MADNESS IN SEARCH OF

[42BelowsBack]

On Blah.

I blah, I blah in an understanding evolving. A poem (blah) must have a skull, a spine, its lines interconnected limbic Limbs e.g my blah.

A blah must have a skull; a thought, a narrative meaning. A blah with skull/narrative avoids devolving into single celled blathery blithering wordsmithery i.e. my blah.

Thank you @Tzara and @Angeline for simplifying the poetic leap of coffee bean to cup. Not a blah.

 

[Angeline]

I recall watching a jazz documentary where someone was talking about Thelonious Monk and how in spite of his seeming discordant style he always swung. And it was meant as a compliment. And I think the equivalent in poetry is that narrative needs to be part of the mix for the sake of accessibility. That doesn't mean it has to be prose: one can stray far from it but narrative is the human connection. Just my opinion and I'm sure people can find examples to disagree.

And I agree that without some level of coherent narrative you either get blithery blah blah wordsmithery or um transformational generative grammar.

 

[_Land]

And I agree that without some level of coherent narrative you either get blithery blah blah wordsmithery or um transformational generative grammar.

Who's to say it can't be both

 

[butters]

Is a poem's voice necessarily the same as the author's?

for me, no, and its voice takes precedent over mine every day of the week unless it is a pure exercise in 'head' poetry if I need to produce something when I don't feel it. I don't know if I write better under either 'voice' but by allowing the poem freedom, I gain freedom, too, to see things from different perspectives than my own.

 

[42BelowsBack]

Love Love Love that everyone disagrees with me, it means I must be right. The earth isn't flat it’s all around.

 

[Tzara]

Is a poem's voice necessarily the same as the author's?

For younger poets (i.e. relatively inexperienced poets, regardless of physical age), I think the answer to this question is more often than not "yes." The poet writes about their life and concerns, trying to get their emotions and experiences down on paper for personal reasons—to work through emotional problems or to try and explain themselves to others or something like that.

For "professional" poets (e.g. those published in major journals or who have books from established publishing houses, often those who teach poetry at the university level) my feeling is that, regardless of whether a poem is written in first person or not, the "voice" is more distanced from the poet's personal identity. This is regardless of whether the inspiration of the poem is personal experience or not. Even with the so-called "confessional poets" (Lowell, Plath, Sexton, et al.), their poems are striving for something more universal than simply describing personal experience. Take this poem by Anne Sexton:

The Ballad of the Lonely Masturbator

The end of the affair is always death.
She’s my workshop. Slippery eye,
out of the tribe of myself my breath
finds you gone. I horrify
those who stand by. I am fed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

Finger to finger, now she’s mine.
She’s not too far. She’s my encounter.
I beat her like a bell. I recline
in the bower where you used to mount her.
You borrowed me on the flowered spread.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

Take for instance this night, my love,
that every single couple puts together
with a joint overturning, beneath, above,
the abundant two on sponge and feather,
kneeling and pushing, head to head.
At night alone, I marry the bed.

I break out of my body this way,
an annoying miracle. Could I
put the dream market on display?
I am spread out. I crucify.
My little plum is what you said.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

Then my black-eyed rival came.
The lady of water, rising on the beach,
a piano at her fingertips, shame
on her lips and a flute’s speech.
And I was the knock-kneed broom instead.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

She took you the way a woman takes
a bargain dress off the rack
and I broke the way a stone breaks.
I give back your books and fishing tack.
Today’s paper says that you are wed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

The boys and girls are one tonight.
They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies.
They take off shoes. They turn off the light.
The glimmering creatures are full of lies.
They are eating each other. They are overfed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
​

This poem was written after the end of a brief but intense affair Sexton had with the poet James Wright. The narrator is anguished, depressed, angry, all as Sexton probably was, but as expressed in the poem, the focus is broadened from the particular (Sexton's breakup with Wright) to something more universal (the emotions of a woman who feels jilted and her expression of sexual frustration via masturbation).

One of the things I have always found a bit odd is how readers often, even typically, react to the "I" voice in a poem as denoting the author's actual experience/emotion/etc. Whereas in fiction, first person narrative is almost never treated as the author's personal voice. Perhaps this is because there is a whole genre, literary memoir, that is focused on authorial experience (though even there I suspect the narrative is altered for artistic reasons).

In my own poetry, though I typically write in first person, I'm not usually writing about personal experience, at least not what I might call "raw" personal experience. That doesn't mean I think of myself as a "more accomplished" poet and certainly not as a "professional," it merely means I tend to tweak things anywhere from a bit to completely fabricating what I'm writing about.

And it doesn't mean that I think poetry written from and about personal experience is somehow inferior. One writes what and how one needs to write.

Anyway, I'm curious about others' approach to this.

 

[42BelowsBack]

An ant considers The Ant Hill.
The Ant Hill need not consider an ant.

An ant can’t argue with that, but,
Tzara’s post has ant me thinking… I should really sit down but ( ……… ) fill in the blank.

 

[42BelowsBack]

How Readers influence poets and poems.

There is a lot to unpack in @Tzara’s post above. I’m going to start with inserted quote below.

… how readers often, even typically, react to the "I" voice in a poem as denoting the author's actual experience/emotion/etc. Whereas in fiction, first person narrative is almost never treated as the author's personal voice. Perhaps this is because there is a whole genre, literary memoir, that is focused on authorial experience (though even there I suspect the narrative is altered for artistic reasons).

• I wonder how many poets have found themselves fundamentally in a mental mire, because of the above reader phenomena.
• I wonder if it is a creative hinderance to write with a mythical reader in mind? Of course when submitting works to a literary journal one must match the publication’s preferences.

• Is the difference between poetry and other forms of creative writing the reader’s perceived space inhabited by the writers?
  • Are poems inherently seen as short commentaries on real things? Of course not, we’d all be bored to death but!
  • Are poets and poems primarily seen as expressions of universal experience?

Or is a serious poet seen pulling wool from a jumper and remaking it a sheep?
While the newish poet writes, the hole in their jumper was once my lamb?

When I think on, how a perceived audience can influence a poem: The question beckons, what is the separation between I as a new poet and me as an Established one? (Which I am not). Is it, an Established poet writes knowing their audience, while the newbie poet fundamentally writes for themselves and calls it artistic freedom?

 

[_Land]

How Readers influence poets and poems.

There is a lot to unpack in @Tzara’s post above. I’m going to start with inserted quote below.

• I wonder how many poets have found themselves fundamentally in a mental mire, because of the above reader phenomena.
• I wonder if it is a creative hinderance to write with a mythical reader in mind? Of course when submitting works to a literary journal one must match the publication’s preferences.

• Is the difference between poetry and other forms of creative writing the reader’s perceived space inhabited by the writers?
  • Are poems inherently seen as short commentaries on real things? Of course not, we’d all be bored to death but!
  • Are poets and poems primarily seen as expressions of universal experience?

Or is a serious poet seen pulling wool from a jumper and remaking it a sheep?
While the newish poet writes, the hole in their jumper was once my lamb?

When I think on, how a perceived audience can influence a poem: The question beckons, what is the separation between I as a new poet and me as an Established one? (Which I am not). Is it, an Established poet writes knowing their audience, while the newbie poet fundamentally writes for themselves and calls it artistic freedom?

Open the Poem and See All the Sheeple

Come now
step gently past the gate,
there’s hay on the first stanza
and a metaphor chewing cud in the corner.

I am only the shepherd,
ink-smudged and half-awake,
calling out in a voice
that sounds suspiciously
like your own heartbeat
if it wore boots.

You, dear reader,
are the sheep,
fluffy with assumptions,
braying for meaning,
trampling the violets
I planted in stanza three.

You nose the verse,
ask if it’s edible.
You bleat when it isn’t
about you.

Sometimes,
you let me shear a feeling.
Sometimes,
you kick the bucket of enjambment.

Oh, little woolly oracle,
you think I tend this field
just for the view?

No.
I write so you’ll follow.
So you'll pause
at the salt lick of a line
and wonder
who dreamed you into the pasture.

I lead you
not with answers,
but with rhythm.
With fence posts
and half-rhymes
and the occasional
honest apple
in a stanza's pocket.

But every now and then
a lamb wanders off
with a whole verse in its mouth,
refuses to explain,
and that
is how poems grow.

So go on,
open the poem.
Sniff around.
Spit out what tastes like metaphor.

And if I bleat back,
just know:
it’s not always for you.
But it’s always
because of you.

 

[_Land]

Open the Poem and See All the Sheeple

Come now
step gently past the gate,
there’s hay on the first stanza
and a metaphor chewing cud in the corner.

I am only the shepherd,
ink-smudged and half-awake,
calling out in a voice
that sounds suspiciously
like your own heartbeat
if it wore boots.

You, dear reader,
are the sheep,
fluffy with assumptions,
braying for meaning,
trampling the violets
I planted in stanza three.

You nose the verse,
ask if it’s edible.
You bleat when it isn’t
about you.

Sometimes,
you let me shear a feeling.
Sometimes,
you kick the bucket of enjambment.

Oh, little woolly oracle,
you think I tend this field
just for the view?

No.
I write so you’ll follow.
So you'll pause
at the salt lick of a line
and wonder
who dreamed you into the pasture.

I lead you
not with answers,
but with rhythm.
With fence posts
and half-rhymes
and the occasional
honest apple
in a stanza's pocket.

But every now and then
a lamb wanders off
with a whole verse in its mouth,
refuses to explain,
and that
is how poems grow.

So go on,
open the poem.
Sniff around.
Spit out what tastes like metaphor.

And if I bleat back,
just know:
it’s not always for you.
But it’s always
because of you.

This Tastes Like Grass

Oh, wow.
A metaphor.
How original.
Was I supposed to bow?

You toss your art
like alfalfa
and expect me to find
a hidden god
in the feed.

I read your poem.
Twice.
(Okay once and a half,
but I skimmed
with intention.)

You say the fence means restraint,
I say,
splinters in the tongue.
You say the apple is original sin,
I say,
meh. Mealy.

I don’t feel seen,
and isn’t that
the whole point?

Honestly,
the enjambment gave me hiccups.
The rhyme skipped.
The sorrow felt
manufactured.

I was expecting
a story.
Maybe a moral.
At least a clear protagonist
with trauma I could
co-opt for brunch conversation.

Instead,
you led me
through syntax
like a maze of stale clover,
then stared
like I was supposed to cry.

But hey
good for you.
You sheared your soul
or whatever.
I chewed it
like cud.

Tasted like
grass.
With a side of
overthinking.

Next time,
maybe throw in
a diagram.
Or a wolf.
Or some closure.

Baaaa.

 

[_Land]

This Tastes Like Grass

Oh, wow.
A metaphor.
How original.
Was I supposed to bow?

You toss your art
like alfalfa
and expect me to find
a hidden god
in the feed.

I read your poem.
Twice.
(Okay once and a half,
but I skimmed
with intention.)

You say the fence means restraint,
I say,
splinters in the tongue.
You say the apple is original sin,
I say,
meh. Mealy.

I don’t feel seen,
and isn’t that
the whole point?

Honestly,
the enjambment gave me hiccups.
The rhyme skipped.
The sorrow felt
manufactured.

I was expecting
a story.
Maybe a moral.
At least a clear protagonist
with trauma I could
co-opt for brunch conversation.

Instead,
you led me
through syntax
like a maze of stale clover,
then stared
like I was supposed to cry.

But hey
good for you.
You sheared your soul
or whatever.
I chewed it
like cud.

Tasted like
grass.
With a side of
overthinking.

Next time,
maybe throw in
a diagram.
Or a wolf.
Or some closure.

Baaaa.

The Wolf in sheeps cloths

From the ridge
I watch them
waltz their old routine

the shepherd,
earnest as compost,
scribbling verse into the wind
like it’ll sprout meaning
come spring.

The sheep?
Puffed and prim,
nose-deep in stanza,
mouthing every line
like scripture gone stale.

“I think the apple represents capitalism,”
says one,
before shitting on the metaphor.

Another chews the fencepost
and calls it
postmodern brilliance.

The shepherd wipes sweat
from a brow furrowed
with intent.
Tries again.

The sheep blink.
Snort.
Ask if there’s a movie version.

Oh, gods.

I haven’t howled like this
since someone used ekphrasis
to describe a barn fire.

The shepherd’s trying
to bottle lightning
in a soup spoon.
The sheep want
alphabet-shaped oats.

I should eat them all
for the comedy alone,
but it’s better
to watch the sermon stumble,
the flock interpret
mud as climax,
punctuation as plot twist.

No one’s right.
No one’s wrong.
They’re just grazing
on a poem
never meant for digestion.

And me?

I lurk at the edge,
tail curled like a question mark,
fangs caught
between a snicker
and a sonnet.

Because out here
in the wild
where intention gets lost
and reception runs feral
the real feast
is watching art starve
under the weight
of being understood.

 

[StrangerDuJour]

How many poets
does it take
pushing that wheelbarrow

 

[_Land]

How many poets
does it take
pushing that wheelbarrow

Is the wheelbarrow full of empty ?

 

[Angeline]

How Readers influence poets and poems.

There is a lot to unpack in @Tzara’s post above. I’m going to start with inserted quote below.

• I wonder how many poets have found themselves fundamentally in a mental mire, because of the above reader phenomena.
• I wonder if it is a creative hinderance to write with a mythical reader in mind? Of course when submitting works to a literary journal one must match the publication’s preferences.

• Is the difference between poetry and other forms of creative writing the reader’s perceived space inhabited by the writers?
  • Are poems inherently seen as short commentaries on real things? Of course not, we’d all be bored to death but!
  • Are poets and poems primarily seen as expressions of universal experience?

Or is a serious poet seen pulling wool from a jumper and remaking it a sheep?
While the newish poet writes, the hole in their jumper was once my lamb?

When I think on, how a perceived audience can influence a poem: The question beckons, what is the separation between I as a new poet and me as an Established one? (Which I am not). Is it, an Established poet writes knowing their audience, while the newbie poet fundamentally writes for themselves and calls it artistic freedom?

I think about audience at the editing stage. When I write that first draft I'm not thinking about myself or others, but what word comes next, where should the line end, do I need to add space, if it's a form poem am I following the rules (and if I'm about to break them is there a good reason for it)?

When editing I'm thinking about whether what I've written will make sense or even engage people who don't know me and if the answer is probably not, I'll either try to fix it or put the poem aside to reconsider later.

If I'm writing strictly for me there's no point in anyone else seeing it.

 

[_Land]

I think about audience at the editing stage. When I write that first draft I'm not thinking about myself or others, but what word comes next, where should the line end, do I need to add space, if it's a form poem am I following the rules (and if I'm about to break them is there a good reason for it)?

When editing I'm thinking about whether what I've written will make sense or even engage people who don't know me and if the answer is probably not, I'll either try to fix it or put the poem aside to reconsider later.

If I'm writing strictly for me there's no point in anyone else seeing it.

I think every writer is different and I'm in love with that... Vangoh and Pollock were both incredible painters but with very different styles and processes

The art is in the process, a book or poem can have thousands of reads and not one of them has the exact same resonance from the experience.

No matter who we write for or why, the intention, the understanding of meaning is in the hands of each one reading the lines.

Today's new poem review is an example, my take is 100% my thoughts and how I processed.

It doesn't fully grasp the authors intent or someone else's take. How could it?

Did the author write that for me ?

When I write I accept that the art that I allow in public will be met from wherever the viewer is at. My experience is that sometimes a reader will find more depth then I ever did in the words I wrote. I find that inspiring !

_Land

 

[Angeline]

I don't expect someone who reads my poem to see what I do in it. Context is everything and people bring their own experiences when they read. Often people see different things than what I intended when I wrote. I don't know that I'd call it depth: I don't know any more than that it's their experience, different from mine. And that's fine by me. Occasionally someone will say what they've thought and I'm grateful that they shared.

Otoh all writing imo is about communication. Even the vaguest or hardest to understand writing (ahem Eric Baus) is trying to say something. So it's important to me to be clear in my diction, to choose words most likely to evoke what I want to convey. Not saying I necessarily achieve that, but it's my purpose whether a reader sees it the same way or adds something to it from their context, or however they experience it.

 

[MrMrsMrsMr]

Sometimes I write as a spectator. Poetry allows me to step out of my life and look back in.

I guess it’s where we are in our lives. I am here on Lit Erotica writing accordingly. I think aspirations play a big part in why we write. Sexton’s masturbatory poem guides reader interpretive engagement. Which is part of poems, poets, reader interaction. That of intended interpretation and response. All very simple.

She cleverly provides a key in the title, The Ballad of a lonely Masturbator.

Ballad, noun: a narrative composition in rhythmic verse suitable for singing. A perhaps tenuous but feminine centric reinterpretation of Sexton’s narrative is, masturbation as self reclamation, owning her part. As opposed to a male centric interpretation of a woman engaged in a disempowering act.

Woman don’t need men to fuck themselves.

Ballad. A narrative poem, often of folk origin and intended to be sung, consisting of simple stanzas and usually having a refrain. At night, alone, I marry the bed. Cleverly, Sexton uses repetition, a device commonly found in religious texts to metaphorically own the bed of her masturbatory self making. Sexton it could be argued is very publicly reclaiming her sexual and intellectual freedom.

If we compare my recent masturbatory poem with Sexton’s: It is quickly evident, Sexton wrote with far deeper outcomes in mind. She wrote with hard won expertise.

I think we can all agree. She wrote for an intended audience. Herself in collision with societal norms. She wrote for woman. Getting over men. In this sense she used her break up to write a fucking good member less poem.

 

[SpermFactory]

How many poets
does it take
pushing that wheelbarrow

MASS EQUALS QUALITY
like a shouting conversation.
It takes only one poet.

 

[Angeline]

MASS EQUALS QUALITY
like a shouting conversation.
It takes only one poet.

Also is the wheelbarrow red? What depends on it? Are chickens involved?

 

[_Land]

Also is the wheelbarrow red? What depends on it? Are chickens involved?

 

[SpermFactory]

@Tzara’s post is gold. His point well made. Skilled poets write what they know in ways we ordinary folk can’t realize. As does @Angeline, I don’t expect everyone to see the individual little squigglys that make up my poem.

Wise poets, experienced poets, focus on making the baby not the makings.

I am a ordinary poet. A happily lazy poet, remember a lazy man is a determinedly efficient man. As is a poet, a lazy man who never needs no aims. He pulls his trigger at a ballad. Hits a mallard. Then says duck! Did someone say …. masturbation? Do two hands make a threesome?

That’s how I write a poem, I shoot first and question it latter.

 

[_Land]

Did someone say …. masturbation? Do two hands make a threesome?

A Threesome or me

It started with a stretch.
Then a scratch.
Then a hmm… might as well.

Left came in lazy,
fingers cold,
clumsy like she forgot
the assignment.
Right?
Right’s a freak!
knew the grip,
knew the beat,
knew when to whisper
“we doing this or what?”

No candles.
No playlist.
Just sweatpants
and the kind of silence
that says don't knock.

I switched hands
mid-session
called it a plot twist.
Left took offense,
but stayed in the game.
She’s got endurance,
just no rhythm.

Fifteen minutes later
I was cross-eyed,
glowing,
dehydrated,
and deeply satisfied
by the only lovers
who never ask
"what are we?"
after.

Cleanup on aisle me.

 

[StrangerDuJour]

Also is the wheelbarrow red? What depends on it? Are chickens involved?

plucky questions...
read wheelbarrow
that depends

 

[42BelowsBack]

Thank Lit for the iggy button.

 

[MrMrsMrsMr]

Thank’s Lit for the iggy button.

Iggy button? Slang for ignore… gotcha.