How To Write A Beautiful Poem
What Is Bad Poetry?
By bad poetry, I, by no means am referring to work which is
amateurish or unpolished. I see poems every day on the forums
which have typos, poor phrasing, and insufficient imagery.
That's fine. I love some of those poems! I love the ones where
you can sense that the poet really means it! And, you know,
there's just no faking that. When one is writing about a person,
experience, or anything that significantly altered her, the
piece dazzles like a kaleidoscope in the sun.
Sometimes I'll read one of those poems repeatedly, and it will
just keep knocking me on my ass. There is something so
intrinsically wonderful about writing a poem which is heartfelt.
Somehow, even the untalented, and, in extreme cases, borderline
illiterate will find a way to sing in verse. That seems to be
some type of divine intervention: a balancing act which
intervenes to allow anyone to communicate felicitously--if only
those sentiments matter enough to them. Yes, indeed, there is
something very wonderful in this, and each will find her own way.
Thelonious Monk Said
It's interesting that a Thelonious Monk quotation should demand
my attention now. And, on second thought, what could possibly be
more fitting? Monk, of course, was a black American genius,
which, as I've written elsewhere, may very well be the reason
why so few Americans know his name. In a more perfect world (and
that world is coming!) we would have a national holiday to
celebrate this musical mastermind, but, let me stay on point
(though, it's often fun not to : ) )...
Thelonious Monk said, "I compose my piece with a formula I
created myself...I find inspiration in myself." And, that's what
I'm talking about! What is it about your life that is your
source of inspiration? What really matters to you? Whatever it
may be, choose it as the material you write about. That, in my
humble opinion, should be the foundation of creative writing.
Determine where your heart lies, and you will have an endless
supply of material.
Different Levels Of Literalness
So, to illustrate the point, let's consider three poets who
wrote very differently: Langston Hughes, Pablo Neruda, and
Wallace Stevens. These three poets so well represent the
literal-to-abstract spectrum, and, all three are
marvelous...some of my absolute favorites. I don't think it's
possible to say which is definitively the best, which is the
whole point of this: they wrote differently; each wrote like
only he could write, and thus comparisons of quality lose
absolute meaning and become more a matter of personal taste. So,
let's take a look at a poem from each poet to explore this issue
in greater detail.
Langston Kicks It On The Level
I remember when I first read Langston Hughes: I was fifteen, and
an artist I knew out in Manhattan had one of the paperbacks in
his studio. I read the book and it had that quality about it:
that visceral sting that indicates the real thing. Here is one
of Langston's poems:
Cross
My old man's a white old man And my old mother's black. If ever
I cursed my white old man I take my curses back.
If ever I cursed my black old mother And wished she were in
hell, I'm sorry for that evil wish And now I wish her well.
My old man died in a fine big house. My ma died in a shack. I
wonder were I'm going to die, Being neither white nor black?
Okay, thank you Langston. Moving right along now:
Pablo Kicks It Down The Middle
I wanted to try to maintain consistency and say, "I remember
when I first read Pablo Neruda..." But, I don't remember when
that was. All I can tell you is that Pablo's awesome, so let's
take a look at one of his poems:
In the night we shall go in
In the night we shall go in, we shall go in to steal a
flowering, flowering branch.
We shall climb over the wall in the darkness of the alien
garden, two shadows in the shadow.
Winter is not yet gone, and the apple tree appears suddenly
changed into a fragment of cascade stars.
In the night we shall go in up to its trembling firmament, and
your hands, your little hands and mine will steal the stars.
And silently to our house in the night and the shadow, perfume's
silent step, and with starry feet, the clear body of spring.
Wow, holy cow man! That's Pablo Neruda. Okay, I do remember when
I first read Wallace Stevens. I believe that was 1990, and I was
right here in Pennsylvania, and the book had a yellow cover, and
I believe it was an anthology. Okay, let's take a look at
Wallace's approach:
Wallace Kicks It In The Clouds
Poem Written at Morning
A sunny day's complete Poussiniana Divide it from itself. It is
this or that And it is not. By metaphor you paint A thing. Thus,
the pineapple was a leather fruit, A fruit for pewter, thorned
and palmed and blue, To be served by men of ice. The senses
paint By metaphor. The juice was fragranter Than wettest
cinnamon. It was cribled pears Dripping a morning sap. The truth
must be That you do not see, you experience, you feel, That the
buxom eye brings merely its element To the total thing, a
shapeless giant forced Upward. Green were the curls upon that
head.
Right From The Heart: Write From The Heart
Hopefully these examples have successfully portrayed the central
idea of this essay. You see, these three poets wrote quite
differently from each other; and they are all great. And why?
Because they're writing as only they can write: right from the
heart about what matters to them. And, that approach is one that
everyone is capable of following. It should be noted that I
don't mean to stylistically pigeon-hole these three poets. There
were periods when Langston wrote in a much more abstract,
thoroughly modern way, with abrupt phrasing, simultaneous
voices, the whole deal. And, there are poems of Pablo that are
quite straight-forward: similar to the Langston poem quoted
above.
In conclusion, write your poem: the one that only you are
capable of writing. It will be beautiful. Believe me.