I’ve just had the smug, narcissistic satisfaction of getting over a hundred likes on Facebook for a post- it always feels so good, and yet so indescribably dirty, when this happens. It’s like completing a mundane task and then looking around expectantly in a busy street, waiting for a spontaneous round of applause. We’re all looking for confirmation that we’re doing the right thing, and that other people care about it.
What was this magnificent occasion, you ask? Did I save a baby koala from the top story of a burning skyscraper? Did I solve the problems of ISIS armed with nothing more than a toothbrush, a biro and a vague optimism? Did I even give birth? Well, it was none of the above. It was something much more traumatic and stressful. For I, ladies and gentlemen, have just put together a debut book of poetry.
Now, on one level this blog is a shallow, self-serving pitch to subtly convince you that buying my upcoming book is the best thing you could possibly do (‘After the Poet, the Bar’, released June 20th by Indigo Dreams Publishing, if you’re interested). But on a more general level, I’m writing this to let you know just how bloody hard it is editing poetry for publication. When there is the vague possibility of anyone else reading your work, every tiny word suddenly takes on gargantuan significance… do I really mean ‘obfuscate’ in this phrase? Does ‘college’ need a capital letter? Should I take out the sheer amount of Oxford references to make me come across as less of an Oxford Wanker?
I’ve gained new respect for those poets who manage to publish anything and keep their sanity- let alone come up with anything original and interesting. Wendy Cope’s witty one-liners make any weak puns I concoct seem worthy only of the bathroom mirror- no wonder William Carlos Williams went down the path of veiled simplicity. His poem ‘The Red Wheelbarrow’: ‘So much depends/ upon/ a red wheel/ barrow/ glazed with rain/ water/ beside the white/ chickens’ ostensibly seems to have less of a chance of driving you mad than trying to write Keats’ ‘On the Eve of St Agnes’ does. But then, who am I to judge?
As a poet barely out of my teenage years, with the traditional mix of experimental poetic styles and crap love poetry that I now feel very uncomfortable rereading, I can only admire those who craft poems for others (and that includes William Carlos Williams, if you’re wondering). Poetry should be intriguing, challenging, unsettling- a cauldron of emotions and reactions that can turn you upside down on a single line. But, above all, poetry should be interesting- why on earth should we bother reading it, let alone write it? The poem below, by Edward Lueders, epitomises this need for fascination: ‘a walrus chewing on a ballpoint pen…’ Poetry is the antithesis of a shallow Facebook post garnishing hundreds of likes. It is subtle, beautiful, and utterly absorbing. Maybe instead of posting on Facebook, I should go out and try and save a koala from a burning skyscraper- it might make for a more inspiring piece of writing.
Your Poem, Man… by Edward Lueders
unless there’s one thing seen
suddenly against another–a parsnip
sprouting for a President, or
hailstones melting in an ashtray–
nothing really happens. It takes
surprise and wild connections,
doesn’t it? A walrus chewing
on a ballpoint pen. Two blue tail-
lights on Tyrannosaurus Rex. Green
cheese teeth. Maybe what we wanted
least. Or most. Some unexpected
pleats. Words that never knew
each other till right now. Plug us
into the wrong socket and see
what blows–or what lights up.
Try
untried
circuitry,
new
fuses.
Tell it like it never really was,
man,
and maybe we can see it
like it is.
