It is my solemn duty to me to inform you that most of your stuff is going to be crap.
That may not be news to you, or it may. It's something to keep in mind, nonetheless.
Personally, I don't keep stuff I do that I think is bad. I know others who do. It's up to you.
There are arguments pro and con ("What if you throw it away and you're wrong?" "Why keep mistakes? You'll just repeat them!"). All I know is I can only remember one I wish I'd kept instead of tossing, and that was nearly 20 years ago! (And the only reason I regret tossing it is because it was a good start at a style I resumed writing in ten years later.)
The point is, if you keep your crap, you're probably going to be keeping a lot of it. Flushing it just feels so much better.
At least it does to me.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Monday, April 21, 2008
Lost in Translation
If you're going to put words together on a page and call it "poetry" -- well, that's not too hard nowadays, is it?
But if you're going to put lines together that rhyme and fit a set metrical pattern, that's different, isn't it?
I say this because I'm sure by now, dear readers, you've given it a try. And you've set that try aside, and then re-read it -- only to find the poem you were so proud of the day after you wrote it is now pretty embarrassing.
I don't say that to insult you or bring you down. It's just what happens. I know this, because too many of my attempts have hit the bottom of the trash can to suit me.
Where lies success? Rewriting? Maybe, but all I ever did was flog a dead horse. Revisions to a successful poem? Of course, but top-to-bottom rewrites (of an already bad poem) were a waste of time. They were for me, anyway.
So try this: Take a batch of your free-verse work that you feel good about, and choose one that you really liked but maybe didn't take off the way you wanted. Or maybe one that has kind of a shape to its structure, but its free-verse "dress" fits too loosely.
Now, take that poem and "translate" it into traditional verse. Your "translation" may be a sonnet or a ballad or something else. Just start from the top and see what happens.
When you're done, set the new version aside for a time. First for a day, then for a week, then for maybe a month. Ask yourself what your poem gained by the "translation" and then what it lost by the process.
Keep both the free and traditional versions in your poetry file. Then do another "translation," maybe from a fresh free-verse poem. Repeat the review process.
Be honest each time, but not brutally. Don't beat yourself up over it, in other words. Enjoy doing something few poets ever do (or admit to doing -- that I've heard, anyway!).
See where it takes you.
But if you're going to put lines together that rhyme and fit a set metrical pattern, that's different, isn't it?
I say this because I'm sure by now, dear readers, you've given it a try. And you've set that try aside, and then re-read it -- only to find the poem you were so proud of the day after you wrote it is now pretty embarrassing.
I don't say that to insult you or bring you down. It's just what happens. I know this, because too many of my attempts have hit the bottom of the trash can to suit me.
Where lies success? Rewriting? Maybe, but all I ever did was flog a dead horse. Revisions to a successful poem? Of course, but top-to-bottom rewrites (of an already bad poem) were a waste of time. They were for me, anyway.
So try this: Take a batch of your free-verse work that you feel good about, and choose one that you really liked but maybe didn't take off the way you wanted. Or maybe one that has kind of a shape to its structure, but its free-verse "dress" fits too loosely.
Now, take that poem and "translate" it into traditional verse. Your "translation" may be a sonnet or a ballad or something else. Just start from the top and see what happens.
When you're done, set the new version aside for a time. First for a day, then for a week, then for maybe a month. Ask yourself what your poem gained by the "translation" and then what it lost by the process.
Keep both the free and traditional versions in your poetry file. Then do another "translation," maybe from a fresh free-verse poem. Repeat the review process.
Be honest each time, but not brutally. Don't beat yourself up over it, in other words. Enjoy doing something few poets ever do (or admit to doing -- that I've heard, anyway!).
See where it takes you.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Poison Pen(s)
Here's an old story of how a poet used satire creatively and constructively at the same time.
A long-standing dispute between two tribes beat the usual path to resolution: an army from Tribe A took one side of the field of battle, while Tribe B's bravehearts lined up opposite. As was the tradition, each side gave a turn to its best poet before the battle began.
The first bard did what was expected, singing the praises of his tribe and trying to frighten the other side out of its wits.
The second bard did something else. After a short peon to his tribe's military prowess, he began to make fun of the other tribe. In doing so, he made a pun on that other tribe's name. This pun was so good, it made his tribe start laughing. Then some bystanders started laughing, too. The other tribe's king started to look embarrassed, and his generals began to turn away.
The result? The other tribe quit the field. But instead of go back to their homeland, they actually joined a neighboring tribe and took their name!
In other words, the pun was so effective that it stuck. And the poet had not only saved many lives from among his tribesmen, he also eliminated the enemy completely -- without killing a single person.
Although it's not a part of the story (as I heard it), I'm betting he nailed the pun with a rhyme.
As far as English traditional poesy goes, you can take the tack of Chaucer and leave 'em all with aching sides, or do like Pope by condemning "not the sinner, but the sin." Either way, your responsibility as a poet remains intact when you use satire.
After all, aren't we all just as guilty?
A long-standing dispute between two tribes beat the usual path to resolution: an army from Tribe A took one side of the field of battle, while Tribe B's bravehearts lined up opposite. As was the tradition, each side gave a turn to its best poet before the battle began.
The first bard did what was expected, singing the praises of his tribe and trying to frighten the other side out of its wits.
The second bard did something else. After a short peon to his tribe's military prowess, he began to make fun of the other tribe. In doing so, he made a pun on that other tribe's name. This pun was so good, it made his tribe start laughing. Then some bystanders started laughing, too. The other tribe's king started to look embarrassed, and his generals began to turn away.
The result? The other tribe quit the field. But instead of go back to their homeland, they actually joined a neighboring tribe and took their name!
In other words, the pun was so effective that it stuck. And the poet had not only saved many lives from among his tribesmen, he also eliminated the enemy completely -- without killing a single person.
Although it's not a part of the story (as I heard it), I'm betting he nailed the pun with a rhyme.
As far as English traditional poesy goes, you can take the tack of Chaucer and leave 'em all with aching sides, or do like Pope by condemning "not the sinner, but the sin." Either way, your responsibility as a poet remains intact when you use satire.
After all, aren't we all just as guilty?
Monday, April 7, 2008
"Who did this?" "You did."
The title is my recollection of an oft-told story re: Picasso's "Guernica." It seems a Nazi officer saw this enormous (and, frankly, ugly) painting and asked the artist who was responsible for it.
The story goes that Maestro Pablo calmly replied as he did to imply that the Nazi "practice bombing" of innocent civilians during the Spanish Civil War was responsible for the carnage his canvas captured so memorably.
We call "Guernica" art not because it's beautiful -- it isn't. We call it art because Picasso used his Cubist aesthetic toward something that really mattered: a protest over an insanely cruel act that tragically presaged so many, many more. And because he did it so sucessfully that he could even insult a Nazi officer and get away with it.
And that's kind of what I meant last time about a developing a personal aesthetic. What I meant by that is not some "philosophy of art" that can be used to either deny the worth of what you're doing or to affirm some High Leader's "cult of personality."
Whether it's "art for art's sake" or a bust of Lenin looking like a bald, mustachioed Superman, it's not coming from a personal aesthetic. (Or Stalin, or Mao, or Saddam Hussein, or {insert name here}.)
What I did mean by the term is simply this: a working philosophy of what you're doing as a poet, and why.
But just remember: it can cost you.
What do I mean by that? Think Federico Garcia Lorca.
Who's that? Try "Take This Waltz."
The story goes that Maestro Pablo calmly replied as he did to imply that the Nazi "practice bombing" of innocent civilians during the Spanish Civil War was responsible for the carnage his canvas captured so memorably.
We call "Guernica" art not because it's beautiful -- it isn't. We call it art because Picasso used his Cubist aesthetic toward something that really mattered: a protest over an insanely cruel act that tragically presaged so many, many more. And because he did it so sucessfully that he could even insult a Nazi officer and get away with it.
And that's kind of what I meant last time about a developing a personal aesthetic. What I meant by that is not some "philosophy of art" that can be used to either deny the worth of what you're doing or to affirm some High Leader's "cult of personality."
Whether it's "art for art's sake" or a bust of Lenin looking like a bald, mustachioed Superman, it's not coming from a personal aesthetic. (Or Stalin, or Mao, or Saddam Hussein, or {insert name here}.)
What I did mean by the term is simply this: a working philosophy of what you're doing as a poet, and why.
But just remember: it can cost you.
What do I mean by that? Think Federico Garcia Lorca.
Who's that? Try "Take This Waltz."
