Lately I've been spending an inordinate time with other people's poems. So of course I've been thinking in terms of why--why are they writing these poems? why are they writing in verse rather than prose? why do they want to compile their poems into a larger whole? why have they come to me? But as I work with their poems, I also stay aware of my own poems and the reasons behind them . . . I understand that all of these questions (bar the last) are ones that I also need to answer for.
I find it easy to be artist-statement glib: to come up with slick rationales for "why I write." I've done it before, for interviews and such, and likely I'll do it again. Mostly such statements are lyrical and passionate, descendants of Shelley's "unacknowledged legislators" romance. But what if I try to answer the question more precisely, more dryly?
Why do I write poems?
Because I'm in the habit. Because novels have too many words and I'm not skilled at plot. Because somebody told I me could be good at it. Because I don't have a full-time job and I need to fill up my time. Because there can be a certain drug-addled sensation to writing that I suspect is chemical and that I enjoy experiencing. Because when that drug-addled sensation is not triggered, I am used to plodding through chores. Because I want people to believe I have purpose and worth.
Notably, "because I have something to say" is not on that list. I rarely feel as if I have something to say. What I write bursts out awkwardly and without plan. Then I stand back and look at the blurt and start messing around with what I've got.
But "because I want people to believe I have purpose and worth" is true. It's not easy to admit. But we are social animals: we care about how we intersect with others. I think it's normal, maybe good, to recognize that we care about how others see us. Of course, those "others" are very specific. I do not care how Melania Trump sees me. I do care about you, however. And I care about my clan . . . Shakespeare, Milton, the Brontes, George Eliot, James Baldwin, Virginia Woolf, Alice Munro, Margaret Atwood, Audre Lorde. I want them to believe I have purpose and worth.
2 comments:
O, my friend, I think Whitman knew this puzzlement as well:
O Me! O Life!
BY WALT WHITMAN
Oh me! Oh life! of the questions of these recurring,
Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish,
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew’d,
Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me,
Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined,
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?
Answer.
That you are here—that life exists and identity,
That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.
So lovely to bring Whitman into the matter. Thank you.
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