I have, recently, been in the awkward position of having an editor tell me my poem was not a poem, because it didn't comply to their understanding of what constitutes poetry. So, ya, good question.
That's interesting, would you like to share it? It's very personal, subjective call I'd hazard. Did it possess a beautiful way of reflecting on something? Beauty is almost always there. Beauty has no rules,
Love an experimental style. Sometimes these experiments are the stepping stones to other things. Well done. Keep going. I'm nearly 50 and only starting out.
I've heard David Whyte say about poetry that it's the language against which you've no resistance to. It's a good aspiration to keep close. How to create such language and distill down what's not needed to create this irresistible language is quite the gauntlet to throw to us.
Some poetry has produced change in me by just being written/spoken to the world at large (never having been written) - never returned to. Perhaps, sometimes, that is enough?
I have been wondering about this same idea as I’ve continued to struggle with Emily Dickinson’s work. Especially after all the glowing love and joy for her from everyone last week. Thanks for asking this.
In lieu of wanting to click "Like" on every single question shared:
So many wonderful questions that remind me of a story i love to tell in my work facilitating groups, teaching, parenting, etc. I learned this story from folklorist Steve Zeitlin (who, incidentally, has a lovely book called The Poetry of Everyday Life which is about storytelling and more and has many wonderful insights about poetry poetry as well):
One day a devoted Talmudic student, normally quiet and studious, ran out of his house shouting, “What is the meaning of life? What is the meaning of life?” He ran through the streets shouting all the while. Startled neighbours poured into the street and followed the shouting boy with growing concern. The boy ran to the centre of town and found himself before the house of his Rabbi. The Rabbi, attracted by the commotion came to the door to see one of his students shouting, almost in tears, “What is the meaning of life? What is the meaning of life?” All the villagers looked on as the rabbi slapped his student across the face. The villagers were shocked. The rabbi had never struck anyone as far as anyone could remember, let alone one of his students. Everyone waited breathlessly to see what the rabbi would do next. The rabbi looked kindly at his student and said: “SUCH a good question. And you want to exchange it for an answer? It is the answers that keep us apart. It is the questions that unite us!”
Listening to Poetry Unbound these past few years (the poems, the poets - familiar and so-many-learned-of-newly - your wisdom and kindness and voice, Pádraig) has been a wonderful gift. But, whereas the gift of Poetry Unbound is, in many ways, an expected one, what is most unexpected and utterly wondrous is the gift of the exchange and dialogue in this newsletter. (Also, i confess to the wee thrill of seeing my comments noticed if not responded to by others.) So, as the solstice approaches which, for those of us here in the northern hemisphere, means the return of the light, I send a great big fat happy thank-you to one and all. And a wonderful season of revels to all who celebrate.
It is the answers that keep us apart. The questions unite us. Yes. Thank you for sharing this. As a Vermonter, also looking forward to the returning light of the solstice...blessings to all in this group. On most Sundays...this has become my pause for sacred sharing.
Thank you Chris. My experience also - the unexpected “gift of exchange and dialogue in this newsletter.” So very true. Thank you for expressing this so beautifully.
With all the acknowledged potential for poetry to heal, what have you found that poetry cannot do; in what corners of the human condition is language impotent?
Oh Peggy. My response is to send you a poem written by the Canadian master poet Patrick Lane who died at almost 80 in March of 2019. The poem is set in his first year or so of recovery at age 60 from a lifetime of drug and alcohol abuse and the year his beloved friend Stephen Reid, once a famous/infamous bank robber in the US and Canada went to maximum security prison for a second time. Susan, in the dedication is the great Canadian poet Susan Musgrave.
False Dawn
For Stephen & Susan
We turn towards words because there’s not much more
to turn to. I love you becomes what I used to call
the dark. I prayed this morning. It wasn’t much,
just me and the god I understand. The earliest birds
wake me now and I keep getting up into what
others call false dawn. I know it sweeter.
That’s the hard part, knowing darkness is there
and singing anyway. Becoming more
becomes less. It’s like an origami dove
chased by a flying child, a kind of solitude
so perfect you keep searching even as you know
there is no cure. I think misery is mostly
what we know. Yet there are days I overflow with love.
My friends are so fragile I’m afraid
to take their hands for fear I’ll break them.
This morning I set out the early sprinkler
and out of the darkness robins came
and varied thrushes I thought our cats had killed.
The water from our highest mountains turned
and turned above our earth
and all the birds went under that falling
with everything they had.
Maybe that’s the measure.
Maybe in the morning light we pray
and rain falls and we lift to its falling
as if we still had feathers, as if with words
we could scrape the sky clean of every kind of pain.
Patrick Lane from The Collected Poems of Patrick Lane, Harbour Publishing, 2011
How, practically, can we unbind poetry and place poems before everyday people every day?
Does poetry need an ad buy, a Superbowl half-time show, an election campaign, a drive-through, a Dollar Spot? "I pledge allegiance to the poem of the United States of Humanity...."
Why are some poems exhausting and tedious and make me never want to read poetry again, while other poems are exhilarating, transformative, and make me wonder why I ever stopped reading poetry?
John Ciardi, who, in his book How Does a Poem Mean (1959), has a chapter titled “The Sympathetic Contract.” In the chapter’s introduction he says, “The reader may be right or wrong in disagreeing with the poet...but once such a disagreement has occurred, that poem has failed for that reader.”
Today is there pressure to click with many voices, many disparate viewpoints, experiences, lexicons. Sometimes I just feel shut out. Trying to be open.
In the particular (poem) lies the universal. I think a poem personally written but having meaning for many, Universal themes does a lot of the connection. Baits the reaction.
Two fold- Like a good conversation, I think we need to be open to or ready for some poems. And perhaps like our conversation partner, a poem’s word choice and how words are used (spoken) is everything.
Pádraig, I was deeply move to hear you at Wake in Belfast once when visiting my daughter and saddened that you did not come to Spark 2023 at The Old Inn. Peter Rollins drew me to Spark by dropping your name-as a possible presenter.
I do wish everyone searching for inner peace could hear your grace-filled words. Might you ever come share your hopeful, discerning words of poetic courage in Lubbock, Texas?🙏🏽 Thanks for the community you build around the world.
Shihab Nye said “No one sees the fuel that feeds you.” Would you agree that people who align with poetry are trying to dig deeper and stoke that fuel.?
what is the relationship between poetry and prayer?
The best poems are prayers!
God / the universe /or whatever name you please for this higher power that seems to be a big source of the inspiration .
Without set form (sonnet) or necessity of rhyme, what makes an otherwise elegantly written paragraph a poem?
I have, recently, been in the awkward position of having an editor tell me my poem was not a poem, because it didn't comply to their understanding of what constitutes poetry. So, ya, good question.
That's interesting, would you like to share it? It's very personal, subjective call I'd hazard. Did it possess a beautiful way of reflecting on something? Beauty is almost always there. Beauty has no rules,
It. Is. Defiant.
I posted it to my stack, in case you were interested in reading it.
Love an experimental style. Sometimes these experiments are the stepping stones to other things. Well done. Keep going. I'm nearly 50 and only starting out.
I've heard David Whyte say about poetry that it's the language against which you've no resistance to. It's a good aspiration to keep close. How to create such language and distill down what's not needed to create this irresistible language is quite the gauntlet to throw to us.
The presence of a beautiful observation.
Does a poem need a reader to complete its purpose?
Some poetry has produced change in me by just being written/spoken to the world at large (never having been written) - never returned to. Perhaps, sometimes, that is enough?
How many purpose can a poem have? Perhaps more purposes than stars in the sky or …
Yes, poems are meant to be read!
A powerful question. ❤️🩹
Both are transformed by it.
I look forward to what Padraig will answer but I have a question. Does a poem ever complete its purpose whether it has a reader or not?
How should one respond when they are unable to enter a poem, when language or imagery or idea pushes them away?
I have been wondering about this same idea as I’ve continued to struggle with Emily Dickinson’s work. Especially after all the glowing love and joy for her from everyone last week. Thanks for asking this.
In lieu of wanting to click "Like" on every single question shared:
So many wonderful questions that remind me of a story i love to tell in my work facilitating groups, teaching, parenting, etc. I learned this story from folklorist Steve Zeitlin (who, incidentally, has a lovely book called The Poetry of Everyday Life which is about storytelling and more and has many wonderful insights about poetry poetry as well):
One day a devoted Talmudic student, normally quiet and studious, ran out of his house shouting, “What is the meaning of life? What is the meaning of life?” He ran through the streets shouting all the while. Startled neighbours poured into the street and followed the shouting boy with growing concern. The boy ran to the centre of town and found himself before the house of his Rabbi. The Rabbi, attracted by the commotion came to the door to see one of his students shouting, almost in tears, “What is the meaning of life? What is the meaning of life?” All the villagers looked on as the rabbi slapped his student across the face. The villagers were shocked. The rabbi had never struck anyone as far as anyone could remember, let alone one of his students. Everyone waited breathlessly to see what the rabbi would do next. The rabbi looked kindly at his student and said: “SUCH a good question. And you want to exchange it for an answer? It is the answers that keep us apart. It is the questions that unite us!”
Listening to Poetry Unbound these past few years (the poems, the poets - familiar and so-many-learned-of-newly - your wisdom and kindness and voice, Pádraig) has been a wonderful gift. But, whereas the gift of Poetry Unbound is, in many ways, an expected one, what is most unexpected and utterly wondrous is the gift of the exchange and dialogue in this newsletter. (Also, i confess to the wee thrill of seeing my comments noticed if not responded to by others.) So, as the solstice approaches which, for those of us here in the northern hemisphere, means the return of the light, I send a great big fat happy thank-you to one and all. And a wonderful season of revels to all who celebrate.
It is the answers that keep us apart. The questions unite us. Yes. Thank you for sharing this. As a Vermonter, also looking forward to the returning light of the solstice...blessings to all in this group. On most Sundays...this has become my pause for sacred sharing.
Thank you Chris. My experience also - the unexpected “gift of exchange and dialogue in this newsletter.” So very true. Thank you for expressing this so beautifully.
Oh how I love every word of this!
With all the acknowledged potential for poetry to heal, what have you found that poetry cannot do; in what corners of the human condition is language impotent?
Oh Peggy. My response is to send you a poem written by the Canadian master poet Patrick Lane who died at almost 80 in March of 2019. The poem is set in his first year or so of recovery at age 60 from a lifetime of drug and alcohol abuse and the year his beloved friend Stephen Reid, once a famous/infamous bank robber in the US and Canada went to maximum security prison for a second time. Susan, in the dedication is the great Canadian poet Susan Musgrave.
False Dawn
For Stephen & Susan
We turn towards words because there’s not much more
to turn to. I love you becomes what I used to call
the dark. I prayed this morning. It wasn’t much,
just me and the god I understand. The earliest birds
wake me now and I keep getting up into what
others call false dawn. I know it sweeter.
That’s the hard part, knowing darkness is there
and singing anyway. Becoming more
becomes less. It’s like an origami dove
chased by a flying child, a kind of solitude
so perfect you keep searching even as you know
there is no cure. I think misery is mostly
what we know. Yet there are days I overflow with love.
My friends are so fragile I’m afraid
to take their hands for fear I’ll break them.
This morning I set out the early sprinkler
and out of the darkness robins came
and varied thrushes I thought our cats had killed.
The water from our highest mountains turned
and turned above our earth
and all the birds went under that falling
with everything they had.
Maybe that’s the measure.
Maybe in the morning light we pray
and rain falls and we lift to its falling
as if we still had feathers, as if with words
we could scrape the sky clean of every kind of pain.
Patrick Lane from The Collected Poems of Patrick Lane, Harbour Publishing, 2011
This is gorgeous, Richard, thank you for sharing it here!
Youbare so welcome Lisa. All best for 2024.
Thank you, Richard. I did not know this poet at all. This is lovely.
I wonder if language can bring us to a door? Wether we are ready to open the door or not is where the energy or potency of the moment come into play.
Not everyone needs words in their life in the shape, vigour and feeling that is poetry.
I do, but not everyone!
Language seems often to be impotent , when falling on the ears of powerful men
Which poems help you return to yourself?
What is the poem that you would read every morning to start your day with your favourite energy?
Maker of the Universe by W. F. Pitts
Mine is Dawna Markova‘s “I will not die in unloved life.”
If I carried poetry with me as I do my wallet, and opened it as often, would my life melt a bit?
How do you select poets and their poems to use on Poetry Unbound?
That was my question too
How, practically, can we unbind poetry and place poems before everyday people every day?
Does poetry need an ad buy, a Superbowl half-time show, an election campaign, a drive-through, a Dollar Spot? "I pledge allegiance to the poem of the United States of Humanity...."
What is it about the words in a poem that has the capacity to open us to heal the past and discover steps into our unknown future?
What is one thing you do to live life more “poetically”?
Invite more beauty
Why are some poems exhausting and tedious and make me never want to read poetry again, while other poems are exhilarating, transformative, and make me wonder why I ever stopped reading poetry?
I hear you, Betsy.
John Ciardi, who, in his book How Does a Poem Mean (1959), has a chapter titled “The Sympathetic Contract.” In the chapter’s introduction he says, “The reader may be right or wrong in disagreeing with the poet...but once such a disagreement has occurred, that poem has failed for that reader.”
Today is there pressure to click with many voices, many disparate viewpoints, experiences, lexicons. Sometimes I just feel shut out. Trying to be open.
Yes!
In the particular (poem) lies the universal. I think a poem personally written but having meaning for many, Universal themes does a lot of the connection. Baits the reaction.
How it does it, its style is important too.
Two fold- Like a good conversation, I think we need to be open to or ready for some poems. And perhaps like our conversation partner, a poem’s word choice and how words are used (spoken) is everything.
I like your perspective Vicky. Poetry as conversation... And being ready to hear or receive the message. This concept works for a lot of things!
Pádraig, I was deeply move to hear you at Wake in Belfast once when visiting my daughter and saddened that you did not come to Spark 2023 at The Old Inn. Peter Rollins drew me to Spark by dropping your name-as a possible presenter.
I do wish everyone searching for inner peace could hear your grace-filled words. Might you ever come share your hopeful, discerning words of poetic courage in Lubbock, Texas?🙏🏽 Thanks for the community you build around the world.
I grew up in Lubbock!
Shihab Nye said “No one sees the fuel that feeds you.” Would you agree that people who align with poetry are trying to dig deeper and stoke that fuel.?