On poetry: being too close to your subject
I’ve been in and out of first drafts of poems lately. Most of them are about coping with losing Josh. I think that’s why I don’t have the courage or even the professional distance I need to go and snip where I need to, or to fix what sounds cheesy or cliché. Part of me doesn’t want to trim away at the raw emotion, while a larger part of me knows that with a lot of work I could probably make these poems into something decent.
It reminds me of a workshop in my beginning poetry class with B. H. Fairchild. On one particular day, this guy brought in this shitty poem. I mean, it was terrible. It was clear he didn’t even really try. It was some kind of love/ lust poem, with jumbled images of the tired red rose, hearts, you name it. I wish I could remember specific language from his poem to illustrate what I mean and not just sound like some hoity-toity poetry snob. Let’s put it this way: Fairchild said to him, “Normally I don’t ask this… but what is this poem about?” And the guy, Wayne was his name, said, “I don’t know… I just kind of threw this together…” [he goes on in this mumble, nonchalantly shrugging his shoulders as if he were too cool for poetry]
Then Fairchild said, somewhat vexed, “Well if you don’t know what you’re writing about, how the hell do you expect your readers to know what you’re getting at?”
This is one of the many reasons why I practically worship Fairchild. Okay, I know that sounded kind of creepy… but seriously, Fairchild is one of the greatest poets walking this earth right now. I was lucky enough to have him as a teacher, and those words he said that day really stuck with me. They are a constant reminder to me that the stuff I write in a half-daze are not good enough. Usually, great poems require a great deal of precision and control. Like a great ballet, the painstaking effort needed to create them cannot show; it needs to feel as though it were effortless. However, even as I write this, I think of exceptions. Forget them for now, I’m sticking to my opinion. On this one episode of No Reservations, Anthony Bourdain goes to Tokyo and asks different Japanese people, one who professionally arranges flowers and a chef, among others, “What is perfection? Can it be achieved?” I don’t remember their answers, but I think of that question all the time. So many of Fairchild’s poems seem so complete and perfect. My heart melts at his poem “Beauty.” Yes, it’s long. Yes, it’s infinitely worth the read, if you have a soul. If you’re reading this entry, Google that shit and READ IT. “Beauty” by B.H. Fairchild.
But back to that class. We all wrote better poems about things we cared about. When we cared too much, though, then it became a lot more difficult. One lady wrote a poem about her daughter running away, and it was obviously very emotional for her. In workshop, the poem didn’t really get a great response. When I workshop myself, so to speak, and have pretend-critics in my mind saying their piece, I think the poems about the things I care about the most are probably the most terrible.
At the same time, though, when you don’t care enough about something, you end up like good old Wayne from beginning poetry, who throws in a bunch of lovey-dovey phrases together and calls it a poem. I’d rather care too much and work from there.
It reminds me of a workshop in my beginning poetry class with B. H. Fairchild. On one particular day, this guy brought in this shitty poem. I mean, it was terrible. It was clear he didn’t even really try. It was some kind of love/ lust poem, with jumbled images of the tired red rose, hearts, you name it. I wish I could remember specific language from his poem to illustrate what I mean and not just sound like some hoity-toity poetry snob. Let’s put it this way: Fairchild said to him, “Normally I don’t ask this… but what is this poem about?” And the guy, Wayne was his name, said, “I don’t know… I just kind of threw this together…” [he goes on in this mumble, nonchalantly shrugging his shoulders as if he were too cool for poetry]
Then Fairchild said, somewhat vexed, “Well if you don’t know what you’re writing about, how the hell do you expect your readers to know what you’re getting at?”
This is one of the many reasons why I practically worship Fairchild. Okay, I know that sounded kind of creepy… but seriously, Fairchild is one of the greatest poets walking this earth right now. I was lucky enough to have him as a teacher, and those words he said that day really stuck with me. They are a constant reminder to me that the stuff I write in a half-daze are not good enough. Usually, great poems require a great deal of precision and control. Like a great ballet, the painstaking effort needed to create them cannot show; it needs to feel as though it were effortless. However, even as I write this, I think of exceptions. Forget them for now, I’m sticking to my opinion. On this one episode of No Reservations, Anthony Bourdain goes to Tokyo and asks different Japanese people, one who professionally arranges flowers and a chef, among others, “What is perfection? Can it be achieved?” I don’t remember their answers, but I think of that question all the time. So many of Fairchild’s poems seem so complete and perfect. My heart melts at his poem “Beauty.” Yes, it’s long. Yes, it’s infinitely worth the read, if you have a soul. If you’re reading this entry, Google that shit and READ IT. “Beauty” by B.H. Fairchild.
But back to that class. We all wrote better poems about things we cared about. When we cared too much, though, then it became a lot more difficult. One lady wrote a poem about her daughter running away, and it was obviously very emotional for her. In workshop, the poem didn’t really get a great response. When I workshop myself, so to speak, and have pretend-critics in my mind saying their piece, I think the poems about the things I care about the most are probably the most terrible.
At the same time, though, when you don’t care enough about something, you end up like good old Wayne from beginning poetry, who throws in a bunch of lovey-dovey phrases together and calls it a poem. I’d rather care too much and work from there.