How to write a poem, and reading poems

 

29 May 2014

While my sight that was bound in my eyes unclosed,

As to long panoramas of visions.

           --Walt Whitman,  "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d"

Some contemporary poetry is obscure, some of it has an intellectual affectation, it might say to the reader—the reader might intuit—that this poetry is meaningless and that perhaps it was written more for insiders than average people. Of course, there is nothing wrong with being difficult, I applaud being difficult; what is difficult today may be obvious to future readers. But, still, this poetry is more an extension of life's confusion, not an understanding of it, not clarity, not even clarity grounded in an aesthetic presentation, only more confusion. I like direct plain concise language which is an achievement in expression, it is also a very difficult achievement. Poetry deals with the human condition, it isn’t about language, it isn't word play, it isn’t being clever, it isn't jibber jabber, gibberish, abracadabra, or intellectual flim flam... The clue to understanding poetry is that it must be authentic to psyche—that’s all it has to do—otherwise it is meaningless to the reader, it is obscure, obfuscating, pretend intellectual, not real poetry, it doesn’t communicate or offer communion with the reader, it just adds to the overall confusion of life.

There is writing poetry and there is reading poetry, these are two different experiences. If you write poetry then the process is that writing poetry precedes having ideas about poetry and it may take you places—the unknown—in your writing that you never knew you would visit, but if you have preconceptions about what you want to write then you will never visit these new places and new themes in your poetry. It used to be popular to be a Marxist and write about Marxism in one's poems, that is now outdated and old fashioned; today, the popular thing is gender and gender dysphoria, but writing about gender dysphoria doesn't produce real poetry although real poetry may be about gender and gender dysphoria. Poetry isn't prose and some poets should turn to prose if they want to communicate a specific message on some topic of importance to them. 

Writing poetry is different than reading poetry; even though it might be one’s calling in life, writing poetry may only be temporary. Coleridge wrote poems for only two years, it was his calling but it was only for two or so years. Some poetry you read stays with you for a lifetime; poetry or some other art form, for instance visual art or music, changes and deepens as you get older, as you return to it at different times in your life and as you mature as a person, then it gives you a new perspective on what you used to believe. Poetry can also work at an intuitive level, or be an intellectual apprehension, or work at a deeper or different perspective of one's life, and whether one is reading poetry or writing poetry one must always be authentic to psyche. Poetry is visionary and an expression of the soul, it isn't a treatise, a dissertation, it isn't propaganda, it isn’t fiction or prose; for this reason poetry doesn't have a greater place in our contemporary world even though reams of poetry are written and published every year. 

Revised: 07, 08, 11 May 2025

Biographies of Poets, Whitman and Smith

Mickle Street 

One of my favourite biographies of Whitman is Walt Whitman in Mickle Street (1921) by Elizabeth Leavitt Keller describing the last years Whitman's life. Whitman was not the saint that some people have tried to make him out to be, his housekeeper Mary Oakes Davis was the real saint as she cared for Walt and this is Mrs. Davis's story as much as Whitman's. Today we would call Mrs. Davis a care-giver and sympathize with her as she looked after Whitman who is described as thoughtless, self-centered, and having a bad temper.





                                      




Chesterfield Avenue

Canadian poets like Louis Dudek and A.J.M. Smith weren't interested in autobiography or having their biographies written. Considering how often we hear that the public doesn't read poetry people are still interested in the lives of poets. Some people think Smith is a difficult poet, a good biography would have made him more human and possibly have made his work more available to students and other readers. As it is now good luck to anyone trying to find information on Smith's life. Leon Edel, the famous Henry James biographer and old friend of Smith's, wrote a short essay on Smith after he died in 1980. Here is an excerpt from that essay: "I can sketch a few (memories), allowing myself anecdote and biography now that Smith is gone: the touch of cockney in Smith's mother's voice and way of speech, when Smith invited me to take tea in the trim little suburban house in Westmount: the mother openly aggressive about her son's desire to write poetry — "there's no money in it" — "be quiet mother," — "I think it good he's taken up science." "Please mother." She talked to me as if I were a familiar in the house I had entered for the first time, and as if I knew all about her continuing colloquy with her son." Smith's home, where Edel visited in the mid-1920s, is located at 79 Chesterfield Avenue in Westmount.

"Poem of the Daily Work of The Workmen and Workwomen of These States" by Walt Whitman

 

The men who constructed
the Victoria bridge

       This is the poem of occupations;

In the labor of engines and trades, and the labor of fields, I find eternal meanings. Workmen and Workwomen! Offspring of ignorant and poor, boys apprenticed to trades, working on farms, Sailor-men, merchant-men, immigrants, House-building, blacksmithing, glass-blowing, Ship-joining, dock-building, fish-curing, ferrying, The pump, the pile-driver, the great derrick, the brick-kiln, Coal-mines, the lamps in the darkness, echoes songs, Iron-works, the great mills and factories; The slaughter-house of the butcher, the killing-hammer, The hoghook, scalder's tub, gutting, the cutter's cleaver, The men and work of men, on railroads, fish-boats, canals; The daily routine of shop, yard, store, or factory; In them the heft of the heaviest, In them far more than you estimated, In things best known to you, finding the best, Happiness, knowledge, not in another place, but this place; You workwomen and workmen of these States

having your own divine and strong life.

                                            --Walt Whitman, 1855 

 

"A Noiseless Patient Spider" by Walt Whitman

 

A noiseless patient spider,

I mark’d where on a little promontory it stood isolated,

Mark’d how to explore the vacant vast surrounding,

It launch’d forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself,

Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.

And you O my soul where you stand,

Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,

Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them,

Till the bridge you will need be form’d, till the ductile anchor hold,

Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.

The cottage garden is all for peaceful co-existence

There is peaceful co-existence among most animals but when a human approaches they all run for their lives. One of my favourite poems is by Walt Whitman, in which he writes,

I think I could turn and live with animals, 

     they are so placid and self-contain'd, 

I stand and look at them long and long. 

They do not sweat and whine about their condition, 

They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins, 

They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God, 

Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented 

     with the mania of owning things, 

Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind 

     that lived thousands of years ago, 

 Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth.

Sometimes animals fight each other, you see them butting heads in wildlife movies, but usually it isn't fighting to the death. A robin is sitting in the bird bath, he's not greedy, he doesn't mind if a sparrow joins him. There is room for all the birds but they might have to wait their turn, and they do; they know how to queue up. They aren't plotting against each other, they don't have concealed weapons, they aren't pedophiles or perverts.

How do you live with the animals in the limited way that city living affords? I suggest just sitting outside and being quiet, the birds will get used to your presence. They will pay you the highest compliment, they will ignore you.

Make your cottage garden as inviting to animals, birds, and insects as possible. Birds will use the bird bath and ignore you. Butterflies might land on your shoulder. The honey bees will continue to visit the flowers; bumble bees, that used to be so common but are now increasingly rare, will visit your garden and enjoy the bee balm. At night, in July, fire flies will make your garden a place of magic and wonder.

Living with Animals

Last spring when I began working in the garden I wondered why birds and squirrels were afraid of me but not afraid of each other. Then I thought of Walt Whitman's poem (section 32 of "Song of Myself") about living with animals. Do we need to be like St. Francis of Assisi to be on friendly terms with animals? I soon realized the simple answer, just be outside a lot and the birds and squirrels will soon get used to you and not run from your presence. In fact, they'll ignore your presence. Today I began feeding the birds again for the winter. Soon I had a beautiful red cardinal and then chickadees arrived and then some squirrels who didn't seem to like each other. Here is Whitman's poem:

I think I could turn and live with animals, they are
so placid and self-contain’d,
I stand and look at them long and long.
They do not sweat and whine about their condition,
They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins,
They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God,
Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with
the mania of owning things,
Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that
lived thousands of years ago,
Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth.
So they show their relations to me and I accept them,
They bring me tokens of myself, they evince
them plainly in their possession
I wonder where they get those tokens,
Did I pass that way huge times ago and negligently drop them?