion.)

 

[lorencino]

Maybe this is my problem, I love the exuberance and excitment of people smashing boundaries, even when such boundary smashing is an obvious failure because I'm optimistic that someone will produce something new and exciting that works.

As for formalism, in the Tudor times every gentleman was competent in writing sonnets, it was all part of a gentleman's education. The Tudors never left more of a legacy than other eras if one takes out Shakespeare. I never realised formalism was making a come back though I've heard quite a few voices being raised in support of it but it will only make a big impact when there is a recognizable big talent writing that way and if the talent is big enough, they would be writing good poetry in spite of the style and simply because they are good. But why dig up old styles and replough the same old furrows?

I am not aware of any big names coming out of the New Formalism school. I am, on the other hand, acutely aware of the vibrant throbbing poetry emanating from the mouths of street rappers and top recording artists of the rap genre. I am of the opinion that while there is the usual amount of garbage, there is a lot that is poetry rather than pop song lyrics in the same sense that Leonard Cohen's songs are poetry recited to music and Lynton Kwesi Johnson writes poetry, some of which he sets to British reggae music. When I hear Johnson I feel I am listening to poetry while this great beat music throbs in the background and gradually creeps into the poetry and becomes one with the performance of the spoken words.

Perhaps great poetry is that which escapes co-option by vested interests be they commercial or academic. Poetry is that which distinguishes itself from corporate art. Maybe I should go and have a cup of coffee.

 

[bogusbrig]

Part of the reason I picked Newman as an analogy was because I think he didn't get stuck in a rut. Granted, the basic image he painted remained pretty much the same for years and years, but he explored all sorts of other aspects of painting (scale, color, primed vs. unprimed canvas, etc.) while using the basic image to achor things thematically.

On the other hand, Ad Reinhart seemed to basically paint the same painting over and over again--a 60 inch square with a very closely valued cross painted on it in minute variations of black. He was probably exploring something else, but I don't see it in him.

So my point, if I have one and I'm not sure I do, is that the artist or poet may actually be exploring something that isn't immediately apparent to the reader. If the reader happened to be told what that thing was, they may not find it interesting, of course. But the fact that the reader does not apprehend growth or "stretching" in a poet doesn't mean that some kind of variation or exploration isn't occurring.

But it never hurts to comment. What I meant by my earlier remarks was that I think a criticism like "I'd like to see you stretch your boundaries" is kind of difficult to interpret. Does that mean change something about word choice, form, length, narrative viewpoint? Does that mean something thematic like write about war, or animals, or philosophy instead of love or personal relationships or whatever it is that the poet normally writes about?

What I think might work better would be to look at the poem in question and try to articulate what it is about that poem that bothers you. God knows that isn't easy to do--I suck at it. But the more specific one can be in comment, I think the better chance that the comment will turn out to be useful to the poet whose work is being commented upon.

This is a very interesting thread, by the way. Thanks for starting it.

Now you mention the visual arts I can fully understand the constant reworking or even repeating of an idea. I don't know if you recall Willem de Kooning being in the news in the nineties. There was a large exhibition of his paintings (on both sides of the pond) that he made while he had alzheimers and there was an ongoing debate about whether he could have made any intellectual decisions about them or whether they were just intuitive and whether they were just daubs or not. I think to ask that question one isn't a visual artist but I guess it was a valid question but a neuro-scientist said that painting at its base level isn't an intellectual pursuit but an instinctual one and de Kooning was capable of making instintive aesthetic decisions but not intellectual ones over a period of time. I wondered if something similar is happening when a visual artist keeps repeating a motive, there is something being searched for instinctively. However, to me I think of poetry as a more intellectual art where instinct is a necessary part but the need to plan over a period of time removes poetry from being purely instinctual like painting can be.

Hmm I'm not sure where I am going with this and I'm not going to delete it having typed it so I'll think about this a little more and come back to it.

 

[annaswirls]

who is he talking about? lol! I am so out of it!

I've just been ploughing through the poems and left my first less-than-nice comment and I feel both vindicated and nervous. I really don't want to put this person off writing but the work was not poetry or erotica in my opinion. Then I came across the poet BB is talking about and was so relieved to find something engaging and palatable I simply gushed praise. Perhaps there is so much dross out there it's hard to see the gold.

 

[Liar]

Liar, you are a master of the succinct route to the bullseye.

However, your conclusion could just as easily have been: "No wonder some people feel that they'll just continue to please themselves while the bigmouths go on arguing with each other." (Not quite as succinctly worded as your conclusion, which confirms my opinion.)

True dat. It's a matter of perspective, I suppose.

And maybe I revealed mine.

 

[Eluard]

Or resurrected rather than raised, it would seem. It must be frustrating for the veterans here to see old discussions reappearing after the issues had been thoroughly exhausted in the past. On the other hand, if people were to never revisit conversations that have occurred, we would eventually be silenced. I'm sure that all of our conversations can be linked thematically, if not in specifics, to previous generations. Personally I like revising old decisions or just clearing the pathways of my aging and decaying memory.

Sure! I wasn't meaning to discourage you at all — by all means start that argument again in a new thread or bump an old one.

 

[lorencino]

Instinct versus Intellect

Now you mention the visual arts I can fully understand the constant reworking or even repeating of an idea. I don't know if you recall Willem de Kooning being in the news in the nineties. There was a large exhibition of his paintings (on both sides of the pond) that he made while he had alzheimers and there was an ongoing debate about whether he could have made any intellectual decisions about them or whether they were just intuitive and whether they were just daubs or not. I think to ask that question one isn't a visual artist but I guess it was a valid question but a neuro-scientist said that painting at its base level isn't an intellectual pursuit but an instinctual one and de Kooning was capable of making instintive aesthetic decisions but not intellectual ones over a period of time. I wondered if something similar is happening when a visual artist keeps repeating a motive, there is something being searched for instinctively. However, to me I think of poetry as a more intellectual art where instinct is a necessary part but the need to plan over a period of time removes poetry from being purely instinctual like painting can be.

Hmm I'm not sure where I am going with this and I'm not going to delete it having typed it so I'll think about this a little more and come back to it.

I think I've identified my problem with poetry after pondering what you wrote above. My poetry begins in dragging up clumps of weed and detritus from the bed of the black river that flows through the dimmest part of my cognition where passions run thickly and mindlessly. The whole exercise then becomes one of applying intellect to chaos. However, the raw material is only chaos to the intellect and is in danger of loosing its integrity when it is ordered within the parameters of reason. So, in order to write successful poetry, I have to reconcile these two mutually destructive aspects that reside inside me. Then in order to have a happy audience, I have to ensure that I appeal to both the intellect and the passions of others while offending neither.

 

[Angeline]

I think I've identified my problem with poetry after pondering what you wrote above. My poetry begins in dragging up clumps of weed and detritus from the bed of the black river that flows through the dimmest part of my cognition where passions run thickly and mindlessly. The whole exercise then becomes one of applying intellect to chaos. However, the raw material is only chaos to the intellect and is in danger of loosing its integrity when it is ordered within the parameters of reason. So, in order to write successful poetry, I have to reconcile these two mutually destructive aspects that reside inside me. Then in order to have a happy audience, I have to ensure that I appeal to both the intellect and the passions of others while offending neither.

Or maybe you think too much.

You are very analytical. I understand this; I am very analytical. But I have come to the conclusion, after studying on this for a long time, that the time for analysis is when you read others' poems, not when you write them. Thinking too much about poetry when you are trying to write it is like putting it on ice: it freezes the creative process. And I believe this is also true, to an extent, when editing one's poems. If you start trying to analyze what a word or phrase does, what the effect will be, you will be less likely to take chances (because risk and reason seem polar opposites) and you may think the art right out of the poem. For me what works is to write, take my mind off it for a while, edit, take my mind off it for a while, rinse, repeat.

I wonder what you and others think about this. Can one think oneself out of good poetry?

 

[The_Fool]

Or maybe you think too much.

You are very analytical. I understand this; I am very analytical. But I have come to the conclusion, after studying on this for a long time, that the time for analysis is when you read others' poems, not when you write them. Thinking too much about poetry when you are trying to write it is like putting it on ice: it freezes the creative process. And I believe this is also true, to an extent, when editing one's poems. If you start trying to analyze what a word or phrase does, what the effect will be, you will be less likely to take chances (because risk and reason seem polar opposites) and you may think the art right out of the poem. For me what works is to write, take my mind off it for a while, edit, take my mind off it for a while, rinse, repeat.

I wonder what you and others think about this. Can one think oneself out of good poetry?

I have thought about a blurt, idea, vision so much that I have decided it wasn't worth the trouble or wasn't good enough for me. Was it good poetry? Hell no, I was writing it. Course it could have been. I don't know shit about poetry. Of course I am of the opinion, the more you know, the less you know.

 

[lorencino]

validating my existence

Or maybe you think too much.

You are very analytical. I understand this; I am very analytical. But I have come to the conclusion, after studying on this for a long time, that the time for analysis is when you read others' poems, not when you write them. Thinking too much about poetry when you are trying to write it is like putting it on ice: it freezes the creative process. And I believe this is also true, to an extent, when editing one's poems. If you start trying to analyze what a word or phrase does, what the effect will be, you will be less likely to take chances (because risk and reason seem polar opposites) and you may think the art right out of the poem. For me what works is to write, take my mind off it for a while, edit, take my mind off it for a while, rinse, repeat.

I wonder what you and others think about this. Can one think oneself out of good poetry?

I'm sure you can think yourself out of good poetry. The thing is, I outlined the aim rather than the reality of my creative exercises in what I wrote earlier. What prompted this whole discussion is all the excellent advice I have been given by others on that poem about the homeless couple sleeping on the sidewalk one rainy night. My intellect went through the poem trying to implement the advice I was getting but my emotions would not let me make any changes. No change felt right. It is as though my intellect is the servant of my emotions and my body. If it does not feel right to my body and emotions, they will have none of it. It is actually a dilemma with my intellect just freezing up in the struggle until I don't know what to do with the poem. The initial writing is not really thinking either. It's as though I just watch a parade of words until I finally sight the right one or just get impatient with the wait and choose something from what has passed me that serves for the moment.

The poem I refer to is Regrets. A good number of good minds commented on the poem and made suggestions for improvement. With these suggestions in mind, I pour over the lines again and again and feel that it conveys for me what I intended it to convey as it is. However, others see difficiencies in it, so I struggle to understand how am I failing to communicate. Where does it make no relevant sounds for others so that the words in those lines are but cinders of the meat of communication. Others are seeing dead flesh in places and yet for me every part is living, necessary flesh.

The result is that I am paralyzed and in darkness. It is as though my communication has run aground and I can't understand why.

Champaigne 1982 wrote, for example: "You tell us about her acne ravaged face, but I'd like to have a better look at the circumstances that invented those scars. I understand squalor and the meanness that invades the street, but not from your poem."

A perfectly reasonable comment, but the poem, for me, is not about squalor and the meanness of the street, nor is it about the the girl with the scars; the poem is about my reaction to what I saw that night and what our material and spiritual obligation to homeless people is. A meditation, I suppose along the lines of "There but for the grace of God. . ."

[I have subsequently learnt that the marks on her face are from smoking crack and that her being on the streets has something to do with what she perceives as her father's intolerance.]

About a month ago I decided to give the poem to the person who is the sleeping woman of the poem. She was sitting close to where I had seen her the night I wrote the poem, begging. I went home, printed the poem and gave it to her with the words. "I saw you sleeping here one night and wrote this poem about you. I thought you might want to see it." She thanked me somewhat woodenly and I went on my way.

Important to this story is the fact that she is one of a group of regulars, near where I live, who sit on the sidewalk calling out to passersby (sometimes mumbling): "Spare any change." I hardly ever give them anything because I really can't afford much. When they ask me for change and then notice who I am, they all apologize for asking. Whenever I have a windfall I give generously without being asked, but mostly I am broke.

I few hours later I was passing through the intersecting on the other side of the street to where she sits and she came hurrying across the street smiling and holding on to the paper the poem was printed on: "Did you write this?"

"Yes."

"It's really good. Thanks for giving it to me."

"It's very kind of you to say so," I said as I went on my way.

Two days later, a young, shabbily dressed man comes rushing across the street dodging traffic calling to me: "I just want you to know how moved I was by the poem you gave my girlfriend."

I started to explain the circumstances that prompted me to write the poem when he interjected: Yeah, Man, I was the guy in the poem whose face you couldn't see." He went on expressing his joy, speaking with a heavy French accent.

I just stood there marveling at the fact that these people hardly crack a smile when people give them money and here they were enthusing over my giving them little more than my vanity or were they simply relieved to be treated like everyone deserves to be treated. They were thanking me for doing what should be done automatically without any need for being thanked. Ultimately, these utterly down and out people with nothing really good in their lives were showing me human warmth and validating my existence. I am unable to write a poem that expresses my reaction to their smiling engagement with me; I can't even explain it in prose yet. However, while my barren intellect taps its fingers in emptiness, my chest knows an infinite joy in my fortunate break in connecting with these two people, while my throat knots in controlling the tears wanting to flow at the injustice of their existence.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

I'm sure you can think yourself out of good poetry. The thing is, I outlined the aim rather than the reality of my creative exercises in what I wrote earlier. What prompted this whole discussion is all the excellent advice I have been given by others on that poem about the homeless couple sleeping on the sidewalk one rainy night. My intellect went through the poem trying to implement the advice I was getting but my emotions would not let me make any changes. No change felt right. It is as though my intellect is the servant of my emotions and my body. If it does not feel right to my body and emotions, they will have none of it. It is actually a dilemma with my intellect just freezing up in the struggle until I don't know what to do with the poem. The initial writing is not really thinking either. It's as though I just watch a parade of words until I finally sight the right one or just get impatient with the wait and choose something from what has passed me that serves for the moment.

The poem I refer to is Regrets. A good number of good minds commented on the poem and made suggestions for improvement. With these suggestions in mind, I pour over the lines again and again and feel that it conveys for me what I intended it to convey as it is. However, others see difficiencies in it, so I struggle to understand how am I failing to communicate. Where does it make no relevant sounds for others so that the words in those lines are but cinders of the meat of communication. Others are seeing dead flesh in places and yet for me every part is living, necessary flesh.

The result is that I am paralyzed and in darkness. It is as though my communication has run aground and I can't understand why.

Champaigne 1982 wrote, for example: "You tell us about her acne ravaged face, but I'd like to have a better look at the circumstances that invented those scars. I understand squalor and the meanness that invades the street, but not from your poem."

A perfectly reasonable comment, but the poem, for me, is not about squalor and the meanness of the street, nor is it about the the girl with the scars; the poem is about my reaction to what I saw that night and what our material and spiritual obligation to homeless people is. A meditation, I suppose along the lines of "There but for the grace of God. . ."

[I have subsequently learnt that the marks on her face are from smoking crack and that her being on the streets has something to do with what she perceives as her father's intolerance.]

About a month ago I decided to give the poem to the person who is the sleeping woman of the poem. She was sitting close to where I had seen her the night I wrote the poem, begging. I went home, printed the poem and gave it to her with the words. "I saw you sleeping here one night and wrote this poem about you. I thought you might want to see it." She thanked me somewhat woodenly and I went on my way.

Important to this story is the fact that she is one of a group of regulars, near where I live, who sit on the sidewalk calling out to passersby (sometimes mumbling): "Spare any change." I hardly ever give them anything because I really can't afford much. When they ask me for change and then notice who I am, they all apologize for asking. Whenever I have a windfall I give generously without being asked, but mostly I am broke.

I few hours later I was passing through the intersecting on the other side of the street to where she sits and she came hurrying across the street smiling and holding on to the paper the poem was printed on: "Did you write this?"

"Yes."

"It's really good. Thanks for giving it to me."

"It's very kind of you to say so," I said as I went on my way.

Two days later, a young, shabbily dressed man comes rushing across the street dodging traffic calling to me: "I just want you to know how moved I was by the poem you gave my girlfriend."

I started to explain the circumstances that prompted me to write the poem when he interjected: Yeah, Man, I was the guy in the poem whose face you couldn't see." He went on expressing his joy, speaking with a heavy French accent.

I just stood there marveling at the fact that these people hardly crack a smile when people give them money and here they were enthusing over my giving them little more than my vanity or were they simply relieved to be treated like everyone deserves to be treated. They were thanking me for doing what should be done automatically without any need for being thanked. Ultimately, these utterly down and out people with nothing really good in their lives were showing me human warmth and validating my existence. I am unable to write a poem that expresses my reaction to their smiling engagement with me; I can't even explain it in prose yet. However, while my barren intellect taps its fingers in emptiness, my chest knows an infinite joy in my fortunate break in connecting with these two people, while my throat knots in controlling the tears wanting to flow at the injustice of their existence.

Beautiful. Fucking beautiful.

As far as I am concerned, THAT is the function of poetry. You actually changed something, within them and within yourself. Your words have affected the world.

you are gorgeous. And you are a poet.

bj

 

[Angeline]

I'm sure you can think yourself out of good poetry. The thing is, I outlined the aim rather than the reality of my creative exercises in what I wrote earlier. What prompted this whole discussion is all the excellent advice I have been given by others on that poem about the homeless couple sleeping on the sidewalk one rainy night. My intellect went through the poem trying to implement the advice I was getting but my emotions would not let me make any changes. No change felt right. It is as though my intellect is the servant of my emotions and my body. If it does not feel right to my body and emotions, they will have none of it. It is actually a dilemma with my intellect just freezing up in the struggle until I don't know what to do with the poem. The initial writing is not really thinking either. It's as though I just watch a parade of words until I finally sight the right one or just get impatient with the wait and choose something from what has passed me that serves for the moment.

The poem I refer to is Regrets. A good number of good minds commented on the poem and made suggestions for improvement. With these suggestions in mind, I pour over the lines again and again and feel that it conveys for me what I intended it to convey as it is. However, others see difficiencies in it, so I struggle to understand how am I failing to communicate. Where does it make no relevant sounds for others so that the words in those lines are but cinders of the meat of communication. Others are seeing dead flesh in places and yet for me every part is living, necessary flesh.

The result is that I am paralyzed and in darkness. It is as though my communication has run aground and I can't understand why.

Champaigne 1982 wrote, for example: "You tell us about her acne ravaged face, but I'd like to have a better look at the circumstances that invented those scars. I understand squalor and the meanness that invades the street, but not from your poem."

A perfectly reasonable comment, but the poem, for me, is not about squalor and the meanness of the street, nor is it about the the girl with the scars; the poem is about my reaction to what I saw that night and what our material and spiritual obligation to homeless people is. A meditation, I suppose along the lines of "There but for the grace of God. . ."

[I have subsequently learnt that the marks on her face are from smoking crack and that her being on the streets has something to do with what she perceives as her father's intolerance.]

About a month ago I decided to give the poem to the person who is the sleeping woman of the poem. She was sitting close to where I had seen her the night I wrote the poem, begging. I went home, printed the poem and gave it to her with the words. "I saw you sleeping here one night and wrote this poem about you. I thought you might want to see it." She thanked me somewhat woodenly and I went on my way.

Important to this story is the fact that she is one of a group of regulars, near where I live, who sit on the sidewalk calling out to passersby (sometimes mumbling): "Spare any change." I hardly ever give them anything because I really can't afford much. When they ask me for change and then notice who I am, they all apologize for asking. Whenever I have a windfall I give generously without being asked, but mostly I am broke.

I few hours later I was passing through the intersecting on the other side of the street to where she sits and she came hurrying across the street smiling and holding on to the paper the poem was printed on: "Did you write this?"

"Yes."

"It's really good. Thanks for giving it to me."

"It's very kind of you to say so," I said as I went on my way.

Two days later, a young, shabbily dressed man comes rushing across the street dodging traffic calling to me: "I just want you to know how moved I was by the poem you gave my girlfriend."

I started to explain the circumstances that prompted me to write the poem when he interjected: Yeah, Man, I was the guy in the poem whose face you couldn't see." He went on expressing his joy, speaking with a heavy French accent.

I just stood there marveling at the fact that these people hardly crack a smile when people give them money and here they were enthusing over my giving them little more than my vanity or were they simply relieved to be treated like everyone deserves to be treated. They were thanking me for doing what should be done automatically without any need for being thanked. Ultimately, these utterly down and out people with nothing really good in their lives were showing me human warmth and validating my existence. I am unable to write a poem that expresses my reaction to their smiling engagement with me; I can't even explain it in prose yet. However, while my barren intellect taps its fingers in emptiness, my chest knows an infinite joy in my fortunate break in connecting with these two people, while my throat knots in controlling the tears wanting to flow at the injustice of their existence.

I read this and I went back and read your poem. I apologize because I shouldn't have jumped in and assumed I understood without at least reading back into the thread. But I expect you'll forgive me.

I still think you're too hard on yourself. The only expectations you can meet for any poem you write are your own. It's all well and good to post here and get the feedback, and learn enough to make your poem more expressive of your intentions or maybe just more appealing to your readers, but we can't be all things to all readers. I'm always astonished (really!) to discover that the poems I think of as my personal best get so-so reactions and the poems I think are so-so are often the ones that get the raves. And often I find my intentions are very different from my readers' perceptions.

But that makes sense, doesn't it? We all bring such different experiences and expectations to what we read, how could anyone understand exactly what we mean? I know eagleyez gets most of my references when I write, and I generally get his in his poems, but certainly not always. And we live together.

But here's what I still don't get (and maybe I'm just dense): if you get feedback and it enables you to make changes to the point where you feel a poem does express what you mean, does that well, what more do you want? People still don't understand your exact intention, ok, but what more is there than knowing you've expressed what you wanted poetically?

And I agree with Bijou. What an incredible story! You made those people happy because you really saw them. I can only imagine how that must feel when you spend most of your day with people looking past or through you. You told them that someone remembers they're human. That's a beautiful thing.

 

[lorencino]

Beautiful. Fucking beautiful.

As far as I am concerned, THAT is the function of poetry. You actually changed something, within them and within yourself. Your words have affected the world.

you are gorgeous. And you are a poet.

bj

Holy, not to put too fine a point on it, fuck!

To say that you have made my day would be the understatement of the century.

I read this and I went back and read your poem. I apologize because I shouldn't have jumped in and assumed I understood without at least reading back into the thread. But I expect you'll forgive me.

No offence perceived; nothing to forgive.

But here's what I still don't get (and maybe I'm just dense): if you get feedback and it enables you to make changes to the point where you feel a poem does express what you mean, does that well, what more do you want? People still don't understand your exact intention, ok, but what more is there than knowing you've expressed what you wanted poetically?

I completely agree with you, notwithstanding everything I've already said on the topic.

And I agree with Bijou.

I always agree with Bijou.

 

[champagne1982]

See, I expected it was drugs and I expected that they were homeless, not by choice but because shelter at the price she'd have to pay for a roof was too great. There are so many circumstances that put people in a place that by my vanilla expectations would be intolerable, but in their view is preferrable to buying shelter at the cost of freedom.

That's all I wanted from your poem. I'm so glad that you shared it with the couple you wrote about. You have been successful in the writing since you've had an effect on everyone who reads it. That is a gift I can be grateful for and I thank you for giving it to me.

 

[lorencino]

See, I expected it was drugs and I expected that they were homeless, not by choice but because shelter at the price she'd have to pay for a roof was too great. There are so many circumstances that put people in a place that by my vanilla expectations would be intolerable, but in their view is preferrable to buying shelter at the cost of freedom.

That's all I wanted from your poem. I'm so glad that you shared it with the couple you wrote about. You have been successful in the writing since you've had an effect on everyone who reads it. That is a gift I can be grateful for and I thank you for giving it to me.

Today I discovered that she is bipolar and hates the side-effects of prescribed medicine. Street drugs, she believes, do not have any unpleasant side-effects. Sad.

Thanks for your appreciative remarks. I am encouraged by the interest in my poetry even when it is agony to fully comprehend the responses.

 

[bogusbrig]

Or maybe you think too much.

You are very analytical. I understand this; I am very analytical. But I have come to the conclusion, after studying on this for a long time, that the time for analysis is when you read others' poems, not when you write them. Thinking too much about poetry when you are trying to write it is like putting it on ice: it freezes the creative process. And I believe this is also true, to an extent, when editing one's poems. If you start trying to analyze what a word or phrase does, what the effect will be, you will be less likely to take chances (because risk and reason seem polar opposites) and you may think the art right out of the poem. For me what works is to write, take my mind off it for a while, edit, take my mind off it for a while, rinse, repeat.

I wonder what you and others think about this. Can one think oneself out of good poetry?

I would agree one can think and talk oneself out of good poetry. Too much analysis might make for theoretically perfect poetry but who wants perfect. EH Gombrich, an art historian used to refer to overworked and perfect paintings as 'the fault of the faultless'. The arts aren't engineering or a hard science, art and poetry theory should be seen as a general guidence, not the hard and fast rules of a blue print. One shouldn't try to edit out the soul of a work, one should edit to reveal the soul of the work and that might require leaving the faults and imperfections in place.