Writing poetry, reading poetry
with Carl Philips
The sheen of a well-written poem often wears off by the next morning. All it takes is a good night’s sleep to bring you back to earth, to remind you of your mortality. We are gods only when we create. As readers, we are human, fallible. The initial excitement of the volta, the recalibration of perceived reality with words, and the music of sensation, is temporary. That old adage about the the idea always being more profound than it’s execution is at play here. But the post-poetum silence is also paved with the lingering frustration of a creative endeavour that is finished. Is this why poets insist that a poem is never complete? Naomi Shihab Nye’s 'How do I know when a poem is finished' is one of my favourite Ars Poeticas, taking the etymological meaning of stanza a little further by likening ‘poem’ to ‘room’.
The finished poem marks an important sthithiantar - (a transition from one state to another). As it is being written, before the first draft is complete (poems can be fully composed without putting pen to paper - this is an act of writing too), the poem is a chimera. It is wild, made up of different animal parts, and terrible in its refusal to conform. Its potency lies in its resistance to taxonomy, or even comprehension. While it is being written the poem feels mythic in its narrative scope. Like drooling dogs we tumble over ourselves in hot pursuit, tangentially aware that we are attempting the impossible - expressing our personal stories as micro-histories. As sound is produced through obstruction (striking an object, for instance), poetry emerges from the shattering of language. The smithereens are reassembled into an object that doesn’t cleave to the activity of writing any more. The finished poem can only be read. At the most, one could edit, and the thousands of drafts that poets leave behind in their workshops are testimony to the impossibility of language every fully encompassing experience.
While speaking of craft, ambition, and the work of the poet*, Carl Phillips illuminates the artist’s “fumbling into the unknown”.
“…When it comes to the art itself, a prize is already irrelevant because it’s (usually) for work that’s finished; the committed artist will already have continued that fumbling forward into the unknown that is finally required for the work to keep deepening, to continue surprising. This ambition will keep your mind on the work, what matters most; as much as possible, let the work be everything; for the work will save you…”
*Thankyou to friend-in-poetry Kunjana Parashar, who led me to Philips’ work ‘My Trade Is Mystery: Seven Meditations from a Life in Writing’
Simply put, the essential softening of temper in the poet’s own relationship with the poem is the re-imagination of work. The poet’s work (verb) of writing transforms into their work (noun) to be read. Now it is ripe for assessment, for its true purpose - to spark connections in the minds of its readers.
I started this commentary intending to establish a shaky, impossible connection - the notion that creative activity disappoints over time, but the day’s news doesn’t. Doesn’t it feel like the doomscroll comes attired in blood, destruction, and violence every single morning, without fail?
However, as I fumble now into the unknown, I see that I do not do justice to the vulnerability of creative fervour. Truth be told, the sheen doesn’t always wear off. Far from it. In fact it never wears off. This is because I have started to perceive poems as something far deeper than “works of art”. Poetry doesn’t always have to move.
For some time now I have begun to see the poem as simply, a time capsule. Poetry is the present moment slipping into the archive, as a fragment of reality to be retrieved in the future. Not some distant future. From the moment the poem descends to the paper (screen), it becomes memory in material form. The poem turns witness.
This, above all, is the work of the poet, is it not?
An unrelated poem by Carl Philips below. The last line is scintillating, as are some images.
I hope you are finding the space to write, to dream, and to resist.
If you like what you read, do consider ‘buying me a coffee’
I loved your essay of sorts this morning on writing and reading poetry. The sheen never wears off is so true. I would love to read continue to receive your notes.
What an incredible poem