Dear friends,
Sometimes I think conflict gets a bad name. Conflict — and by that I don’t mean violent conflict — is at the heart of much of my own artistic practice: feeling conflicted about what I’m making; feeling like there’s tension between the tone I feel in a poem and the language I use in it; strain between what I think I should be doing, and what I am doing… not to mention comparison, that old devil that won’t shut up, that fire that burns on itself, sometimes warming, often destroying.
Our two Poetry Unbound episodes this week look at some of the complications of being an artist. Mark Turcotte’s “Dear New Blood” is a letter written to attendees at a reading he gave. He, a Turtle Mountain Ojibwe man, is reading to a room with members of other Indigenous Nations, and he can sense the tension coming toward him. He isn’t phased by the tension, instead he pleads — with love and playfulness — for that anger to be focused more fruitfully. And in “Artist” by Vidyan Ravinthiran, the poet writes of his wife, whose brother said a clumsy thing years ago about her painting. And even though the brother has tried to compensate by gifts and gestures, the old clumsy thing struck a chord, an insecurity that the artist has been in conversation with her whole life.
We are all artists: there are things we are creating (a home, a painting, a song, a friendship) and the creating of this thing is an act of vulnerability. Not far beneath the surface of creativity lurks a swamp: is what I’m doing good enough, will anyone notice, will it sustain, what does it mean? Swamps are places of life and growth, though, provided you don’t drown. Art is as much a relationship with everything that swamp holds as it is its product.
I am a fan of devils, of old voices, of the worries that keep me awake at night. Somewhere — even in the accusations I have against myself — there is something asking for my attention. Critical attention, intellectual attention, undoing and reframing and resistant attention, yes. I don’t believe everything the devils say, but ignoring them usually only gives them more power. And I don’t want to let power stay in unworthy places, nor do I wish to miss the insight that an old worry might have.
So, that’s the question this week:
As an artist — as someone who makes: whether that’s a loaf of bread, a symphony, a timetable, a plan for the kids, a legacy — what are the worries that you’ve learnt from? What helped you face them and learn from them?
I am, as always, looking forward to reading your replies. Thanks, friends.
Pádraig
The Latest from Poetry Unbound
Episodes 17 & 18
You can also listen on Spotify, poetryunbound.org, or wherever podcasts are found.
Poetry in the World
ONLINE:
I’ll be teaching a five-part online course this autumn — Sunday nights: Oct 8, 15, 22, 20, and Nov 5 — on literary readings of peculiar biblical texts. I approach the art of these stories in deep respect for the artistry of the — mostly anonymous — original writers. This will be an exploration of art, and it’s mostly for those who wish to enjoy a small safari through powerful literature (and come out alive). Registration and details here.
U.S.A.
Open Your World with Poetry | Rhinebeck, NY
I’ll be back at the Omega Institute in New York leading another weeklong retreat, October 1-6. Discussions, readings, and writing sessions exploring the place of poetry, craft, language, and form in our lives. Each day, you’ll examine poems — some well known and other lesser known — and explore the artistry behind them. You’ll delve beyond the how of a poem and look at the why of a poem. Why did it need to be written? What does this poem explore about being human? What is the intuition and intelligence of this poem? What is its hunger? There’ll be prompts for you to respond to. Open for all who love writing or reading poetry — or want to! While the format and numbers will be similar to 2022’s event, we will include small groups, and the poems and prompts will be different to the previous year. Details, registration, and information about scholarships here.
SCOTLAND
“Poetry, Spirit and Survival” | Island of Iona, Scotland
I’ll be leading a retreat March 13-18, 2024. Send a note through the event page to indicate your initial interest here, with a more detailed schedule to come.
I turn my tensions into characters. I give them body parts and hairdos and features--like a wiry, strained neck. Then I lay them in bed and make them tea and rub their bunions and ask them how I can help. It helps to have a friend guide me through this process--a quiet gentle voice that coaxes out the relationship. It always shows me some shadow I haven’t cared for. It always leads to deeper self love and an ability to incorporate the doubt rather than defend against it. (Which is impossible when it stays halfway in denial.)
As a writer who's sometimes pulled to rage on the page, but who also feels dread mingled with sadness when I do so because it never captures the whole of my heart, I'm learning to pause.
I'm learning to take a moment to consider being more contained, less confronting. Not out of fear of making people hate me or hate me harder. But, out of love. Out of seeing that we're all human here, still figuring it out.
Also, about that tension: “Take your well-disciplined strengths and stretch them between two opposing poles. Because inside human beings is where God learns.”
—Rainer Maria Rilke, Just As The Winged Energy Of Delight, as translated by Robert Bly