Like breathing in and breathing out; or, On Poetic Clarity

I don’t always want my poems to follow the strict rules of logic. I want there to be some air in my poems, if not leaps at least some hopping, some request that the reader understand less with the mind and more with that other thing that comes into play when we react to a piece of music, for example, or a piece of visual art.

It’s a response in the quiet of the self, inarticulate, “moved” as in to be set, internally, in motion.

But that being said, confusion in the mind creates confusion in the poem, and part of the process of revision is to clarify clarify clarify — both my intention behind and the poem’s expression of that intention. But even that sounds more logic-based than I want the poem-making process to be. Oy.

I’m working on one of my poems-that-start-as-long-blathers. I started it some weeks ago, let it sit, worked on it, let it sit. Now when I go back I am confused about what I thought I was up to.

Some of that confusion is the lack of logic in the poem’s thinking. But I’m finding as I’m clarifying that, I’m losing something. I’m making changes based on logic, but I’m losing something that was special and beyond logic. I’m finding I need to go back to the self who first blathered and ask what? what?

Unfortunately, that self is gone with the passage of time, and this other, confused self must sit with it all.

It’s interesting, as a process. A tad annoying as well. I was sure I was onto something back then. Now I can’t remember what.

I have found in my work as a copyeditor and my brief stint teaching a course that not-great writing comes out of not-great thinking. The authors and students who couldn’t quite think through something couldn’t write through it either. That being said, overthinking can kill a piece of writing as surely as underthinking.

I believe in the first-step technique of opening the mind and letting stuff spill out without regard for logic or connection or any kind of controlling. But then that orderly mind has to wade in and pull weeds.

I have, however, been known to overweed. I have a sad little patch in my garden right now to show for it, and a peony whom I thoroughly traumatized. Judicious must be the weeding, so air can move, ideas can stretch out, images can take on different casts, and the writer can be surprised, as well as the reader.

Wow, this is difficult. I find that I need, as I sit with this confusing/confused poem, to think less, breathe more.

We shall be released; or, On the First Person Plural in Poems

I’ve been advised enough times not to do it, you’d think I’d stop trying. But here we are again. The royal “we,” I mean, possibly, or the group of us who do such a thing, as opposed, I guess to the “they” who do not; that is: use the first person plural pronoun (we) in poems. Why do I keep trying to make it work?

It interests me to write poems from the perspective of this identity: a member of the human species. From this perspective I can think about the so-called “human experience,” not as “in opposition to the nonhuman,” but as a part of a, let’s face it, pretty significant force on the planet, and as a representative of a species that is able to think about itself and go “Hmm…really?” A member of a species that is aware of, possibly obsessed with, death, and, therefore?, a bit obsessed with life and its meaning.

But the use of “we,” or MY use of “we,” shall I say, has caused people to become argumentative (“you do not speak for me,” they say, or sometimes just “oh yeah?”) or to be otherwise put off by the lack of immediacy and intimacy (“hm, what are you distancing yourself from,” they ask). I don’t know, though. Do I not have the — what: right? capacity of imagination? proper hubris? — to speak out of that human stance?

The use of the all-humanity “we” has a long tradition, but fell out of favor when societies began saying “hey, wait a minute, this ‘we’ is not representing me, but rather the autocracy.” So social movements that overthrew old hierarchies to introduce a more democratic worldview plus a rise of the validation of the personal experience led to, it seems, a skeptical view of the poetic “we,” so fakely grand and oratorical it seemed, off-putting and snooty, the voice of empire. But I want to call it empirical: that is, based on experience, verifiable by observation.

As an anthropologist by study and natural inclination, I’m a participant observer here on earth among you/we humans. I hear your/our/my joys and pains and confusions. I believe that for all our differences — beliefs, tastes, fears of spiders v snakes, ability to roll the tongue or no, color, hair type, tattoo-level, who you worship, who you fuck — we humans are more the same than different. That’s the “we” I aim to write from.

But okay, fair enough, I’m not all people, and doubtless my imagination fails to capture much of the you-ness of you and your experience. So what’s the big deal for me about switching to “I”?

For me it gets tangled in the history of confessional poetry. As if what “I” am about to tell you better be pretty personal, or you’ll be disappointed.

Maybe contemporary taste is not willing to abide less than a confession. Maybe we don’t want to hear from some damn “we,” who, in point of fact, is a middle-aged white lady who quite possibly indeed does not know shit from shoe polish.

There has been much scholarship and musing on this topic, as I have found in my dive into it all. Back in 2004, writer Laura Miller said this in the “The Last Word” column in the The New York Times: “Modern readers find collective first-person narrators unsettling; the contemporary mind keeps searching for the familiarity of an individual point of view, since it seems impossible that a group could think and feel, let alone act, as one….You could say that the history of Western literature so far has been a journey from the first-person plural to the first-person singular, the signature voice of our time.”

On aerogramme.com in 2017, editorial director of The Masters Review, Sadye Teiser, noted this: “If the first-person plural tries to be too sweeping, if it does not acknowledge its own subtleties, it can miss the mark. But it also has the singular ability to harness a power that is not limited by the bounds of one character’s individual perspective. That is why the first-person plural is often used to describe events, be they real or unreal, that feel bigger than us. Even if there are things that we experience differently, there are others that we share, and that, especially in our times, is worth remembering.”

Martin Buber had this to say about “we”: “For the word always arises only between an I and a you, and the element from which the We receives its life is speech, the communal speaking that begins in the midst of speaking to one another.”

In Poetry in 2010, Jane Hirschfeld said: “I suppose some would say it’s terribly old-fashioned, or terribly arrogant, for a person to use ‘we’ in a poem to speak of ‘us all,’ but it’s a concept I still believe in — that certain experiences are universally and profoundly human, and that one of the possible tasks of poetry is to name or evoke them.”

Of course, I am aware that I have cherry-picked some quotes here, in order to bolster my continued attempts to get away with my “we” penchant. And you can continue to question my judgment about it. And we will continue this wrangle to voice ourselves to each other. After all, we’re in this together.

All misty wet with rain; or, Seeing the Forest Through the Trees; or, More on Revision

I swore off workshops long ago for a variety of reasons I won’t get into here, but as I’d been brooding over this particular poem for a while, and as isolation breeds a kind of insanity, I signed up for one.

It was not as bad as I’d feared it could be, although not as useful as I had hoped, but I did get one takeaway, which is, perhaps, all one can realistically hope for. It was worth the price of admission, but perhaps not entirely worth the hours of sitting staring into zoomland.

And I share it with you here for free. Cuz that’s the kind of gal I am.

The editing (or “revision”) process is often one in which I start with the idea of finding the weaknesses in a poem and getting rid of them. The process was reframed for me in that workshop in this useful way: Find the shining points in the poem and clear away anything that may be getting in the way of the shine.

It is very useful, this idea that the elements of a poem stand next to each other and cast shadows. You may want the shadows. You may not. I am grateful to be reminded to understand how the elements of a poem are standing together, what shadows they cast, what is illuminated and what is obscured by those shadows, and to take control of how light and shadow passes through the poem. You may want some, I think — some “chiaroscuro” in a poem, clarity/obscurity play of elements. But it needs to be carefully controlled so what is highlit is meaningful, what is shadowed is purposeful.

This may involve all the usual elements of revision: trimming, cutting, rearranging, but by thinking about it in terms of light and shadow, I’m able to bring a different kind of attention to the process, like thinning a grove of trees so as it strengthen the diversity of species, or dividing my vast, tangled patch of iris to let it thrive. So thanks for that, workshop.

As for the rest of the story, the workshop did give me the impetus to wade back in to the poem. I knew trimming would be advised, and some wholesale deleting of stanzas. A friend happened to be in the workshop and also had some specific advice re: my use of pronouns (more on that in another post) and the ending, as well as some need for clarification. So I took all that in hand and headed in, taking down trees.

Then I realized I could move stanzas around for logic of thought process.

I took out the ending. I wrote another one. Took that out.

Wrote a different beginning. Took that out.

Changed the pronouns.

Retitled the poem. Reretitled the poem. This process is useful for establishing my own understanding of the poem’s intentions.

I tried to walk away for a while. But kept thinking of new things to try. I put back in some things I took out earlier on.

All this changing led it to somewhat change direction. Okay, I thought, let it turn, and I’ll see where it goes.

It didn’t really go. I realized I was now writing things in to force it to go in this new direction. I felt like I was forcing the poem away from the thinking that was the impetus behind it in the first place. I took them out.

Finally, I went back and reread the original version of the poem. You know what? I kind of like it.

 

I don’t know I don’t know; or, On Writing a Chapbook: The Story of Being Many Seeds

So with the birth of a new collection of poems, I thought I might share the backstory, as the poems came together in an unusual way, for me.

The poems in this book began as a monthlong exercise in imitations. Each day I’d choose a poem from a literary magazine or book of poems I had lying around, and I’d try to do a word-for-word imitation, but trying often to use opposite words. That is, if the poem started “One early morning…” I might say “Every late night….” I tried to choose poems that seemed unlike anything I might write: longer lines, narrative rather than lyric.

I didn’t overthink the process, I just let words rise up as prompted by the original poem, and figured whatever subject matters were lurking in my brain would arise naturally from this process. So then I had thirty or so of these, and looking back through, I was interested in many of them.

I began revising them back toward my own voice and rhythms. But they never felt entirely OF me, there was always something a bit different about them. So I thought I’d try a radical revision, really strip each poem down. That was fun.

So I decided to strip them down again.

Then I realized that each of these stripped down versions had something interesting to say to the version before. When I began understanding them as erasures of themselves, I got interested in presenting the poems in all three versions, particularly when the erasures began heading in different directions from the originating text.

Still I felt something missing. I remembered a couple of Rebecca Solnit books had a separate text running across the bottom of each page, like a murmured conversation happening elsewhere in the room. In real life this would have made me crazy, such an eavesdropper am I. But on the page, I loved that view out the corner of my eye of this sort of secret subtext.

So I thought about what the poems seemed to be talking about and around. And I got thinking about Pierre Teilhard de Chardin. I’m not sure why. I had read bits and pieces of his work over the years, and I knew I had a book or two hanging out on some dusty shelf. So I began reading his work again, and thinking about his ideas, and having my own response to his thoughts. And so I began to set my thoughts running across the pages of the poems.

I had begun to envision this as a digital object, something you could watch while the erased words disappeared before your eyes, and the essay text appeared down the side of the virtual page. But I didn’t know how to do this, nor did I know how to contact an organization or person that did, nor did I know how I would get such a thing out into the world. So I created a paper-based version, at first having the essay text running sideways on each page, so you’d actually physically have to turn the page around. But some beta readers questioned this, so I ran the text across the bottom.

But the idea of a visual version haunted me, so I began experimenting with what software I did know how to use to try to approximate my vision. This was arduous and had several dead ends, but I finally figured out how to make it all happen in iMovie, and created some music/sound and manipulated some of my own photos.

So more than any other collection of poems, this one came together through a series of “lemme try thises” and “maybe I’ll try thats.” I felt through much of the process that I was moving through a combination of instinct and blunder, like walking around a familiar room but in the total dark. I was never entirely comfortable. It was a really stimulating process, and fun, in the end, if a bit bumbly in the middle.

So I encourage you to get uncomfortable. Turn out the lights, get up and wander around. Let something catch your eye and turn toward it, try it. Don’t think too much. Have a little fear, but not too much. Whether my book or video appeal to you or not, you will have a very interesting experience, I can promise you that.

Being Many Seeds, the book: www.graysonbooks.com

Being Many Seeds, the movie: www.vimeo.com/marmccabe/beingmanyseeds

 

Scarecrows dressed in the latest styles; or, Anatomy of a Poem Making

Here’s a sentence I see on Facebook or heard spoken at open mics that I do not understand: “I wrote a poem today.”

There is no way what I write in a day could be considered, in my mind, “a poem.” It MIGHT become a poem. Someday. But in one day, it is and can only be some stuff I’ve written that is amorphous and possibly colossally crappy or just random thoughts that will never be more than that. I guess other people work differently. The best I could say in a day is that I took some lumps of stuff that I wrote x days/weeks/months/years ago and poked and prodded and twisted it into something that either might be a poem or is The Best Poem Ever Written but check back with me tomorrow.

I’m working with a bunch of pages of thought over several days, seeing whether there’s anything in there that seems like a poem, i.e., seems like it’s saying something more than it’s saying and doing so or can do so in some kind of interesting way that can make use of silence and pauses and imagery and rhythm.

Which I guess is my basic definition of what a poem is.

So I’m taking these pages of longhand and moving them onto my computer, and, interestingly, to me anyway, they are taking the form of triplets, that is, three lines that seem to form a whole, a whole that is somewhat distinct from the three lines that came before and after, but that speak across the gap (Can I call them tercets? Do tercets have to rhyme? I don’t know). And by three lines, sometimes I mean three sentences or three fragments, or one extended thought that seems to have three parts or within which the introduction of the pause of a line break, or the wink or nudge of an enjambment or caesura suggests a deeper layer of how to read the thought.

It’s interesting to me that I did not set out to think in threes nor to develop a form at all but rather the content itself dictated this approach, at least in this first round. Isn’t that funny? This is form finding itself, or content finding its form, elbowing out all awkward and sticky, stretching and yawning.

When I see it finally all stretched out, then with fresh eyes I can try to “hear” it, assess whether it’s something greater than its parts. As I read it to myself, I want to feel the movement of air in it, of sound and quiet, but also a sense of things moving in the dark. This is a gut-level response.

Sometimes I know right away that what I have is not working, it is too filled with, e.g., self-consciousness, or feels effort-full, or just falls flat, no feathers nor loft. Sometimes I think, oh, yeah, this is a Thing. In that case, as I’ve written here many times before, only time can provide me with a check on that response.

Before I do much more fiddling around with this Thing-Possible I’d better let it lie for a while. Back to the Great British Baking Show for me. Tomorrow is another day.

Of Rich and Royal Hue; or, On Writing and Paying Attention

Having cancelled an anticipated spring trip, and maintaining the recommended isolation, I’m experiencing the wakening of wanderlust, as friends south of me post pictures of croci and daffodils but all around me is the bleak of northern early spring.

But isolation is forcing us to roam very locally, trespassing here and there, following logging roads or ATV trails currently quiet. With leaves not yet out the land remains revealed in all its lumps and wrinkles, and we course through it, following streams or the lines of topography, discovering a neighbor’s old apple orchards, a rocky and windy hilltop that seems elf-haunted.

In Boundless, Katherine Winter wrote this: “What if we were to stay in one place, get to know it, and listen? What might happen if we were not always on our way somewhere else?”

I took a tracking class once and was so envious of the teacher’s intimacy with his land. He took us to where he’d been checking on a porcupine family. Imagine knowing where a porcupine family was living! I did notice this winter from a large brush file on a neighbor’s land the crisp stink of what I think was fox musk. That was exciting. My trail camera delights me with capturing the comings and goings of a deer family, the trajectory of a fox every few nights, and many many shots of moving leaves, and how the day’s shadows move through the backyard. I know the chipmunks are making good use of the area under the porch, and I just hope it’s not them I hear in the wall. For the past three months, I have watched daily the stream’s many faces, from frozen to frenzy. The other morning an odd bird peep made me look out the window from my bed in time to see a male turkey walk past, with a female peeping at him, then another male hurry up and inflate himself to his puffed up glory. What drama!

When early hominids began to develop what we now know as language, surely it was driven by both need and wonder. So it’s a long history I feel when I say — either to myself, or my husband, or in a poem, or right here — “Hey, look at at that!”

This is Katherine Winter again: “I hadn’t before known earth as a text underlying any word spoken or written by man.” I love this idea of earth as text, of the wildlife around me as text — and by text I mean, and I presume she means, something to be “read,” studied, interpreted, and is a word that in origins means woven.

So even as we’re homebound in our neighborhoods, whether they be urban or rural, small town or suburban development, we’re part of the fabric of what’s around us. And as writers and readers, I guess we might as well weave.

He blows it eight to the bar; or, On Moving Forward, Breaking Out, Stepping Up, Boogying Down; or, On Writing Better

I have an MFA in poetry. I pursued it because I felt I’d come to a plateau in my work, and I feared I did not really know what I didn’t know. And I felt like an MFA would be a good way to get some outside input into my work and to have a good impetus to focus focus focus. I was largely self-taught before that, reading texts of craft and some criticism, having some conversations, and, of course, reading reading reading poetry.

The MFA experience sort of kind of worked, but as I had never had any undergraduate preparation in poetry, nor English at all, it was not quite enough. Once I got my MFA I felt like I was really ready to pursue an MFA. I am lacking great gobs of history and information and could be more skilled in how to read a poem as a poet.

Fortunately, there is no end of great books about all this, and I try to keep a regular practice of reading them, but have fallen down in the recent past. I am feeling again on a plateau, and am happy to have stumbled upon Craig Morgan Teicher’s We Begin in Gladness: How Poets Progress. He examines the work of a variety of poets, sometimes in depth over the course of a lifetime’s work, sometimes in a more focused way, trying to determine the forces at work in someone’s work over time.

Although I don’t always follow what he’s saying, and am often perplexed at his assertions of examples of a poet’s best work and work that is weak. (It’s not helpful that he uses words like “obviously,” when what he is saying is not at all obvious to me; and assertions such as X work is “the best of the decade,” or Y is “a bit too much.” It makes me uneasy and insecure in my own assessments, and I don’t really need any more of THAT, thank you very much.) But he has a generous and sensitive eye, and for a poet, it must be a gift to be read by Teicher, for all that he can be bit stern in his discernments.

The chapters cover in depth and breadth of work: Merwin, Plath, Gluck; and in more concentrated segments, Ashbery, Francine J. Harris, Yeats, Lowell, and others. Again I’m reminded of the importance of taking one’s time in reading poetry. I cannot be reminded of this enough. And indeed I come back again and again to reading as a primary tool in a poet’s progress.

I have talked before about how to improve: More Better Blues. What I say then still applies now, and in the spiral of life, will apply next time I find myself stopped and slightly confused about how to move forward. But it occurs to me that this moment of pause, lifting my head and looking both back at where I’ve been and forward toward where I might go is itself a part of the process of improvement.

Although the word “improvement” is maybe not quite right, as it implies some scale, some external and rational system of measure. What do I really mean when I say I feel plateau’d? I think I mean I’d like to feel more out of my depth when I’m in the process of creating. If I feel too sure-footed, then I’m not in learning mode, I’m not bobbing around in a sea of possibility. I think I make better work when I’m splashing and flailing a bit, work that is more interesting — to myself, anyway. I guess it’s that old Frost quote about no surprise for the writer, none for the reader either.

One of the things Teicher identifies as breathrough moments in the work of some of the poets he examines is the breaking free of social constraints. I’m not sure if I feel particularly under the weight of social constraints. But of course, does anyone know that until they’ve broken free, or until someone later, in another decade, looking back, identifies what might be considered a zeitgeist, a social expectation or bind, and what might be considered a breaking?

I don’t know that in the moment any of us can understand our time and then act out of it. I think what he means is they broke with their own conventions.

So my takeaway is less that I should examine my constraints and break them than that I try new things. Try this, try that. Scattershot. Haphazard. Downright willy-nilly. Downright boogie woogie. How hard can that be?

You want it darker; or, On Encountering Christian Wiman’s He Held Radical Light, a Post in Two Parts: Part One

I strut around thinking I know stuff, so it’s good for me to encounter minds that reveal to me readily that I don’t know shite. Marilynne Robinson does this reliably. Anne Carson. Doug Glover. Sometimes you. But lately it’s been Christian Wiman giving me my comeuppance. Wiman’s engagement with poetry is gut-level and reaching, such that I feel like I’m a kindergartner struggling to learn my ABCs.

His latest book, He Held Radical Light: The Art of Faith, the Faith of Art, is difficult in many ways. I am not always following his thought process as he grapples with art, the spirit, faith, death, and poetry. There is a bitterness to it as he confronts his own mortality in the midst of all that he loves. As the book goes on, he does begin making grand statements that I can’t always get behind, statements that seem arguable but he neither expands nor explains, and often leave me thinking “Hey, but wait a minute.” But he offers up some incredible poems, his own and others’, and deeply interesting ideas.

Here is something he says that I’m still pondering. He’s referencing A. E. Stallings’s poem “Momentary,” but he says this: “…it’s not simply that the hunger that gives rise to art must be greater than what art can satisfy. The hunger must be otherthan what art can satisfy. The poem is means, not end.”

I think the “hunger” he is talking about is the human need for answers, for explanations, for meaning, for something other than randomness at work in the world, for something at work larger than our meager efforts. The art is the reaching, the inquiry. If art — or the poem — attempts to be an answer, it can only be an echo of our own noisy voices. Is that what he’s saying?

Here’s another interesting thing: He considers whether art is a redemptive activity, and bristles at the idea. “I think it’s dangerous to think of art — or anything, actually — as a personallyredemptive activity…For one thing, it leads to overproduction: if it’s art that’s saving you, you damn sure better keep producing it….” He writes: “You need grace that has nothing to do with your own efforts, for at some point — whether because of disease or despair, exhaustion or loss — you will have no efforts left to make.”

I had never thought of making art in quite this way — I don’t look to it as something to do something for me, but rather as something to do with myself and my energies, proclivities. If I get anything external from it, accolade or opportunity, it’s chance and luck. Grace? If grace is that inner peace that comes from a transient sense of oneness with all things, then a walk in the woods can do that for me. A poem is me nattering in the dark, my yelp as I bark my shins on life.

More on my encounter with this book next week.

Going out of my head day and night; or, On Finding a Hook to Hang an Idea On

Regularly I cycle through a sense that I have no idea what I’m doing. A poem? What IS that? How do you write one of them thangs? I have this long natter of ideas in my notebook, so I thought, well, maybe this is an essay. An essay?!?! What the hell is THAT? What I suspect is that at times like these I have a bunch of ideas but no pathway into or through them.

Whether poem or essay, ideas need something to hook themselves too — an image, a story — something that can keep the ideas from self-inflating and floating away.

Although I didn’t watch them, apparently on the Oscars, Scorsese was quoted as having said this: “The most personal is the most creative.” I think this is fabulously true. The problem with ideas, mine anyway, is that they tend to be separated from the personal. How do I make these ideas come alive with something from my insides? Why did these ideas or philosophies rise up in me anyway — where in my melange of blood, guts, experience, desire were they birthed?

Without some kind of vivid, visceral structure, these words are just blather, gobbledygooking up the page.

The problem is that I’m a sucker for a well-put idea, even if it’s my own. I get dazzled by thought. I forget that what moves me, stirs something deeper than dazzle, is the combination of idea and that other thing that arises from the body, sensorial, flesh on flesh or wind on flesh or hum on ear, tang on tongue.

Get out of your head, I say to myself. In my head.

It’s funny because lately I’ve been living much more outside, so am filled with fresh air and pines and the rumple of hilltops and dit dit dah of tracks in the snow. You’d think my body would have something to more to say to my head.

Where in my body have these concerns risen? Where is the slant of my truth? Where is the half-open door from which these ideas breathe a scent — damp cellar? root vegetables? cumin and cinnamon? Where do the tracks lead?

Call me; or, On Hoagland and Cosgrove’s book of Craft on Voice

What a nice gift Tony Hoagland left us before he departed: The Art of Voice: Poetic Principles and Practice, with Kay Cosgrove. It’s a great little craft book that focuses on ways we can use and hone how a poem “speaks,” whether we’re using our own daily, casual “voice” or borrowing from other people or times or ways of speaking. In such chapters as “The Sound of Intimacy: The Poem’s Connection with its Audience” or “Voice as Speech Registers: High, Middle, and Low,” or “Imported Voices: Bringing Other Speakers into the Poem” he invites us to pay attention to not just what we’re saying in a poem, but how we’re saying it — what vocabulary, what level of intimacy or distance, what tone.

With each chapter comes a section with sample exercises, but often also with a little mini-post-script to the chapter that often is as rich as the chapter itself. But what I like most about this book is the number and variety of sample poems he uses, many of them from poets whose work I’m unfamiliar with or poems I had not encountered before.

I had not known of Lisa Lewis’s work, but the “voice” of the first line of her cited poem “While I’m Walking” made me almost laugh out loud: “Sometimes I like to tell people how to live.” I had not known Grace Paley’s poem that says: “what a hard time/the Hudson River has had/trying to get to the sea…” and starts with the Hudson’s rise up out of Lake Tear of the Clouds and traces its wandering lust toward the sea, and then “…suddenly/there’s Poughkeepsie…” which also made me laugh.

I don’t know honestly that I learned anything new, but I appreciated the opportunity to spend time consciously considering the options and tactics of using the various ideas within the overarching category of “voice” as tools of poem construction.

Plus he had some lovely things to say along the way. Here’s one: “A good poem can shape experience into a kind of tango that makes facts dance and shape-shift until we find we must…concede one more time that we are vulnerable to wonder, grief, outrage, and reflection.” Or, as Lou Reed put it, there is “a lifetime between thought and expression,” which to me means that the mode of expression can, and should, contain some thread of the complexity of a lifetime. A poem can be multivocal or can contain the many notes of a throat singer or can be one, high lonesome thread.

Here’s another Hoagland thought: “Experience is many great conversations happening at once. A good poem orchestrates such conversations in a way that makes graceful theater of them.”

And this: “A poem is a little movie, cut and shaped from the fottage of ordinary life. Its vibrant familiarities please and entertain us to draw us inside. Then, if the poem is good, its artful intensifications change our experience when we walk back out the door.”

I think this would be a fine craft book for a writing course of any kind, and was a very engaging read for this short-attention-spanned practitioner.