#148: On poetry and stuckness
Dear reader,
Sometimes, the mind and body call out for a complete state of rest. And you just have to give in. It feels like I’ve been in a state of stuckness and lethargy lately, which is why this email didn't show up in your inbox on Monday.
Today, I felt a tingle of hope when I got out of bed, and I had a feeling this newsletter would write itself. These words by Jack Kerouac found me this week and gave me comfort: “I came to a point where I needed solitude and just stop the machine of thinking and enjoying what they call living, I just wanted to lie in the grass and look at the clouds.”
I’ve been taking it easy re-energising with dal chawal, plant therapy and some lovely poems about the world of poetry that I deeply adore. I hope you enjoy these and feel inspired to write a poem or two after reading them.
On How To Pick And Eat Poems by Phyllis Cole-Dai
Stop whatever it is you’re doing.
Come down from the attic.
Grab a bucket or a basket and head for light.
That’s where the best poems grow, and in the dappled dark.
Go slow. Watch out for thorns and bears.
When you find a good bush, bow
to it, or take off your shoes.
Pluck. This poem. That poem. Any poem.
It should come off the stem easy, just a little tickle.
No need to sniff first, judge the color, test the firmness.
You’ll only know it’s ripe if you taste.
So put a poem upon your lips. Chew its pulp.
Let its juice spill over your tongue.
Let your reading of it teach you
what sort of creature you are
and the nature of the ground you walk upon.
Bring your whole life out loud to this one poem.
Eating one poem can save you, if you’re hungry enough.
Take companions poem-picking when you can.
Visit wild and lovely and forgotten places, broken
and hidden and walled up spaces. Reach into bramble,
stain your skin, mash words against your teeth, for love.
And always leave some poems within easy reach
for the next picker, in kinship with the unknown.
If you ever carry away more than you need,
go on home to your kitchen, and make good jam.
Don’t be in a rush, they’re sure to keep.
Some will even taste better with age,
a rich batch of preserves.
Store up jars and jars of jam. Plenty for friends.
Plenty for the long, howling winter. Plenty for strangers.
Plenty for all the bread in this broken world.Rules For Poetry by Rick Lupert
Never use adjectives
unless you’re trying to describe something
and you don’t want to do it the hard way.
Never use the word “forever.”
It reminds people they’re going to die
and the last thing you need is people distracted
by their mortality during your poem.
Write what you know
unless you’re a fool, in which case
look to the internet, and write about something there.
Avoid vowels
and their angry sister
the letter Y.
Avoid cliché.
On the other hand …
Learn the difference between
epigraphs,
epigrams and
episiotomies.
Use as few words as possible.
In fact, hand out blank sheets of paper
and tell people it’s your finest work.
If you ever use the phrase “darkness in my soul”
be prepared for me to come to your house
and kill you.
If you’re going to write in form, do it right.
For example, as I understand it, a haiku
is eight hundred words written while
sitting on a cheesecake.
Line breaks are important,
but use them carefully. Once you’ve broken a line
its parents will never forgive you.
Finally, go to poetry workshops.
Sometimes they serve food and
you can’t write poetry if you’re dead
because you forgot to eat.The Poets by Eevan Boland
They, like all creatures, being made
For the shovel and worm,
Ransacked their perishable minds and found
Pattern and form
And with their own hands quarried from hard words
A figure in which secret things confide.
They are abroad: their spirits like a pride
Of lions circulate,
Are desperate, just as the jewelled beast,
That lion constellate,
Whose scenery is Betelgeuse and Mars,
Hunts without respite among fixed stars.
And they prevail: to his undoing every day
The essential sun
Proceeds, but only to accommodate
A tenant moon,
And he remains until the very break
Of morning, absentee landlord of the dark.I Like My Own Poems by Jack Grapes
I like my own poems
best.
I quote from them
from time to time
saying, "A poet once said,"
and then follow up
with a line or two
from one of my own poems
appropriate to the event.
How those lines sing!
All that wisdom and beauty!
Why it tickles my ass
off its spine.
"Why those lines are mine!"
I say
and Jesus, what a bang
I get out of it.
I like the ideas in them,
my poems,
ideas that hit home.
They speak to me.
I mean, I understand
what the hell
the damn poet's
talking about.
"Why I've been there,
the same thing," I shout,
and Christ! What a shot it is,
a shot.
And hey,
The words!
Whew!
I can hardly stand it.
Words sure do not fail
this guy, I say.
From some world
only he knows
he bangs the bong,
but I can feel it
in the wood,
in the wood of the word,
rising to its form
in the world.
"Now, you gotta be good
to do that!" I say
and damn! It just shakes
my heart,
you know?There Is No Word by Tony Hoagland
There isn’t a word for walking out of the grocery store
with a gallon jug of milk in a plastic sack
that should have been bagged in double layers
—so that before you are even out the door
you feel the weight of the jug dragging
the bag down, stretching the thin
plastic handles longer and longer
and you know it’s only a matter of time until
bottom suddenly splits.
There is no single, unimpeachable word
for that vague sensation of something
moving away from you
as it exceeds its elastic capacity
—which is too bad, because that is the word
I would like to use to describe standing on the street
chatting with an old friend
as the awareness grows in me that he is
no longer a friend, but only an acquaintance,
a person with whom I never made the effort—
until this moment, when as we say goodbye
I think we share a feeling of relief,
a recognition that we have reached
the end of a pretense,
though to tell the truth
what I already am thinking about
is my gratitude for language—
how it will stretch just so much and no farther;
how there are some holes it will not cover up;
how it will move, if not inside, then
around the circumference of almost anything—
how, over the years, it has given me
back all the hours and days, all the
plodding love and faith, all the
misunderstandings and secrets
I have willingly poured into it.6. The Prodigal by Dhruvi Modi
You whisper your hours away at the hems
of footpaths, curl in puddles and leave wisps
of wiry hair in your wake.
You are gently planted by a pair of green thumbs
and after many languid hours, you germinate. But
you never break free of the warm soil
that couches you. You are the prodigal,
the spendthrifts, the black sheep, the
unashamed. You are the abandoned, the ones
unfit for taming, the ones who refused,
the ones whom no one will ever know. Dear
unfinished poems, I will tear you
apart some day, and sew scraps of you
onto the rips in others. I will look back at you
and see a skull and bones. And I will still
love you because you came to me.
Recommended Listening:
-We’re Dumb - Salami Rose Joe Louis (Looping this every morning)
-Half Baked - Jimmy Campbell
-Want U Around - Omar Apollo ft Ruel
-Mohabbat - Arooj Aftab
-Woody Guthrie- This Land Is Your Land
-this playlist will make you feel like a greek goddess in a ruin garden (I loved the title of this playlist, and the music turned out to be quite divine indeed)
Links of the Week:
1. Early Entries from the 2021 Comedy Wildlife Photography Awards
2. I can’t wait to watch I Get Knocked Down, the untold story of Leeds-based anarcho-pop band Chumbawamba (Tubthumping is my jam!)
3. The Lecherous Limericks of Isaac Asimov
4. Erik Satie: “An artist must regulate his life” (Mason Currey presents the composer’s “precise daily schedule”)
5. How to experience more wow (an essay on awe)
6. The Body Keeps the Score / Bessel van der Kolk
7. Sign up for Writing for Comfort (Poetry meets every Wednesday and Saturday till 19th June 2021)
8. Daily Art - one piece of fine art with a short story about it
9. Allergy to Originality, an op-doc on whether anything is truly original, especially in movies and books.
10. Rest in peace, Eric Carle. Here’s a video of the beloved author reading The Very Hungry Caterpillar:
This is my newsletter: Justin Shiels
“Let go of who you thought you’d become.
Let go of the need to control.
Let go of the expectations that society has burdened you with.
Let go of disappointments, missed opportunities, and broken hearts.
Because only by letting go will you discover who you are becoming.”
Thrilled to have had Justin Shiels, curator of the wellness newsletter Curious Tribe, take over This is my newsletter this week. Justin creates content that helps people live a happier and healthier life, and shared three pieces of inspiration in his takeover here: https://thisismynewsletter.substack.com/p/this-is-my-newsletter-41
New in the journal:
Art:
The leafy wonders of Hillary Waters
"I believe there is a strong relationship between the land and our interior landscapes. When we are connected to the land, we’re connected to ourselves, and one another.
I bring together materials and processes that express the union of humanity and the physical world. Whether stitching, drawing, planting seeds, or harvesting, my hands echo the gestures made by thousands of hands over thousands of years. I feel connected to the lineage of people working with textiles, plants and the land. Stitching, like agriculture, can be functional-- a technical solution to join materials/a means of survival-- or, both can be done purely in service of the soul, lifting the spirit through beauty and wonder.
Check out more of Hillary’s work here.
Poetry:
1. Gentle by Rohini Kejriwal (Excerpt)
“I am learning from daily disappointments.
Burnt rice,
Trees emerging from potatoes,
Piles of unwashed clothes,
Gathering that funky wet dog smell.
I ask myself the difference between being gentle and fragile.
I do not find what I’m looking for.”
Illustrator Baidehi Roy visually interprets three poems written by me here.
2. Broken by Rupa Peter (Excerpt)
“The broken leg brought with it,
Broken moments of loneliness,
Alone, cast aside, in a cast.
Examining my brokenness. Every little fragment.
Fractured. Shattered. Dishevelled. Disjointed.”
I found this comic by Grant Snider super helpful these past few days. In case you’re burning out or on the verge of, please take care of yourself. Nothing is worth losing your mind over.
Sending a gentle breeze your way,
Rohini
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