Entries Tagged 'Poetry' ↓

After having someone mention Charles Bukowski in conversation, I went to look him up, and found out from Wikipedia that his gravestone says, "Don’t Try", which was ultimately his philosophy about writing — wait for it to come to you.

I’ve put something I was writing on hold because I found myself unhappy with how it was going — I’ve always had a weakness at editing, a preference for whatever came out originally despite being something with which I’m not quite satisfied.  I realize that it leads to the disclaimers I’ll throw out there sometimes.

I think it’s really hampering me right now.  I’ve been stuck and scared to move on and not come back to it.  Mr. Bukowski might tell me to wait, or that I didn’t wait long enough… but I need to get started soon.  I’m glad that it’s not long before my workshop starts, but even that is too far out for me now.  I’ve historically tended towards two topics, idolatry of women or the need for change.  Women are either on a pedestal or they’ve ripped my heart out in some way.  They’re often the reason for change, whether it’s coming or going.  I need to explore new things, play with ideas more.  One of the things that inspired me at last week’s The Inspired Word reading was the way that the artists took ownership of absurdity.  Poetry, like comedy, often uses absurdity to attack truth from an unexpected angle, which in turn allows the reader or listener to really feel a responsibility for having arrived there.  That little bit of a jump the "consumer" adds, even if only following where led, adds to self-satisfaction and ultimately a happier experience than simply being told.

I’ve been listening to Regina Spektor a lot lately because she seems to be a queen of absurdity in quite a funky way.  I wonder, though, how limited I am by my conception of what’s possible or what’s normal for a human voice.  I think that I need to think about how to break down those guard rails as well.

But I’ve also come to the conclusion that it doesn’t have to be good, that I don’t have to wait it out.  I need to set the table for providence.  I need to experiment.  I need useful practice.

Thinking of this reminds me of something I wrote when completely blocked when trying to write anything emotional.  I wrote it at an open mic at the college bar (sober, underage), with the goal of being cheesy, which I accomplished.  It’ll usually get a chuckle, though I think that the delivery might be responsible for that.

I’ve seen the man in green, hair trimmed neat and shaven clean.

I’ve seen the boy in blue.  HIs jeans are old, his sneakers new.

I’ve seen the woman in red, with a beautiful body and an OK head.

I’ve seen the girl in yellow who went to Sweden and became a fellow.

I’ve been to hell and I’ve never been back, I guess that makes me the man in black.

Not much, but it still gives me a chuckle 15 years later, and actually came right before I got out some things of which I was quite proud.  I’d planned for the subway ride home tonight to be a chance to find characters, and when I sat down I thought I’d have a good collection to observe, but then I became obsessed with the woman I was sitting next to precisely because of the way that she was essentially hiding her face from me.  Despite being fairly blind uncorrected, my field of vision is fine, so I could tell that even if I looked more than a few degrees left of straight ahead, she’d turn her head away from me, covering her face with her dark hair.  I’m no Sherlock Holmes, but observing a shiny surface directly across the train car, and remembering some high school physics about the angle of incidence of light upon a reflective surface, I confirmed that she would look at me any time that she thought I couldn’t see her, but hid her face when she thought I could, or was possibly going to try to.

Super shy?  Did she think I was Jack Bauer?  Just psycho?

Maybe there’s a story somewhere in there… but I’m almost tempted to simply sleep with a nicotine patch on.  I’ve had some of the most surreal dreams like that — what I have to assume is similar to a psychadelic experience.  It’s time to start putting pen to paper, even if it’s crap.  If it’s crap, I’ll get something upon which to practice editing.

I’ve done a lot of thinking about art, the process of creating it, and the process of developing as an artist.

I’ll admit it – my motivation was to consider what makes art successful, with the assumption that there’s a degree of success that validates the utility of art.

I’ve come up with three aspects of art which seem to be connected yet can independently contribute to the success of a work of art in establishing a connection from producer to consumer.  These elements, as I see them, are the portion of the world that the art reflects, the perspective of the artist, and the manifestation.

Independently, each can be the reason that someone loves a work of art.  Hitting on more than one can get a big following, and making the right moves on all three is what, to me, defines what we consider to be great art.

Some artists simply have great technique, creating effortlessly things of beauty, regardless of the subject or perspective.  A beautiful voice, playfulness with pointillism, or athleticism and grace of a dancer can make an arbitrary subject or motivation and create something that people will appreciate.  Whether innate talent or learned technique, an artist skillful solely at the process of creation of the manifestation of art can still enjoy a modicum of success.

Other art gets a modicum of success simply because people identify with its subject matter, the fraction of the world the artist has chosen to reflect.  Art, as a representation of something, is inherently smaller than the whole of nature, and reflects some portion of the world, even if that portion of the world is simply as perceived by the artist (which allows for the imagination to be that which is reflected, even if abstract).  There are people who will be drawn to songs about love or images of strength, despite their other qualities.

Third, art contains a perspective.  Sometimes the perspective is shown by the selection of subject matter, sometimes it’s intertwined with the physical manifestation, but other times perspective itself is the draw.  A comedian may have the voice of a puking camel, look like a bridge troll, and be talking about laundry, but whip out a punchline that can only be looked at as masterful.

Mastery in all three areas seems almost a guarantee of success, and there are many who’ve gone far doing well with two of them, even with a "fatal flaw" in the other.  I submit Radiohead and Neil Young as evidence of this — neither Thom nor Neil has a voice that could earn a living as a wedding singer, yet their musical works are exalted for their artfulness.

Furthermore, I believe that if one were to classify success as critical or commercial, that strength in performance and subject matter selection for the audience are the keys to "popular" commercial success, performance and perspective lead to moderate levels of commercial success among those who consider themselves critical consumers of art, and that subject matter and perspective gain traction among those who are actively seeking out artists’ perspective on things, often critics or people emotionally attached to a subject.

Those who manage all three become cultural icons, sometimes entering the public consciousness wholly deified, and others by garnering attention with success in two of the areas, developing in the third over time.

I don’t need to be a cultural icon, but I’d like to be useful in an artistic capacity, and so I’m using the framework I’m developing to figure out where to focus efforts in a way that’s most likely to make me happy, with the given that I’d like to provide people with a meaningful artistic experience.

As always, I’m open to discussion.

In my process of self-evaluation about my creativity and my goals, I’ve been a little frustrated by my desire to do everything at once.  In considering a visit to MoMA tomorrow, I was thinking about how previously I’d based poetry on art, essentially working on both my perception of art and my skill at translating that perception into a different form.  As I’m feeling almost a writer’s block, I’m thinking of returning to what was, in a way, journeyman practice.  I’ll let you judge whether or not there’s anything of value in what came out, but this was a case where I know that I made an artistic connection to someone on the perception side.

During my college years, I participated in a writer’s group which met at a nearby bar on Monday nights, where there would be writing assignments, and our writings would be passed around and read by others (to encourage participation through a degree of anonymity), which proved to be a valuable prod (like an instructor-led exercise class) to just keep writing.  Eventually, a regular Tuesday night poetry/music/art night was held at the bar, and on the third week, I was the featured poet.  Later, I began to use Tuesday night’s visual art as my inspiration — a form of feedback that I could provide to the artist that went beyond "nice use of color" or "I really like the way you used collage" — I would write a poem that was either a transcription of what I perceived the art as saying, or that took elements of the art and my emotional response to the work and remixed them a bit.  I’d usually just hand my notebook to the artist and ask them to read it.

One night, I remember a painting that grabbed me with both a profound sadness and an underlying anger.  There was a ballerina in a drab pink tutu, stumbling through what I now remember as being almost dusty ruins of a great house — think Ms. Havisham’s from Great Expectations.  I’m willing to concede that I may have even identified with Pip, both adoring this stumbling ballerina, and also feeling bitten and thus bitter as if she were the heartless and broken Estella.  I should share what I wrote before closing out the story.

Ballerina

I want to catch you, to
    reach out with open arms,
    and carry you ’til 
    your feet hit the ground,
    but I can’t
Or won’t, I’m not sure.
Once, you danced softly and gently,
    pirhouetting into my mind,
    to lift my heart, to show
    it to the angels.  Gracefully,
    you showed me how you cared.
Then you left, and left me standing
    alone at the door.  For
    a thousand hours, I left
    the light on, so you could
    find your way back.
You didn’t.
I waited still.
You didn’t.
I waited some more.
You didn’t.
So I locked the door,
    and descended the stairs,
    to the basement,
    to die.
Now you’re back, wrists slit,
    needing my help, pounding
    on the door, crying for me.
You left me to die, as I must do to you.
Good night, darling, I love you.

            - Anthony Ortenzi, February 1995

 When I got the notebook back, it had a note at the bottom of the page.  "My wrists are slit, but I’ll be back."  When I looked up from the page, he showed me the scar on his wrist, and put his hand on my shoulder in a way that said everything.  I was immediately humbled and honored by the power of the connectivity I felt.

I need that depth of connectivity in my life.  It’s why I want to create.  I picked up the music gear because I think it’ll help me find a way to connect through creative expression.  I love it when people "leave it all on the field" — Ani Difranco being the most absolute example of that I’ve seen in person, and having seen both Ray Charles and Tori Amos absolutely lose it on pianos, it feels to me like music somehow can bring me closer to that connection than trying to write poems.

But right now, maybe I need a little creative tune-up.  Every time I go to MoMA (it’s been too long), I visit my friend Starry Night.  Maybe I should drop in, say hi, and find something to practice translating.  

As always, comments and (civil) criticisms welcome.