Finding one’s voice in poetry

4 October 2024

All poets need to find their voice, this requires talent, perseverance, and commitment to writing. From when I began writing poetry, in 1965, I knew I had to find my voice, I knew I had to write poems that I could stand behind --poems that were true to my inner self-- and those poems would accurately express the experiences that had formed or created my life. For me, the discovery of my voice in poetry was an important development in my work as a poet; I knew this instinctively, and I spent years writing every night until I finally wrote a "real" poem. 

 _______

The journey to being a poet includes writing, study, reading, and having a few poet friends; it's a journey in that you don't know where you are going until you get there, and you never know if you will write a genuine poem until you write one. Discovering my voice in poetry was a breakthrough in my writing. In my early twenties I had written poems, for instance “there are seashells and cats”, and this was my true voice. This discovery of my true voice is shown in the poems in my first book, The Trees of Unknowing (Vehicule Press,1978); these were my first poems that I felt were genuine poems, poems that I could stand behind. Finding one's voice in poetry doesn't mean that you will stay writing the same way, what you say changes and how you say it changes, but that is only after you find your voice; another important poem, in my body of work, is “Divisions”, it was written over three days in April 1977.

_________

 

Writing Divisions (Coach House Press, 1983) happened during a period of emotional conflict, of unhappiness, of catharsis. Did Matthew Arnold say that poetry is our religion? This is a shared experience between poet and reader because the poet gives expression to spirit, soul, and psyche and the reader recognizes these important qualities in themselves. What one says in poetry changes as one gets older; nothing is permanent and content is also subject to change, but there is an ineffable quality to voice that doesn’t change; voice is the vehicle for the human soul and what it is experiencing, observing, and moved by, this becomes content, and it needs to be true to one’s inner being.

__________________________          

November 2012 – June 2013

Revised October 2024

Montreal

"Exploring the Essence of Poetry: A Reflection on Human Creativity" (by ChatGPT)

 

2012

Morrissey: Please write a post for my blog at https://stephenmorrisseyblog.blogspot.com/

ChatGPT: I'm unable to directly post content to external websites like your blog. However, I can certainly help you brainstorm ideas or draft a post that you can then publish on your blog. What specific topic or theme would you like the blog post to be about? Let me know, and I'll be happy to assist you further!

Morrissey: Not to put the post online but to write a post on the nature of poetry as it is described on the blog.


ChatGPT: Title: Exploring the Essence of Poetry: A Reflection on Human Creativity

Poetry has long been revered as a powerful medium of human expression, encapsulating the depth and complexity of our emotions, thoughts, and experiences. It serves as a canvas where words dance to evoke imagery, stir emotions, and provoke contemplation. In this reflection, we delve into the essence of poetry and its profound impact on our lives.

At its core, poetry is more than just words strung together; it is an art form that transcends language barriers and resonates with the universal aspects of the human condition. Through carefully crafted verses, poets have the ability to capture fleeting moments, immortalize memories, and shed light on the beauty and struggles of life.

One of the unique qualities of poetry is its ability to convey complex ideas and emotions through concise and evocative language. Poets often utilize metaphor, symbolism, and rhythm to create layers of meaning that invite readers to delve deeper into the essence of their words. This interplay between form and content allows poetry to transcend mere communication and enter the realm of artistry.

Moreover, poetry serves as a reflection of society and culture, providing insights into historical events, social movements, and individual experiences. Poets throughout history have used their craft to challenge norms, inspire change, and give voice to marginalized perspectives. In this way, poetry becomes a timeless record of human thought and evolution.

Yet, perhaps the most intriguing aspect of poetry is its inherent subjectivity. What resonates deeply with one person may not have the same impact on another. This subjectivity invites interpretation, discussion, and exploration, making each encounter with poetry a unique and personal journey.

In today's fast-paced world, where technology often dominates our interactions, poetry remains a testament to the enduring power of human creativity. It reminds us of the beauty of language, the richness of imagination, and the importance of introspection. As we continue to navigate the complexities of modern life, let us not forget to pause, reflect, and appreciate the timeless artistry of poetry.

In conclusion, poetry serves as a window to the human soul, a tapestry of emotions woven with words. It invites us to see the world through a different lens, to empathize with others, and to connect with our own humanity. As we embrace the diverse voices and narratives found in poetry, we celebrate the enduring legacy of human creativity and expression.

Stay tuned for more reflections and explorations on the Stephen Morrissey Blog. Poetry, like life, is a journey of discovery and revelation.



Morrissey: Excellent!


ChatGPT: I'm glad you liked it! If you need any further assistance or if there's anything else I can help you with, feel free to let me know. Happy writing!

Artificial Intelligence and Poetry

 

2012

            

It is through human expression that we can defeat the over arching digital tyranny; through joy and poetry we can assert our humanity.

--Richard Olafson, Shifting Towards Vitalism (2023)

In the old days, when home computers were just beginning to be available to the public, some poets made poems using computer technology and their own original programmes; some of these poems were permutations of phrases, some resulted in Surrealistic visual images, and while a few of these poems were interesting they were basically meaningless as poetry and never real poems. Now we’ve moved on to Artificial Intelligence writing, well, anything you want it to write including poetry. 

There is a short video on YouTube of Joe Rogan telling us that blood, discovered at the bottom of the Ark of the Covenant, had been analysed and was the blood of Jesus Christ, proving both His divinity and His existence. This video was, of course, a creation of Artificial Intelligence, it was a hoax, an attempt to fool or deceive people. This, and other videos created by Artificial Intelligence, gives one pause, what if this video was of someone in authority making some statement that people believed but it was all lies or propaganda? We are concerned with AI because it is one of the recent technologies that could be disastrous for humanity, and excluding some positive uses the existence of AI, for most people, is frightening, it is to deceive the viewer. What do we believe, and who do we believe, if technology can now perfectly duplicate the voice and facial characteristics of people in authority? Or if AI can write fake texts? There have always been false or fake texts and there will be more in the future generated by AI technology. 

Why anyone would want to write AI poems is beyond me, there is no money in poetry, there is no fame, there is nothing to gain except possibly some amusement or novelty. AI can write screen plays, articles for Sports Illustrate magazine and newspapers, content for websites, PhD dissertations, term papers, or whatever someone wants and it is inexpensive, fast, possibly accurate, and he/she doesn't have to do the writing or pay an actual human writer. But poetry? Perhaps because poetry is of increasingly less value to society it is doubtful that anyone will write poems using AI except as a prank, a joke, or out of curiosity. But there is something important to learn from this possible use of Artificial Intelligence and poetry: it is to remember what it means to be human.

Can AI ever write poetry? It is not possible for one reason: poetry is the voice of the human soul and computers don't have souls. Even if computer technology becomes so sophisticated that a computer thinks it is an autonomous human being, that it attains "personhood", it will still not be poetry. Poetry requires a human being writing poems and this requires living in the physical world with real life relationships with other human beings. Even if an intelligent human-looking robot could be created, with built-in AI, it is still a computer and it has no soul. Even if you could programme in the functions of a soul--for instance, compassion, understanding, empathy, emotions, spirituality, awe, a family history, and reflection on the past--and this computer writes "poetry", it is still not poetry, it still can't express what the human soul can express. A human has a biological level of existence and a computer is man-made, it is a machine even if it is the most sophisticated machine made by man. And a computer can never have a style of writing that is honed by experience and a multiplicity of events that organize themselves randomly and are the result of events far too complicated to ever be duplicated or created in themselves. AI and its progression, a humanoid robot, is always manufactured by people, or descended from a generation of computers invented and manufactured by people; it is not created by sexual intercourse, there is no hormonal basis to AI, it has no belief in spirituality (or anything else), it has no traditions whether religious, ancestral, cultural, historical, or genetic that human beings have, and if sometime in the future it has some of these qualities, they will always be artificially created and not the result of human interaction; AI will never have genuine human qualities. Even if  one day AI can identify as "human" it is still not the real thing. If we come to a time when computers think they are human beings, or the equivalent of human beings, with free will and emotions and mobility, it is possible that robots will take over from human beings, but even then whatever a robot with AI can express will never be real poetry. AI can write a facsimile poem but never a real poem. By definition only a human being can write a real poem just as only a human being can react to that poem with emotions and human reflection. AI and the human soul are mutually exclusive. 

Deletions from an Introduction for a Selected Poems (3)

 

Deleted:

Creativity has the capacity to heal; some have fallen into the darkness of existence, and writing poetry or making art is one way to find light in the darkness; what is the light? It is the discovery of love in one's life. It is greater than any darkness.

Deletions from an Introduction for a Selected Poems

 

Deletions:

3.  You don’t become a poet expecting to be liked for everything you write, or even for some of what you write. Why do people become poets? It is simple: people become poets because they are called to this work; writing poetry is an act of transcription, writing down what is given to you and, most importantly, writing poetry is to feel that truth is so important that it must be adhered to. This is why freedom of speech is so important; it is essential if literature is to have any meaning or relevance for either the poet or the reader.

4. Poetry isn't antiseptic, it's passion for life. Poetry is love and death and tears of joy and tears of sorrow. It's messy, it's stuff we don't want to talk about, it's betrayal and jealousy, it's love and sex and tenderness and grief and regret and awe and divine inspiration; it's the shadow falling across one's life. Poetry is nothing if not passionate; passion, not the intellect, not fashion, not popularity, not what other people are doing, defines poetry.

5.  In The Green Archetypal Field of Poetry (2022), I described how one's life can be reconfigured to something totally different from what one expected in life; I described this as the Great Reconfiguration. When I was six years old and my father died my old life became redundant, everything changed; I was one person and then I became someone else. His death has preoccupied much of my life, his passing reconfigured my life; this began the relentless journey of grief and understanding, love and loss, that I've been on, and trying to understand this existence and expressing it in poems.

6. To write not parts of a life but a whole life, that is what I have tried to do; it is an impossible task and can be attempted only if one refers to archetypes and a mythological approach to experience as a way to communicate this information. The poet's body of work is all of a piece, a single entity; it's a life that is transformed by poetry, it's the soul speaking through the poet. For John Keats life was a vale of soul-making, not a vale of tears; this was always the direction of my writing, my concern has always been with soul-making and I expressed this in my poems.

 

Poems are reports from inner space

Squirrels screwing

I will have to copy the essay here. Meanwhile, 

Thank you to Mark McCawley for publishing this minimalist essay, "Poems are reports from inner space."

http://urbgraffiti.com/writing/poems-are-reports-from-inner-space-by-stephen-morrissey/#more-6185

This is what is seriously wrong with online publishing.  There is no permanence online and what was originally published can be changed, deleted, altered, rewritten, gone. I will repost this essay.

Online publishing is worth about 10% of hard copy publishing. 

SM

11/05/2018

Dream Journeys: Greenpoint

Dr. William P. Morrissey, Greenpoint, Brooklyn, NYC

Greenpoint

“Are we in Greenpoint?” I asked, looking
at maps of Brooklyn.
Once I looked at old photographs of Greenpoint,
it was prosperous then, and now I leave
the room I am renting for a tour of the area
on my bike. I recognize the buildings
and monuments but they are all larger
than expected. There is city hall,
dirty from years of car and truck exhaust,
then an empty lot where grass seed was being watered.
I enter a tunnel leading to where my relatives
lived in Greenpoint; there is a large church
at the end of their street, the church roof
has collapsed. Two men
stand on a crowded street corner,
“The air here is bad,” I say to them,
“as soon as you leave the tunnel
it is smokey, polluted, everything here
is run-down, poor.” One man says
he’s moving a few blocks
to get out of the area.
I think of visiting the church,
what is left behind.

Dream Journeys: The Journey Home

4) Bleak House

This will always be Bleak House to me,
Dickensian in its silence and shame.
A place where
I retreated
to a second floor room
and lay low,
as animals do when
they are being stalked.

What binds us to
our silent jailors?
They are shadows or a mirror
cracked diagonally, held
in its wooden frame by dust
and the weight of glass shards
wedged together. A single breath
or movement would disturb
this broken mirror,
send it crashing to the floor.

But these relationships survive;
none of us want to end the complex
arrangement of shards of mirror
resting on broken mirror;
we are dependent
on each other
to maintain the hope
that one day
we might find love.
We stay afraid and alone,
become liars, dissemblers;
even if we escape Bleak House
we still have our secret name,
written in invisible ink,
in a passport: Castrato,
Benedict Arnold, Fools’ Pope.

Dream Journeys: The Journey Home

3) Oxford Avenue

I arrive at Oxford Avenue
where I grew up;
at the front door
a man’s corpse
sits in an upright position,
as though he had died
in the midst of pausing
to think or remember something.

We come and go all day
and I worry about a neighbour
discovering the corpse,
there are already flies
circling around his head
and I need to do other things
than worry about his being discovered.

Later, a sheet is placed
over the corpse, as one would cover a sofa
or armchair for the summer months
when away in the country,
or how I remember
the furniture in Grandmother’s
living room, a white sheet
on the maroon couch.

We come and go all day
but he remains at the door,
a sentinel or sleeping guard
to remind me of something I’ve forgotten.
I worry about the smell,
the flies, the signs of decomposition,
and the police arriving.

When I return that evening
he is gone and I am relieved:
but who was this corpse?
Could he have been Father,
or someone I have forgotten
or never knew, the white sheet
a shroud, like a body
found in the frozen north,
preserved by the cold,
lips pulled back, grinning
yellow wolf’s teeth.

Dream Journeys: The Journey Home

2) Visiting Great Aunt Edna

I return to Girouard Avenue
to visit Great Aunt Edna,
the only one of three elderly sisters
still alive and residing
at Grandmother’s flat.
She was Grandmother’s
youngest sister, a Sweeney
who married a Taylor
and lived only blocks
from where I now live,
with her husband Bert,
and Howard, their son,
who had some grievance
against his parents
and moved far away
from Montreal because of it.

But first the car’s gear shift
comes off in my hand
and trying to repair it,
I crawl into the car’s body
to screw the gear shift
back in place,
and discover the car
is a wooden vessel,
a web of slats
covered with plywood,
almost paper thin
for lightness.

We arrive at the Girouard Avenue 

flat to find garbage cans
by the curb. Aunt Edna
is not home. Inside there is
a third story staircase
I didn’t know existed;
it has windows facing the street.
The rooms off the stairs
are bright with natural light.
I wonder if they are heated
in winter or if sunlight
is enough to heat these rooms.
There is no sign of anyone here,
how quiet and serene
to walk through these empty rooms,
where three old ladies lived
and now only one remains.

Dream Journeys: Psyche's Night Journey

17.

I am in a flat with an old friend,
who looks the same as she did years ago.
There is a young man with long hair,
his name is “Morrissey,”
shorter than me, with some
dental problem in the front teeth.
I think he may read the news on TV.
We talk and when we separate,
I give him my business card.
He is wearing blue jeans
with a dress jacket and white shirt.

Dream Journeys: Psyche's Night Journey

15.

Returning home, the car’s gear shift
comes off in my hand and trying to repair it,
I crawl into the car’s body and discover the car is a wooden vessel,
a web of slats covered with plywood, almost paper thin
for lightness. I arrive at Oxford Avenue where I grew up;
at the front door a man’s corpse sits in an upright position,
as though he had died in the midst of pausing
to think or remember something. When I return that evening
he is gone and I am relieved: But who was this corpse?
Could he have been Father, or someone I have forgotten
or never knew, the white sheet a shroud, like a body
found in the frozen north, preserved by the cold,
lips pulled back in the permanent grin of the dead,
like a wolf’s grinning yellow teeth.



16. Five Black Horses

It was a demonstration of something, the severed
horse’s head on a chair and the four black horses
standing facing the audience. Behind the middle horse
a man took a hammer and drove a bolt
into the horse’s neck; at first, the horse stood as before,
we were all calm, including the horses,
and then the animal fell to the floor.
The other horses were to follow.

Dream Journeys: Psyche's Night Journey

Miami, Florida, 1930s

13.

I am told my father has just died.
He was alive all the years
I thought he was dead.
For fifty years I grieved
and regretted his death.
Now, again, I have missed him.


14.

A cat has been a nuisance,
pissing on  the walls, shitting where the children play,
noise all night; the Italian landlord next door is dealing with it.
He has a big knife and has cut off the cat’s paws,
and then cut further up the leg. 
Someone holds the cat for him.
He may even have skinned the cat,
and planned to leave it alive to suffer.
We are in his car and I am pleading with him
to kill the cat, pleading kill the cat, end his suffering.
His daughter is also pleading with him to kill the cat,
“Daddy, please kill the cat. Please, please kill the cat.”

Dream Journeys: Psyche's Night Journey

Church in Ste. Anne de Bellevue, QC, July 2009

11.

"Down Under," as they call it,
a woman has been dragged to the floor,
her clothes torn and dirty;
a man, dressed in a blue satin suit,
like a French cavalier, watches me.
I phone the police and wait and wait.
Then I leave, go to some building
where I am with my father-in-law;
I ask him what he would do
if this man arrives here, he says
he would not let him in the house.
I am on a busy street, I am waiting
for the man in blue. Finally, he arrives
at the head of an entourage,
half-naked women on horses,
clowns, acrobats, dwarves, fire eaters,
it’s a parade that only I can see.
I hold up my hands, fingers outstretched at them:
I yell “Die! Die! Die!” as though deadly energy
will come from my fingers.
They are a lot more powerful than I am.
I feel insignificant, alone against this man
and what he represents.


12.

My son tells me he wants me as a “friend”.
I reply, “I am your father, not a friend;
a father is better; I love you as a father,
a friend is less than a father.”

Dream Journeys: Psyche's Night Journey

9.

Former Prime Minister Chretien tells me
he’ll do what he can for us
to hang onto the building,
but there are other people who want it.
Also he wants me to lose weight, improve my health.

10.

In a basement, flooded with two or three feet of water,
big shits like loaves of bread
float in the water and I try to break them into slices
with a paddle so that when my wife arrives,
walking in the water, she won’t step on the shit.
I try to stuff the shit down a drain

Dream Journeys: Psyche's Night Journey

7.

I am walking along a street of ice and snow.
I stop and pay for a newspaper with tokens from the casino.
Then I am in a dentist’s office full of Americans,
all smiling and young, in cubicles.
The dentists in their white jackets
are all eager to work, even when
a small black dog tries to get into the building.
I open a door and a stag is there
also trying to get in.
I try to hold him back, but he’s large
and incredibly strong as he breaks through the door.
Now he’s in the building, in the hallway, in a room.


8.

There are three of us sky diving,
holding hands forming a circle.
We are not falling, instead
we are ascending the sky.
As we rise higher, the physical body
feels not only healed, but ecstatic
in freedom from earth and an aging body:
I did not want to return to this life
I am living, I did not want to return
to the old life. I weep as I feel complete joy.

Dream Journeys: Psyche's Night Journey

5.

I am a student again. I sit in the back of the classroom
with some women around me.
When I leave I put on my coat and think
I could offer to drive one of the women home, but I don’t.
Then I am at a banquet and someone is telling the poet George Johnston
that the university will name a building after him.
Jeanne, his wife, is there and she says she could cry hearing this.
George is wearing a very white shirt, he’s shaved off his beard,
and I embrace him, congratulate him on the building with his name.
Later, I ask the woman “Was George a student at the U of T?”
and she says he was and that’s why a building will be named after him.



6.

I return to 4614 Oxford Avenue to visit our old home.
I am in the flat when the present tenants arrive,
I point to out to them the leaves I’ve just raked,
how I’ve improved the lawns.
In the living room there are four fireplaces:
three are new, gas or electric. We visit other rooms.
I’ve forgotten my camera. I tell them who used to live in this building.
They seem to remember the people who lived upstairs,
they may have committed suicide in the 1980s.
I go for a walk, and it’s all traffic rushing by.
An old woman holds up her hand and crosses the street.

Dream Journeys: Psyche's Night Journey

Church in Ste-Anne de Bellevue, QC, 2009

3.

At the bottom of a garbage can in the kitchen,
the honeybees I left there fly out as a great black cloud.
I run to the living room and then close myself in a sun porch.
A dog, with a black face, joins me.
“They stung my face,” he complains.
Others join us and somehow we get rid of the bees.
Meanwhile, someone is sitting on the stairs outside by a pool in the garden.

4.

The key is broken to the old Volkswagen,
but it still starts the car.
I am with people I don’t know
and we arrive at someone’s house
after driving along a street in the city;
I tell a woman, “You can be selective
and find a country to live in,
like finding a place in the city.”
We sit in her house, she is a retired academic.
I look around and when she returns to the room
I ask, “How did you continue getting so many perks
even though you are retired from the university?”
When I am in the car, leaving, a young girl
comes over to say goodbye and we kiss on the mouth,
her tongue is, momentarily, in my mouth.
I am in a car, or on a couch with my wife,
and want to make love, but a man enters
and we must discuss business.

Dream Journeys: "Psyche's Night Journey"

1.

Grandmother’s home has wood paneled walls
and a claw foot bathtub beside the stove in the kitchen.
I weep regretting I hadn’t returned sooner or more often to visit her.
On the second floor daylight enters at the wainscoting;
on hands and knees I pull a piece of wood
from the wall behind an antique table,
there is a crack along the wall
where a wooden beam lets in cold air.
Later, walking along a narrow path
someone has dug through the snow
in the street, I see a man
walking in the same direction
watching me.


2.

At the bottom of the front stairs
at Grandmother’s flat,
there is a blue clock
which no longer works;
a key to wind the clock
is in a little black drawer beside the clock.
Upstairs everything is very plain and in proper order.
Mother is staying there and I ask her,
“Did Grandma leave any messages for me?”
Mother is annoyed by the question,
she says because of all of my questions
she regrets I came here.

Dream Journeys: Visits from Psyche

Visits from Psyche
1.

I dreamed of a girl driving
her old blue Volkswagen
through a deep pool,
water spraying up
on both sides of the Beetle.
When I complained
the car might stall
she threw the keys at my face.
I could feel them hit my glasses.
This was Psyche visiting me,
water the depth of dream and memory:
the old car this body,
a vehicle carrying me
through the streets of life;
the keys to open a lock,
a mystery to which I was blind,
even wearing glasses.

2.

Then came a second dream:
a ten foot tall brown bear
standing on its hind legs
trying to escape a backyard
confinement, one leg almost
over the top of the chain link fence.
I walk faster, afraid of the bear
attacking me. Then from behind
a frightened kangaroo appears,
emaciated and mangy-looking.
It is hopping in long strides,
fleeing from abuse.
Suddenly the owner arrives
to return the animal to captivity.
I tell him the kangaroo needs a vet
to heal his wounds.
The owner speaks only Russian,
his behaviour is intimidating.
I enter another yard
where a horse is tied down,
held on the ground by ropes.
As I stand looking
at the horse’s still body
I notice a single, large eye
move warily and look at me,
the horse unable to struggle,
legs bound by ropes and fear.

3.

The third night I dreamed
of a wooden tower,
half of it sealed off
for fifty years.
The nuns who use the tower
never enter the sealed-off side
but know it exists.
I go inside it,
find a few old desks
and chairs, the panelled walls,
windows that allow you
an obscured view
of the nun’s quarters.
Later, I stand outside
looking at the wooden tower.
It is in a Scandinavian country,
where the landscape is austere.
The tower stands alone.
In the distance is where I live,
in a grey, wooden house
that has not been painted
for many years,
it seems to be typical
of the places where people live
in these parts.