Listening

Recently I heard a poet friend of mine remark in a conversation that listening was a language skill, perhaps the first. I had no chance to ask him to expand on that, but it remained in my own mind as I kept examining and pondering his statement. With the modern time’s emphasis on various communication skills, why are we concerned mostly with expression?

Our first contact with language is as a receiver. Long before we are able to express ourselves in words, we learn to differentiate and categorize the sounds we hear, to recognize what emotion is conveyed by what tone and timbre of a voice. The first understanding of sound groups as words comes long before we imitate and try to make our own. Our own development of language depends on what we hear: the language spoken, the sounds that are part of our environment. (An urban child will have a different understanding of the world than a rural child.) Vocabulary and grammar depend on what we hear more than on what we are taught. Every young child wants to hear stories, to learn about the world in structured sound.

Listening, the other half of a conversation as well as the most important response to a lecture or speech, and its associated activity contemplation have become lost art forms. We pride ourselves on how well we express ourselves. This is especially true of poets. We seldom worry about how and what the audience hear; we worry more about their understanding of the sounds we make, the marks we leave on paper.

I have a habit in conversation of listening to what is said. When I am asked a question, or if a remark requiring a response is directed to me, I don’t answer immediately. I take what I have heard, examine it with some care, and formulate a proper response. This may take from ten seconds to more than a minute; in the mind of the speaker I have ignored it and the conversations flow on without my input. It makes for difficult social chitchat. In a telephone conversation it may become almost paranoiac: “Are you still there? Hello! Hello!”

It seems that the only people we expect to listen are professionals, the therapists and others who get paid to carry out such roles. It seems unnatural that we leave half our language skills, the listening and interpreting, to others.

Perhaps poets can be the spearhead of a movement to reclaim the neglected part of language skills. I don’t mean that they should transcribe what they hear; we have technologies that can do that. But the combination of listening and interpreting, isn’t that what poetry is all about? Shouldn’t we spend more time listening so that our interpretation of the world is more meaningful? I would imagine our poetry would be stronger for it and the world a better place because of it.

Rewriting: Self-Editing

One of the most valuable lessons I learned early in my writing career was that of setting myself apart from my work and seeing it as someone else might. Perhaps it is strange for a poet to say that an author of fiction talking about his own process first explained this to me. The concepts he expounded rang true, so true that I took the ideas to an older poet who I admired as a mentor. He acknowledged that the poet, perhaps even more so than any other writer, had to edit his work relentlessly and carefully. A poem should be concise and precise, a polished jewel. (At the time he was writing and publishing a lot of haiku, and had the explanations and examples from his own work at hand.)

Certainly, this included mundane things like spelling, punctuation, tense, and all the small irritants that could lower the quality of one’s work. But even more important than this was the use of words, of language.

He taught me many things. He taught me to plan a poem, to start with a definite idea of what I wanted to say and how to say it whether directly or through metaphor or simile. Cut all the words and phrases you don’t need, he would instruct. You don’t have to describe an orange as round. There are no square ones. Don’t get sidetracked by another idea that influences or modifies your original. If necessary, turn that into its own poem. Be aware of the influence of even the smallest word: ‘the’ apple refers to one specific apple; ‘an’ apple refers to any apple the reader may envision. Apple without any article suggests the essence of being apple-like and somewhat unreal.

Poems often try to convey ethereal, unsubstantial matters using concrete and physical images. Remember that it is easier and perhaps more effective to describe a boundary as a wall rather than a force field although it is probably neither. Use words that describe common, everyday experiences (and delete one of those words; ‘common’ and ‘everyday’ are almost identical) to hold the readers/listeners attention so that they too will reach your conclusion with you. Whatever you do, don’t pad your work – be it poem, story, article, resume – because it will ring untrue to a careful reader.

Spelling and grammar speak for themselves. If you don’t spell correctly, the words may not mean what you think; if you have no idea of the order and relationship among words, you can’t control what they do or say. It’s as simple as that.

Always edit; if necessary, rewrite. Very few poems, if any, leap perfect to the page from an imperfect mind.

FUCK, the Word

This simple little word has such an unsavoury reputation. For many centuries it has been considered unspeakable, even filthy and wicked. This reputation, however, is changing. It drips from the mindless lips of old men and bubbles from the mouths of infants. As far back as 1972 the Oxford Dictionary decided to include it, only noting that it was considered "vulgar."

What brought on this meditation on the word was not the "fuck you" scream of a preschooler, nor the "fucking awesome!" exclamations of jubilant adults watching the Winter Olympics. I can understand its use in times of stress and emotion, when vocabulary is not the easiest thing to access. But when a poet, a person who should be familiar with words and language, the so-called tools of their trade, calmly describes someone they don't like as a "fucking dog," something is wrong. Certainly the term expresses clearly the high level of contempt implied but the true descriptive powers of language have been completely circumscribed. And such activity should concern anyone working with words.

Fuck is such a beautiful and useful little word. It was probably used in the earliest times of the English language with the simple meaning "to breed, to fornicate." All Germanic languages have a cognate from a common root; most have not been as unfortunate in their treatment.

Two things took away the ease and familiar usage of the term. First was the heavy influx of French and Latin through the Norman conquest so that their terminology took precedence. Second, and related, was the feudal system of land ownership and power, setting administration apart from the common people. After all, "vulgar" does mean "of the common people."

So the word languished outside of the vocabulary of all those who mattered until recently. In the twentieth century, public personalities, be they revolutionaries or simply social agitators, began to slip the word into their speech and writing. But not just as a little verb. They found it so versatile that it could be used as any part of speech.

It is a verb, both transitive and intransitive, i. e. you can simply "fuck" or you can "fuck someone/something". It can be used as a noun, as "a fuck" or "a fucker." It can be used as an adjective, "the fucking car." It will serve as an adverb, "so fucking good." It becomes an interjection, "Oh, fuck!" And the use most distasteful to me, as an intensifier, "he's so fucking smart ..."

I know the language continues to change and that there are no rules that can be enforced. I am not against vulgarities: I claim to be vulgar, one of the common people. All I ask is that we don't forget the other words in the language just because this one is so versatile.


No, no! "May a swarm of honey bees build their hive in your rectum!"

That's what language is for.

Mixed Arts

Friday I went to watch my friend Klyde Broox perform at the Artword Artbar. Klyde is an outstanding poet and performer in the Dub tradition. His performance went well. He had provided for musical breaks, a marimba player who accompanied him for several numbers,improvising a rhythm behind him. Klyde also saw fit to introduce a couple of up-and-coming young spoken word artists.

The main point of interest for me, however, was his expressed desire to run a word/performance evening here once a month. He had done this before at the Staircase a few years ago. As he explains, it is an attempt to get the different cultures to work together on the same stage, in the same venue. He envisions black dub poets and white spoken word artists, mixed with musicians and dancers, performers together in a real potpourri. I performed regularly with him at the Staircase and would gladly do so again.

The Artword Artbar, with its already eclectic establishment of entertainments including film, theatre and dance could be the right venue at the right time. The vibes seem positive.

So, let the action begin! Let the colours blend! Let the multitude of cultures come together and present a heady brew!

Bad Poetry

A heart-to-heart discussion with a friend and fellow "poet" left me thinking about bad poetry, what it is and what causes it. When I met him years ago, his writing held some promise and I encouraged him, showed him the kind of changes to make to his work so that it would be more acceptable and understandable, more catching to the eye and ear. I continued over the years to press him to advance his knowledge of poetry, how it works, how it is structured. Now it seems all my effort was for naught.

He showed me a manuscript he wanted to prepare for publication. Some of the poems he'd sent to me over the years for comment and advice, and I had freely given it. The problem I could so easily see was that he had done nothing with the advice: no rewrite, no structural changes, nothing. The best of the poems he presented we had worked on together twenty years before when I was explaining the basics of writing poetry to him. Since then, nothing had changed; he hadn't moved forward in his knowledge and understanding of poetry.

He said he had a whole file of poetry that he thought wasn't worth much. I asked him how he differentiated between the two. It came out that if someone said they liked it, or approved in any way, he kept it. Otherwise it went into this file. Neither was worked on again.

If only.

If only he could move beyong rhymimg couplets; if only his rhyming couplets had regular rhythms. If only he could get away from "fact" into the realm of simile, of metaphor, of the many nuances of language that is poetry. If only he could begin with a feeling rather than an experience. If only he would read and study others. If only he could be less self-centered and more aware of everything around him, not just the little bits that touch him directly.

I haven't given up on him, not completely. Meanwhile he continues to write bad poetry, and inflict it on others who will say they like it out of pity or ignorance.

There have been bad poets before. I had the dubious honour of exploring the work of Hamilton's William Murray. In the nineteenth century there was James McIntyre of Ingersoll with his poems in praise of cheese. And the Scot William MacGonagall with poems of death and disaster. Poets who could not see or would not recognize their limitations.

And so the tradition continues.

The Beginnings of Poetry

Some time ago an older lady approached me. She explained that she had recently taken up the habit of writing down her thoughts and ideas, her observations and memories, all the little things that were important to her. These writings didn't seem to be stories or anything she could explain as such. Since I was a "well-known poet" could I look at her work and tell her if this was poetry? By then I was already holding the papers she had pushed toward me.

While I looked through her offering, the silence was interrupted only by my wordless mutterings. I knew she was looking for more than a simple yes or no; I had to find some kind explanation of the worth of her writings.

This, I told her, reminds me of the pile of stuff at the end of my garden after winter is over.Here you have a mass of stuff in no recognizable shape. There are stems and branches, some hard, some soft, some brittle. There are clumps of dry grass and old leaves in different states of decomposition. If someone only glanced at it they might consider it dead, worthless. You might get the same reaction to your writing, I warned her.

But among all that dry and brittle and worthless material, I went on, there are probably a few seeds ready to germinate in the coming warmer weather. What a gardener will do is find those seeds that are precious and will become the beautiful flowers she wants. She will carefully nurture them, probably use a compost of previously worthless stems and grasses, and give them every opportunity to become the best they can. And so it should be with your words and thoughts, your feelings and observations. It may seem like a formidable task. If you are not a gardener, you might not want to grow flowers from seed. If you are not a poet, you may not want to grub around in words until they are beautiful to many people. Just remember, there are tools available. The gardener has her seed catalogue, her different soils, her implements. The poet has books with examples and explanations, writers groups, and the traditions of those who have written poetry before. Use all the tools available and be the best gardener, be the best poet you can be.

The Beginnings of Poetry

I used to tell this tale to illustrate how poetry might have begun, about its usefulness and early development. I never did write it down, so here is your chance to develop your own thoughts.

Back in the days when civilization wasn't even a dream, every male of the tribe huddled in their caves and huts was expected to provide food for all. Some wandered through the forests gathering fruits, stems, roots. Others fished in the streams, hunted for animals on the plains.

One reluctant young man went with the hunters but felt out of place. He found his place one day after a very exciting hunt. The hunters returned with a story about many big animals - they killed two, see? Our young man figured he could tell the story better: he had been off to the side and was a better witness than the hunters.

He told a tale of coming upon a great number of large beasts on the plain. These beasts became angry when the hunters slowly approached. They swung their heads back and forth; their horns cut the air like the hunters swinging their knives. The light in their eyes glowed like the coals in the fire at night. Then they decided to run, and as they ran their feet made a loud sound, like that from the sky when it rained sometimes. Even so, the hunters managed to bring down and slay two of these mighty beasts.

Our story-teller was using comparisons to let his audience identify more closely with his experience. He discovered the simile, one of the basics of poetry. In time, all he needed to say was "thundering " and everyone knew he was telling of a herd of great beasts running over the plain. He now had metaphor, the sky-noise standing in place of the hooves-noise. The tribe liked the way this one told stories, but they wanted to hear them again and again.

To help him remember what came where, he developed a pattern of sounds in the telling - rhyme and then other patterns. He developed a rhythm so his cousin could beat that pattern on a drum and help him out, especially when the stories became more intricate or when he began to make up some that hadn't happened but he had only imagined.

This way of passing on history and imagination became not just popular but necessary since there was no other way to let the younger ones know what the elders had done. Poetry became the history, the record, the expression of the life of the tribe.

And then came painting scenes on the cave walls. Nice, but unlike poetry and stories, you couldn't take it with you when you moved.