Poetry Workshop

I just want to express a couple of thoughts on workshops, poetry workshops in particular. You know, those meetings whose main purpose is to provide a forum for a poet to present his work before an audience of his peers, and receive considered feedback rather than instant reaction.

We're not considering closed groups here. Those also have a role to play; they become intimate as the members grow together. This is about open groups, no membership required.

There are several things you should be aware of when participating. Because you approach the group for a stated purpose, to receive critical assistance, don't bring a poem which you don't believe you should change, that you think is so good that you just want to show what you can do. Your friends and peers may well cut it to ribbons to show you how they would improve it. If you don't think a poem needs improvement, don't bring it. The group is not there to heap praise; don't expect it.

Also consider this. Since it is not a closed group but open to anyone expressing an interest, making a presentation to such an audience can be considered a form of publication, especially if hard copies of your work are distributed. You have very little control over what happens to those copies in the hands of your "public."

Just a few things to consider. Remember, when you ask a friend to become a critic he also becomes an antagonist. Usually the frienship remains unharmed.

A Sense of Community

Last Thursday I attended a book launch that became something other than simply that. Let me explain.

Brian Prince, Bookseller hosted an event introducing the publications of two local writers. Because the book store is also commemorating twenty years of service to the community, the event became a celebration of that community and the store as its focus.

Aside from the obvious literary connections to a bookstore, there were artists from other disciplines involved. The venue was a private art gallery with all the plastic arts represented. As well as the authors reading - one poetry, the other creative non-fiction - there was a presentation by a singer/songwriter. And the audience gathered seemed a good cross-section from different arts groups and backgrounds.

Gathered together at that event in that place and for that purpose, it was evident how vigorous the local arts community is. Truly something to celebrate, and to take note of the many diverse venues, organisations, etc. that serve as a temporary or more permanent focal point.

The Inherent Rhythm of Language

The other day a lady friend of mine brought a new poem to a workshop we both attend. Her poem surprised me because it was not in her usual style, longer lines with almost no sense of a cohesive rhythm. This time she had done something completely different.

Not only were the lines short, almost all the same length, but she had marked (and left those marks on the page inadvertently) each line with the number of syllables she had used. Most lines were four syllables, with the occasional use of five or three.



Now I'm not one to advocate counting syllables in poetry instead of using and playing with established rhythms, but in this case it worked. It helped that she used a four syllable line, most usually of two words; in English it seems difficult to put four syllables together without ending up with an iambic dimeter or a close variation thereof with a trochee or spondee. There seems to be no way a unit of four syllables can stand without at least one, and more comfortably two stresses. And this becomes a natural iambic rhythm, pleasing to the ear and to the mind.

This started me reflecting on the natural rhythms of languages, especially Indo-European languages with which I'm familiar. For me, iambic feels so right for English, (much more so than for Old English and even Middle English.) daDUM daDUM daDUM daDUM seems to roll so fluently from the throat. On the other hand, German, Dutch, etc. seem to come into being as a stream of trochees: DUMda DUMda DUMda DUMda.
French, again, has another and separate rhythm pattern expressed (to my ear) in anapests, dadaDUM dadaDUM dadaDUM dadaDUM (see Gilles Vigneault's "Mon pays ce n'est pas un pays c'est l'hiver.") The foot my ear finds most often in the Italian language, and I believe also in Spanish, is amphibrachic, with the stress on the penultimate of a three syllable foot, daDUMda daDUMda daDUMda daDUMda.


Ah, marvel at the subtle intricacies of the rhythms of language! Truly it is a reflection of the music of the spheres, the sound of all things working and singing together!

TANKA

Recently I was honoured to receive a real introduction to the Japanese poetry form, tanka. I had been aware of it for a long time but never tried to explore it; I saw it as an extended haiku, a haiku with two unnecessary lines added, a bastardized form if you will. I was wrong, very wrong. The tanka form is the older of the two. Haiku developed from the objective part of the tanka, and developed rules about seasonal words, etc. which do not restrict tanka.

Tanka consists of two sections. One is the objective observation of something affecting the poet and often expressed almost like the haiku that derived from it. The second is the emotional and personal reaction of the poet to the described matter, a very subjective statement. The blending of these two into a cohesive whole make the tanka.

Forget about syllable counts and other frivolities. Japanese kanji and other linguistic elements do not compare closely to syllables. It is better, as in haiku, to use the smallest number of simple words.

For form's sake we continue to use a five line layout. If the first segment is the objective, the haiku observation, the latter should be the subjective and emotional expression. The middle line may often become a turning point between the two, a part of both observations, but again there is no steadfast rule.

And, as in any good poetry, show rather than tell.

Listening To Silence

I went for a walk one afternoon a week or so ago. That's nothing new; I do that now and then for several reasons. I find it takes me away from the stresses that pile up over time; if I've had more time in the company of a lot of people than I feel comfortable with, a walk is the perfect way to re-focus myself; and surrounded by the natural world, I don't need to be anyone or play any role - just be. So, I took a peaceful stroll through a semi-secluded valley beside a slow-moving stream, kept my mouth shut, and my eyes and ears and mind open.

Somehow along the ramble, a line of thinking developed. I'd been hearing my share of poetry read in the last while, but there seemed to be an integral part missing. Whether the poet who read was dramatic or bland didn't matter. It seemed that all were so intent on getting the words out there, often rattling along like gunfire, that only at the end of a long line (or even several lines) or at the end of a stanza could the poet take a short, sharp breath before continuing. And even that pause was as short as possible so it wouldn't interfere with the delivery of the words, the message.

I believe pauses, stretches of silence, are important to a poem and poetry in general. When I read a printed poem for myself, I am free to pause where I will or must to aid in the comprehension, the digestion of the poem and whatever it delivers. At a public reading or presentation this is often not the case. The better readers, in my opinion, use the weight of silence, of pauses.

Like my quiet afternoon walk, a poem also often needs the emphasis of silence to enhance its full power. We should listen to the silences in a poem as much as to words and meaning. So much of our lives are spent with the awareness of and bombardment by words and sounds that the importance of silence has been lost. We need to re-integrate it into our lives and our poetry.

Shaping a Poem

I've just finished judging the entries for the seventeen-year-olds in the Power of the Pen contest run by the public library. The choice this year was more challenging than last; for the first time I gave out several Honourable Mentions, something I had never needed to do before. There were five poems vying for two places. I gave the three that didn't win or place those honourable mentions.

The entries became a goad to write about shape in poetry, as it differs from form. Most of the entries were centered rather than left margin justified as is the usual manner. Centering, especially three or four word sentences for no specific effect, becomes very annoying. Almost as bad is the "concrete" poem. We all know them: the love poem shaped like a heart, the angel poem shaped like wings, the one about trees taking the form of a tree.

But sometimes a poem takes on a shape of its own, something internal that is part of its manner of expression. It may indent different lines from the margin for emphasis of those lines. Different margins for differing length of line may be used. The first word of a line may be placed in relationship to a word or phrase in the previous line, stressing how it expands or defines that word or phrase. The reasons go on.

Here is an example of its use by e. e. cummings.

The main reason for these words now is because the poem I chose as winner in its category for the Power of the Pen uses such placement of lines on the page and uses it well. By this means it emphasises both shape and meaning of the poem.

I pray it doesn't happen again. A different librarian is in charge this time and I hope she can see the rationale behind keeping the format, that the poem as it appears is more than a string of words.

Like a cubist painting is more than lines and colours.

Sh_t and Bricks

I've done my share of editorial work, both as a general editor selecting work by merit for publication and as a line editor pointing out mistakes in spelling, grammar, construction, etc. Nothing bothers me more than to receive a manuscript, for a single poem or for a book, which the author has not carefully prepared.

It feels as if the poet (writer, whatever) has taken what he has produced, dumped it loose on my doorstep, and asked me to see if there is a jewel in there. Most times I am turned away by the stench and texture alone; for a special reason I may dirty my hands.

What really annoys me is that a writer, finding that he can't do anything with his work, expects that I can and will, that I will grub through the material and find the lumps that may be precious stones, that I will turn worthless material into solid brick and build a structure with them.

That's not my job. My job is to see that the material offered is suitable for the purpose intended. To inspect the single poem and on its merits, not vague promises or possibilities, to decide whether it can be used in a work to which it has been submitted.

The same holds for a longer manuscript. I need to see that quality is maintained throughout, not to provide that quality. I need to see that the bricks fit together, not make or shape the individual brick.

It is so important that a writer learns early to be his own primary editor. He has to be able to recognize the smell of what he produces and measure that against what others make. He has to understand that you can't simply dry it out and give it a different shape. A brick made of sh_t is still pure sh_t and not much of a brick compared to other bricks.

So, before you hand me your crap, be aware of the smell of it. I may need it for fertilizer.