by Scott Owens
If they held a convention for all the people who have made a fortune off poetry, I’m not sure anyone would show up. The external rewards of writing poetry are relatively minimal. Writing poetry doesn’t produce googobs of money. Any fame generated by the act is rather limited and usually accompanied by equal amounts of misunderstanding, suspicion, and other forms of notoriety. Even moral support is often lacking as family and friends may resent the time that poetry takes away from them, and readers and other poets may not support your particular aesthetic or the subjects you choose to write about.
Still, there are thousands of people who write poetry, some obsessively, some successfully, if productivity and a small following can be construed as success. The questions, then, are Why do they do it? and How do they do it? Ultimately, of course, the answers to both questions are as diverse as the people who write poetry, but some reasons and ways are common enough to merit general discussion.
W.S. Merwin claims that poetry reconnects us to the world. Gerald Stern gets a bit more specific when he writes that poetry is a kind of religion, a way of seeking redemption, a way of understanding things so that they can be reconciled, explained, justified, redeemed. Certainly these are wonderful reasons for why people write poetry, and they ring true to my own experience as both a writer and reader of poetry. They also relate to the first answer to the second question.
The first habit of productive poets is that they believe in poetry. They believe that it is more than a game with words, more even than just writing about the world (an admirable enough ambition in itself). They believe that it is, in fact, both an ontological and an epistemological act—both a way of being in the world, and a way of making meaning out of the world. They understand that the act of writing poetry helps them pay attention to, appreciate, and make meaning out of their existence, and they enjoy the way in which poetry deepens their experience of people, moments, and things. They believe poetry, and their poetry more specifically, matters, and they will not be dissuaded from engaging with poetry and engaging with the world through poetry.
This is, of course, intimately related to the second habit of productive poets in that it necessitates that poets are confident and courageous. In other words, they believe in the significance of what they are doing no matter how many times and ways they are told by society, family, friends, even other poets that poetry, especially their poetry, doesn’t matter or isn’t right. Perhaps the best answer to why people write poetry is simply because they have to or because they like doing it. If, as Merwin suggests, writing poetry makes you feel closer to the world, then you’ll probably keep doing it no matter what anyone else says. And if, as Stern suggests, writing poetry helps you make meaning, significance, and value out of your perceptions and experiences, then it’s likely you’ll seek every opportunity to do it.
Often, it is less a matter of seeking the opportunity than it is of being ready for it. The third habit of highly productive poets is that they are ready to receive. Ideas, images, lines for poetry are everywhere, every minute of every day, but our ability to remember the fine details of any particular event or perception is constantly eroded by the sheer mass of events and perceptions we encounter on a daily basis. Thus, highly productive poets are never without pen and paper so that they can jot down these observations when they occur. My writer’s notebook goes with me everywhere. It’s on the seat next to me when I drive; it’s on my nightstand when I sleep; it’s in my bookbag or binder when I go out; and on those rare occasions when I can’t have it with me, I’m sure to have a folded up piece of paper in one pocket or another. And I don’t use just any notebook either. I use a notebook that I like to spend time with, that I like the feel and heft of, that I want to open even when I don’t think I have anything to write, and that I won’t get confused with any other notebook. For me it’s a Moleskine journal with about 200 unlined pages. Similarly, I keep one of my favorite pens with me at all times. For me that means a heavy, metallic-bodied, gel-type pen. Whatever your favorite is like, having it available enhances the likelihood that you will write with relish rather than discomfort, and thus will do so longer and more frequently.
Suitably armed for recording the significant details we encounter throughout every day, the fourth, and perhaps most important, habit of highly productive poets is referenced in Mary Oliver’s unforgettable poem, “Summer Day,” where she says, “I don’t know exactly what a prayer is. / I do know how to pay attention.” Paying attention consists of learning to notice the finer details, the significance of those details, and the connections between them that most people, caught up in the necessaries of daily existence, miss, or fail to remember for more than a moment. As simple as that sounds, this habit requires more development than any of the others. Perhaps the best method for developing it is to begin by doing it consciously. Set aside 30 minutes every day and pay close attention to something, somewhere. You might sit at a coffee shop and pay attention to people, or take a walk and pay attention to something in nature; you might practice yoga or meditation and learn to pay attention to more internal landscapes. After a while of doing this intentionally, you’ll discover that you begin to pay closer attention to such details without having to make yourself do it. You’ll notice more; you’ll be conscious of the significance of things that most people take for granted; and you’ll appreciate the connections between things that too often go unnoticed.
Highly productive poets also stay tuned in to poetry. I am convinced, in fact, that most successful poets read a great deal more poetry than they ever undertake to write. They read poetry in books and magazines; they attend workshops, classes, and readings; they participate in critique and peer groups; they volunteer to edit journals and anthologies and judge contests; they read and write reviews; and they create opportunities for others to experience poetry, all of which keeps them thinking about poetry and honing their poetic skills and aesthetic. They do this because they love poetry; they do it because they believe that given the opportunity everyone will love and benefit from poetry; and in the process they make themselves better poets. My own hometown lacked a poetry reading series for local poets, so I partnered with a locally-owned coffee shop and created one that has been going on monthly for 7 years and has an average attendance of about 40 people. I also took on writing a semi-weekly poetry column, editing a quarterly online poetry journal, coordinating a quarterly ekphrastic reading series at the local art museum, and serving as an officer of the state poetry society. I think every state has such a society, and joining it is a great way to get tapped into the network of poets and poetry lovers, and to stay on top of opportunities to experience and participate in the world of poetry wherever you might be.
Just as highly productive poets dive in to the world of poetry, they also dive in to the subjects they choose to write about. As the first habit suggests, whether they write about politics, personal experience, memory, perception, etc., they approach their subjects without letting fear occlude their vision or censor their words. They also dive in in the sense that they immerse themselves in the subject, not rushing to complete the poem, but luxuriating in it, granting it the time it deserves, writing way too much before beginning to whittle down the language and perceptions to the essentials that will form an effective final poem. Examining any act of creation will reveal that creation always involves waste, or “leftovers.” Effectiveness comes through a process of sharpening, whittling away what is ineffective. Thus, most poets begin by overwriting, and then eliminate unneeded elements through the process of editing and shaping the poem. This is another one that takes a bit of practice in a world that encourages focusing on the end result and instant gratification rather than relaxing into and fully experiencing the process. Poets will use any number of techniques to help them expand upon the possibilities they venture into: clustering, free association, automatic writing, meditation, focused freewriting, etc. My suggestion is to use them all, sometimes on the same poem, and then make up your own as you discover what works. Driving long distances helps me; another poet friend of mine does his best work while mowing.
Of course, the correlative habit is just as essential. A highly productive poet will also enjoy the process. I’ve encountered many people who claim to hate revising, but I can’t think of a successful poet who has ever said so. Good poets tend to understand that the real craft of writing comes in the rewriting, and as difficult and sometimes painful as that process can be, it is the part of writing that they enjoy the most. It is, in fact, often a form of play for them. They work on a poem for weeks, months, sometimes years, trying out different perspectives, metaphors, arrangements of lines. They seek out criticism from others; they revise after poems are published, or after giving public readings. They see the poem as “finished” perhaps only after their own death has made it so. If Whitman could have at least 8 versions (some say as many as 19) of Leaves of Grass, then surely no lesser poet should doubt or fear the process of continual revision.
The eighth habit of productive poets, and for some the most difficult, is that they grow thick skin. They learn to distinguish between themselves and their work such that they can accept criticism of their work without internalizing it as criticism of themselves. Often poetry is about personal experience, and some writers struggle to separate criticism of the poem from criticism of who they are, what they’ve been through, or how they view things. Productive poets, however, come to understand that once written and shared, any poem is an artifact, an object, something to be handled and shaped, and not a part of who they are. Thus they are able to consider the poem coldly and critically and ask of it what will make it more effective without taking such questions, regardless of the source, as a personal affront. From that perspective, productive poets strive to listen to criticism objectively. Even if they cannot manage that level of objectivity, however, knowing that ultimately all decisions regarding the poem rest with them, productive poets learn to accept commentary about the poem and move on with the writing they have undertaken.
Good habits are essential to prolonged success in virtually any endeavor. Inspiration is a nice idea, and a wonderful thing when it happens, but I think it unwise to count upon its striking very often without developing certain practices that increase the likelihood of its coming to be. This list of practices for those who wish to be productive poets is far from exhaustive, but it has been useful for me, and I hope that it will prove to be so for other poets as well.
SCOTT OWENS holds degrees from Ohio University, UNC Charlotte, and UNC Greensboro. He currently lives in Hickory, North Carolina, where he teaches at Catawba Valley Community College, edits Wild Goose Poetry Review and 234, writes for the Outlook Newspaper, and serves as vice-president of the NC Poetry Society. His 11th book of poetry, Eye of the Beholder, was recently released by Main Street Rag. His work has received awards from the Academy of American Poets, the Pushcart Prize Anthology, the Next Generation/Indie Lit Awards, the NC Writers Network, the NC Poetry Society, and the Poetry Society of SC.