On Poetry and the Writing Process

Poetry for me is a realization; it is meaning woven into carefully crafted cacography. It is undue influence, it is duly influential. Poetry must mean something way more to the writer than to the reader; I write for myself. Selfish as this may seem, what function can poetry have if it is devoid of the author’s grit and personae? Nothing. Who the hell has ever declared writing as an altruistic endeavor…? Even if I read an abstract piece, that seemingly means nothing to me, if I can, for any moment, feel that the poet is satisfied by their work, then I am obliged to read it. I may never read it again, but, at least it has been read.

Poetry knows form, but hates it. Words hate being told what to do, because it is the words that should be telling you what to do, or think, or contemplate, or act upon, or drive you insane to the point of becoming certifiable. Words know no bounds, so why bind them? Forms are just another function of an oppressive, bureaucratic oligarchy so that the ones in control, and assumedly the ones who have mastered the form, can pigeon-hole others who do not comply, and keep their own power of decision to themselves. It violates the social contract and grants sovereign absolutism to tyrants. Sestinas are by far the worst. We need a return to transcendentalism, and the British literary tradition. Enough of this cheesy, sub-par, lofty poetry about stars and galaxies and “her eyes twinkled like….” Form begets cliché, and students of formal poetry exemplify this. I am grotesquely horrid at writing formal poetry. I would prefer giardia, at least then I am uncontrollably shitting for a real reason. In fact, the writing of formal poetry has in some ways killed my poetic drive. But I worry not; a break is all that is needed. Poetry is in me, as it is in everyone, and once it is there, the enjoyment and splendor of poetic composition can never be lost unless some ulterior, or outside causal factor beyond the writer’s control makes it so.

My writing process does not involve anything specific. However, I suppose if I had to identify the points at which my writing is most intensive, and the conditions therein, I would say that it is during the revision process and involves a few requisites that are systematically adherent to finalizing a piece.

Firstly, I remove all excess papers, books, beer cans, and cigarette butts from my office and vacuum if needed. I am only slightly a “neat freak,” but I cannot have any distractions when I do revisions. During the writing process, or if I am writing more scholarly papers, clutter and outside influence doesn’t bother me so much, but when I am marking up a song or poem or short story with that .7mm, I try to keep my mind in and on the work exclusively.

Next, I read the piece aloud a few times to make sure that the flow is proper and fitting. After that, I do literal revisions - word changes/synonyms, semantics, mark things to be omitted, some grammar changes (though I don’t pay any especial attention to mechanics during this phase), rearrangement of paragraphs and phrasings, tense agreement etc. Once that is done, I put the piece away for a few days (if there is no looming deadline).

After a few days have elapsed, I take the piece out again and read it over and over, leisurely, making the aforementioned revisions until I think it is up to par. I then have someone (or a few someone-s) else read it and devise his or her own critiques. If there is no one available for this, I usually just repeat the process again and again until someone can.

I suppose, however, it is important to consider what actually goes on when I am composing, aside from actual transcription. I am usually in a strong-emotional state when I write; writing is for me, and I assume most, an outlet. (The page… a place to vehemently vent and corroborate ideas and actions into the ideal and active.) I certainly started writing for this reason so it only seems logical that there would be some Pavolvian causation for why I now, and still, pick up the pen and write until my carpal tunnel flares up. The nature of my writing, nurtured by subtly barbaric consequence and learned defense therein. When I close my eyes before I start to write, I can still see the world around me, only it appears in neon iridescence. Eventually the forms become amorphous and take on a new structural fortitude, and thus new meaning. The lines and curves that had before made up reality have succumb to the existential - and I am Nietzsche holding onto that horse before I collapse from madness, and die - and so, when I open my eyes, if I am not seeing double from all the scotch or the dizzying disarray of daily demands, I write.

I find it difficult to carry around a notebook all goddamn day so I carry small pieces of paper that can hardly hold a thought’s worth of material and then loose them. I’ve tried small, pocket notebooks, but you can’t keep it organized, and anything that can’t fit into a pocket is cumbersome. Maybe I should carry a bag, or backpack around, but then I’m carrying a backpack around. A backpack with wheels? But then I look like a dork. Who cares what they think? We’ll if I am laughing at it, and then doing it myself, that is hypocritical. And hypocrisy is by far the most shameless and rank practice of them all. Dante himself could not think of a Hell cruel enough for the hypocrites. Benedict Arnold is like St. Matthew compared to a hypocrite. So, then, what does this have to do with “my writing process?” Basically, everything. For while I may choose to personally live an amoral life, that is only in practice, whereas writing is existent. Surely, I live and exist, but I am not representative of anything other than myself. I am not ultimately accountable to anyone but myself. But my writing… that is a wholly different story. My writing is representative of me, which creates quite the paradox under the given premises, but I write for me so you can write for you, and you may not live as I. You see? we’ll call it auctorial responsibility…

Paper of today is vain and proud because it is mass-produced with rarely any imperfections. Parchment is a far more worthy adversary. Write on lambs.