In April's "Verse-Virtual," poets offer hints at what they do in poems about poetry. What it is, how they do it. Unsurprisingly, they have a lot to say on this close to home subject. What's impressive is how various, how different these poems prove to be. But then, again, they're poets.
Joan Colby's
"Processes" explains, and embodies, the practice of allowing a part
to stand for a whole (synecdoche), as in this fine figure:
"A few hieroglyphs
On the snow
Said everything there was
To know of winter."
On the snow
Said everything there was
To know of winter."
It's a device that
lives forever in poetry because it enables a little to say lot, and concision of
expression (most poets appear to agree) is at the technical heart of poetry. You
get to go farther, faster. Read the rest of "Processes" to see how
far this poem of wonderful self-examination travels.
A poem has a
"persona" according to Ed Conti ("Dramatis personae"),
explaining the use of the word "fuck" in a poem to a reader who
happens to be as close a reader as can be found (a spouse). It's impossible not
to quote this justification:
"It’s the voice of the poem, I explain,
the speaker, the someone
who’s saying these things and
I, the poet, declaim them,
like an actor."
the speaker, the someone
who’s saying these things and
I, the poet, declaim them,
like an actor."
This poem knows that its
persona has mounted a soapbox and is setting himself up for a fall. The
spouse's reply is priceless.
Robert Wexelblatt's
extended metaphor in "Basement" offers us an esthetic theory in a
poem, illustrating how metaphors are for making poems. This poem follows
the natural associations of the basement: a foundation for a house, something
to build on. Also perhaps some place to hide, or to go deep inside yourself --
a "damp womb of words."
And then, of course, a
final resting place. As the poem tells us:
"Some people just can’t help thinking of graves,
Of a future when the basement’s all there
Is. So my cellar’s a memento mori too."
Of a future when the basement’s all there
Is. So my cellar’s a memento mori too."
In a second poem on
metaphor ("Twenty Lines on Metaphor"), those lines demonstrate what
metaphor can do, as in this stunning example of the synecdoche:
"The art
of the broken twig invents the forest."
of the broken twig invents the forest."
Speaking of
'forest,' Diana Henning gave us a parable in "A WORD LED ME INTO A FOREST/
OF TALL TREES & EVERGREENS" that begins:
"The lovely poem married a dog.
When the poem wanted inspiration,
the dog fetched. When the dog wanted
a bone, the poem wrote a piece
entitled Bone."
When the poem wanted inspiration,
the dog fetched. When the dog wanted
a bone, the poem wrote a piece
entitled Bone."
What does this 'lovely
poem' tell us about the nature of poetry? Perhaps that there is no substitute
for the imaginative quality traditionally called "invention." This
poem has it in -- spades? Well, the whole deck.
Then there is Carole
Stone's approach of gathering something of the nature of poetry by examining
the life of the poet, in this case a "Celebrated" one. The poem's
perfectly achieved description of the famous (or 'popular') poet reading expressively on
stage shows what seems to me either the pursuit of the actor's art or a state
of temporary insanity:
"To sing a little tune, dance a few steps
before each poem, one hand raised,
waving, each simple gesture
a celebration and a mourning?"
before each poem, one hand raised,
waving, each simple gesture
a celebration and a mourning?"
The poem superbly
imagines the horrors of the head-on pursuit of fame. I don't behave like this
(or know any poets who do), but -- ah-ha -- maybe my poems do? Dear me!
Marilyn Taylor's quick-paced, witty review of three common
poetic forms, among other virtues, reminds me of the appeal of the double
dactyl (an educated taste I hope some day to acquire) in "Nice Try: a
Double-Dactyl." Emily Dickinson is one of those exemplifying double-dactyl
names. The poem starts with ED but goes a long way in a few lines.
"Subversive
Sonnet" demonstrates the exact opposite of doing what the final couplet
tells us what may happen in sticking to formal verse script:
"Go that way,
and you’ll convince us that there’s nothing worse
than writing really lousy formal verse."
and you’ll convince us that there’s nothing worse
than writing really lousy formal verse."
Alarie Tennille's poem ("Poetry 101") is almost too
clever for words -- but then the poem is
those words -- illustrating something true, but squishy, about the nature of
poetry by offering what appears to be a didactic poetry lesson, but consists
entirely of figurative language. While also
being a peerless satire of a poetry writing class. When the class is asked to
write a poem about a jellyfish -- why a jellyfish is not like a poem; or maybe
it is? -- we get this:
Because you can see through
a jellyfish to what lies behind it,
suggests Mr. Loves to Talk. Like in a poem, he adds.
suggests Mr. Loves to Talk. Like in a poem, he adds.
I love that "like/ in a poem." (All we know,
perhaps, and all we need to know.) And I love this poem.
I also love Steve Klepetar's
"Submission Guidelines" for capturing so completely the editorial
voice of too many born-yesterday poetry journals. I think almost anyone who
"submits" -- and that's the word for it -- products of their hard-won creative
work to people they don't know in the entirely reasonable expectation that
they're not wanted will recognize every line in this laugh-and-cry parody. The
hackneyed 'with-it tone' is spot on:
"We like
edgy, poems that foam at the mouth, work
unafraid to dig its way to China..." Be sure to read the rest.
edgy, poems that foam at the mouth, work
unafraid to dig its way to China..." Be sure to read the rest.
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Tricia Knoll's "Just My Luck to Never Know" has me at its first
lines. (Really, the titles alone of so many of these poems tell us how willing
poets are not to take themselves too seriously.)
"What boon is it that English
rhymes bone with stone?"
rhymes bone with stone?"
The unstated poetic
principle here is that poetry is, or may be (and sometimes clearly is) about jumbling words together that, logically speaking,
appear to have nothing to do with one another. There's some game-playing
involved in this business, isn't there? "Bone" is sort of like
"stone" in that they're both hard. But only sound connects either to
'boon" -- which, however, happily rhymes to moon, soon, strewn, loon, etc.
This "lucky" poem goes on to give us remarkable happenstance
associations such as:
"Why did an online haiku generator
call me a leftover geometry
in a timeframe of glass?"
call me a leftover geometry
in a timeframe of glass?"
Maybe somebody else's poems
will provide the answers to questions like that.
Find these poems and others in the April 2018 issue of Verse-
Virtual. Here's the link:
Virtual. Here's the link:
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