How I Write A Poem

I am beginning work on this article at 1:30 AM of a particular Saturday morning two weeks before Thanksgiving. There is no heat on in my apartment. Something wrong with some pipe they say. I cannot sleep. Earlier my wife seemed far away to the edge of our bed where the actual distance between us was too great to cuddle without disturbing her. I feel she did not want me to anyway. I had already knocked my glasses off the nightstand along with two books, both critical works on Samuel Beckett if you need to know. Three cups of espresso later I have checked my blog, my email, read a few posts that caught my attention, put the computer away and grabbed my Padgett Powell EDISTO REVISITED, read a little of that, went back to my large collection of Eugenio Montale poems I am revisiting for the umpteenth time, thought about Jonathan Galassi for a bit, my own personal poetry, my editor, my history of writing poems, how hard it will be to find a job next autumn at fifty-six years old, and finally, love.

Eugenio Montale knew how to write a poem. Jonathan Galassi knew how to translate these poems for english-speaking converts. Jonathan Galassi, in my opinion, failed to write a decent poem of his own, but he was utterly brilliant in his translation of Eugenio Montale. That the same Galassi could do such a brilliant job translating Montale and not be able to transfer what he learned into his own work is I think profound. And I am not saying Galassi actually interpreted Montale the way Montale would have wanted his poetry translated. But it is the way I want it, and that is all that matters.

After all my thinking this early morning (actually all through the night), and the enjoyment I derived from letting my mind drift through every thought, I am finally left with not much of anything I really want to say. It is interesting in the sense that just a few moments ago I felt I had so much to say. That is how it is with me. It is quite hard to focus. Or to be ambitious for long stretches of time. That is how I came to poems, especially short poems, as I had less to focus on and a better chance of getting to some end.

Many times the composition of a poem begins with one specific word that is in my mind, a word that emotes something in me. Could be a pretty word, one that looks good on the page. Or maybe an awful word, a dangerous word, or perhaps a sexy-looking word that gets my attention. But nonetheless, if I have a word, I can usually get a poem out of it. It isn't that easy getting a word. And it gets harder as the years go by. Sometimes all I need is a strong feeling about something, a little walk to get my rhythm, and I am off and into composition. Lucky me. From there it has to flow, and it does flow, literally, if I let it. There are instances when I simply write out verbatim what I am thinking and figure out what the poem was behind my literal interpretation of my thoughts on the matter-at-hand. Or, in my case, what is making its demand on my heart. Later I revise. And revise. And revise. And still I revise.

I find many words a bore. Seems to me there are plenty of strong ones that nobody is looking for. Words that make you feel something. There are plenty of words that may not mean what they feel. But I choose words based on what they feel and look like they feel. I figure they shouldn't have been made up in the first place if they don't do what they should have been intended to do. So, rule one is do not use words in the final composition that don't feel or look right. They must also be strong, as in "carry a punch". Rule number two is they really need to have relations with each other. A little incest is good for a poem. A lot is even better. There are many segments of a word such as morphemes, phonemes, trills, glottals, open vowels, and syllables. They need to all be intimately related to all the other segments of the other words and used mathematically. The more intimate they all are the stronger the poem. But placement is everything. The right word in the right place.

But if you don't have an idea of your own none of this matters. If you're not willing to put yourself in jeopardy who would care? If you do not desire to make history you are wasting the reader's time, not to mention your own. What you bring to the page must be your own. You must possess your self. That is not an easy thing to do. Sometimes it takes many years to learn what that even means. Writing poetry is not a recreational sport for me. It is hard work. Frustration. Pain. And sometimes, deliverance. But it only lasts a few short moments, this deliverance, and one must then get on to the next pressing thing.

Desire plays a primary role in most of my poems. If desire wasn't made manifest in all its forms I am certain there would be little to no production on my part. Some would say my poems, for the most part, are erotic. Possibly. But I do visit death often enough to be labeled dark and disconcerting. As in fiction the poet may commit any act, even the attempt and commission of murder on the page. Fantastic is the life of a poet. Unfortunately the pay is poor and there is no reward in heaven for poets, but for that one moment, when you finally get it right, poetry is worth all the suffering. And when you have finally cornered and contained a serious reader deep in the well and midst of your poems, and that reader appreciates them for what these artifacts are, then that is also quite a lovely feeling. But it is historical relevance the serious poet is after as he or she stands on the shoulders of the Mighty Dead and carries on.