There's a Fire in My Belly
Seredipitously:
William Stafford's honesty about the writing process is irresistible. Over and over again in Writing the Australian Crawl he admits to some remarkable points: that there is no such thing as skill, that anyone can write, that getting over writer's block is simply a matter of lowering one's standards, that editors are friends put on Earth to help us keep back work that should not be in print, that criticism shuts down the creative process fast, and that defending or justifying the significance of one's work is not the writer's job. . . . What do you need from Stafford's point of view? A willingness to keep writing.—Robert Peake
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And it's not the small chili from Wendy's I just ate for lunch.So many thoughts on the religiosity of poetry, artistic exclusivity, success, and something I'm thinking of as socioeconomic primitivism.
Self-indulgent sound bites:
Surely there are examples of those who've chosen poetry at the expense of life, liberty, sanity, love . . . To say that one is forced into choosing is then a question of how much one is willing to sacrifice, not ultimately of situational privelege. The individual is limited by themselves, by their fears and goals (and perhaps rightly so), rather than by their situation.
This is where "poetry is not a choice" prevails—if one considers that for some it may not be. Then again, these may not be rational individuals. Perhaps it should have been phrased "Poetry is not a choice for poets."
And I'm sure this is bordering on the religious to say that some are poets and others not. Perhaps this is why I've never been able to call myself one.
. . .
Of course there's Rimbaud. Poet and later Unpoet.
So much for the faithful . . .
. . .
I don't know if I'm willing to say that a blue-collar father of two is precluded—I'm sure there's an example out there. I think the rub is that social/personal context requires unjustly different levels of sacrifice to the extreme of superhuman strength and conviction . . .
. . .
Perhaps because "success" in poetry is kind of meaningless in socio-political or economic senses, I'm letting myself be left cold to the exclusivity.
Maybe I just want to read more poetry of desperation put out by 120-hr-a-week, exhausted writers. I think it's a twisted analogue to primitivism for me.
6 comments:
"poetry is not a choice for poets"
--I like that one. Most people just don't care about poetry. It's not their passion. When writing is your passion, you can think about very little else. At least that's how it is for me.
Thanks for the link. The choice/no-choice question reminds me of a salient moment in my own development as an artist - when I heard someone ask a singer who had been struggling with her career, "are you a singer?" When she said yes, he responded, "Then you must sing." As simple as that - must, whether it's in Carnegie hall or the local Karaoke joint. Then, of course, I had to ask myself the question, "Are you a poet?" And I've been answering ever since.
Jenni—
I think the "you can think about very little else" is a key for me.
Robert—
I've often seen the impulse ironically described by writers as "I can't not write". Personally, I'd get squirmy if someone asked me "Are you a poet?" or "Are you a writer?" Something holds me back here, as I mentioned in the post below. Perhaps it's a question I ask myself rhetorically every day.
Poet (n.): Someone who likes poetry so much they not only read it avidly but sometimes can't help but write it as well - as a natural extension of their appreciation and enthusiasm for the art.
Fit that definition?
When I was in college, I never questioned the fact that there was no place in poetry for me. There was the ideal life of the mind, and then there was the real life of the body. A life in poetry was for people like Jorie Graham, someone who flew in to attend MFA classes. I didn't see a place or a space in poetry for someone from a lowest-middle-class background. The two roads that diverged for me in the 1970s were make money or make babies. (In the culture in which I grew up, if you wanted a degree, it was in case your husband died--that's how I came to poetry, as a strange form of double-indemnity life insurance). Those were the choices for women of my barely-clinging-to-middle-class background--have a career (success measured by money)--or have children (success mirrored in their successes). I wanted to be a wife and a mother---and I am those things gladly. Only now in my late forties do I feel encouraged (still not smart enough or talented enough but stubborn enough) to go forward in reading and teaching poetry. It's been a real struggle, even though it's also been something I love, and love more as I do it. Teaching and taking classes often will overwhelm me--it's exhilarating and draining at the same time.
I am totally on AJPL's side of the fence in this debate. If you're not able to see any options, you don't have them.
Robert—
I do.
Pamela—
It's good to hear from you. :-)
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