I write poetry. I do not write blog entries. I’ve been feeling compelled, however, to write a blog post about why I write poetry and not blogs or novels or other forms that people think are cooler than poetry. I’m going to blame Doctor Who for my love of this paradox (a blog entry about not blogging), and I’m going to blame this blogging compulsion on the fact that I spent the first weekend in August on a writing retreat with two bloggers (Jacquie Serr is also working on an awesome novel, and Emily Belsey is the best living limerick writer I know.) Both of them write blogs regularly. Clearly their blog genre must be contagious. I wish mine were. Maybe it is?
Let’s begin with this cartoon that a friend of mine posted on facebook:
In the past few months, I’ve had some good luck with publishing poetry chapbooks, but this good fortune has caused me to question why I write and publish poetry. I’m clearly not in it for the money. There is no money. (Seriously.) I’m actually having to fight myself not to just purchase a ton of copies and give them away as gifts to everyone I know, so I’m lucky that this isn’t the gig that feeds my family. It’s not that I don’t want or need the money, but I’m a terrible salesperson and feel scummy when I become more salesperson than writer. Part of me feels guilty about not seeking more payment though, especially when I read something like the cartoon above. Am I complicit in our society’s devaluation of art? Am I part of the problem for other artists who want/need to be paid?
I’m also not in poetry for fame. There’s not much of that to be had for poets, and I don’t desire fame any more. That desire left me after high school when my dreams of being a professional actress faded because I encountered the reality of that hard work (which most often doesn’t lead to fame anyway).
I’m not writing poetry because it’s required for my job. Writing and publishing are part of being a successful academic, but I was a poet before I had this professor gig, and I would be writing and publishing poetry if I were not a professor. I imagine that, if I live long enough, my vocation as a poet will not end when I retire from teaching (although I do plan to take up painting when I retire, like Joni Mitchell).
So why in the world would anyone spend a lot of time doing something that is not required and that doesn’t bring money or fame?
Some people treat poetry the same way they treat God: they only use it for special occasions (deaths, births, weddings, occasional holidays). I happen to be someone who both prays often and writes/reads poetry often. I first started composing poems before I could write. Here is my first poem (by Katie Henson, age 4, dictated to my Granny):
The neverending story
Really never ends
For someone who I really love
Really is my friend.
I first felt compelled to create poems because Mom and Granny often read me nursery rhymes, and they encouraged me and helped me when I wanted to write. From an early age, I knew that my Mom could quote her favorite poem: Robert Frost’s “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.” I had teachers from first grade through high school who gave me interesting poetry to read and who encouraged me to write poetry for class assignments and for fun—these were never separate categories. In elementary school, my best friend Lori and I spent 2 years writing song lyrics together when we were supposed to be doing our Honors homework (sorry, Mr. Ermel!). I had friends, family, and teachers who praised my poetry attempts when I shared them, and I had professors who told me that I was a poet and showed me how to be. Writing poetry makes me feel connected to these dear people.
Poetry also connects me to the writers I love who have come before me—this is the way that I can “talk” with Emily Dickinson and Edna St. Vincent Millay without appearing to be (completely) insane. I also love the way that writing and publishing poetry connects me to the writers and readers of my own time. For being a supposedly solitary and lonely activity, writing poetry has brought me some wonderful connections with all sorts of writers, editors, readers, and colleagues. Some of my favorite friends are people I know because I’m a poet.
Forms like blogs and novels might be more popular with current readers and are arguably better suited for communicating a clear message to a (potentially) large number of people. My goal with poetry is never simply to communicate a message though. I want to participate in a form of communication that speaks to the senses as well as to the intellect, that affects people unconsciously, that is challenging and memorable in a way that haunts people.
And poems have always haunted me. As a child, I often thought of “There Was a Little Girl” whenever I was considering doing something I knew I shouldn’t. I thought of “The Highwayman” whenever I felt desperately romantic as a teenager. When a friend committed suicide in college, I had these lines from Theodore Roethke’s “Elegy for Jane” on repeat in my head:
If only I could nudge you from this sleep,
My maimed darling, my skittery pigeon.
Over this damp grave I speak the words of my love:
I, with no rights in this matter,
Neither father nor lover.
It didn’t matter that this poem was from a male teacher for a female student or that the manner of death didn’t match my friend’s. What spoke to me was that somewhere, someone else in the world had been devastated by the death of someone who was not a relative or even technically “close” to them by the standards of relationship labels. We didn’t have any apparent right to mourn, but we did mourn very deeply.
I could go on for days with a list of poems that haunt me, but I’m not sure if this blog post has a character limit, so I’ll keep this very brief. When I feel myself aging: Edna St. Vincent Millay’s “What Lips My Lips Have Kissed.” When I feel an autumn chill in the air each fall: James Wright’s “Autumn Begins in Martins Ferry, Ohio.” This morning when I felt a cool breeze as I walked to my car, after I thought of Wright’s lines, I actually had my own lines from “The Leaves Left” come to me: “In the heat of August days, / I will hear the autumn come.” I feel like I’ve arrived when my own poems also haunt me.
Answer: I write poetry because I love people. I write poetry because I’m haunted by poetry. I’m not sure if these are good reasons for writing poetry (and not blogs, novels, or something supposedly cooler), and they’re certainly not my only reasons, but they are mine.