Stephen Nachmanovitch’s Free Play is one of the best books on the inner game of art I have ever read (Mastery and The War of Art being others). So when I came across a transcript of the lecture he gave to the National Association of Poetry Therapy in 2000–available on his web site–I was keen to read it.

He relates to the therapeutic power of poetry, through theories of Gregory Bateson, as a kind of anti-solipsism and anti-myopia. That is, “there is a pathology inherent in all conscious thinking, and that pathology comes from taking a small linear segment of a circle of causation and taking it to be the whole thing,” which is, “related to our illusory notion of the self–to our view of taking that which we are able to consciously scan, in our own processes, in our own thoughts, our own feelings, our own memories … to be the whole.” Furthermore, he says activities like poetry “help us to perceive that the self is a provisional, illusory construct that’s useful for certain limited kinds of activity–but it’s not the whole Self.”

He later points out that cathartic or therapeutic poetry does not necessarily make for lasting or meaningful art. I would go further in pointing out that not all contemporary poetry necessarily strives, even unconsciously, for some awareness of the Self. Yet, at the same time, I still think one of the highest potentials of the form is this quality of encompassing. After all, one of the most fundamental properties of poetry is its ability to encompass qualities of perception and “truth” unavailable in the linear thought patterns of prose. Therefore both the reading and writing of poetry is an exercise in plumbing some nonlinear depth (or transcendental height) and is, by definition, this reconnection to a larger circle of consciousness, a less segmented, fragmented truth. And, as I have said before, such truths matter now more than ever.

What can I say about this book? It has been a life raft for me. I resonated with Orr’s sentiments from the very first page, and have unfolded in this book a beautiful articulation of what I have been experiencing lately in my relationship to art. Orr speaks with the authority of one who has observed himself keenly in the process of living and writing. He draws equally on research, insight, and experience to illuminate the transformative power of poetry. In the first half he lays out his theories, in the second he traces connections through Wordsworth, Keats, Whitman, Dickinson, and Wilfred Owen.

Where I was once scoffingly skeptical of the notion of “art therapy”, I now have a renewed understanding of the purpose and power of poetry. To the commenter on the Books, Inq. blog who hopes, “the simple stuff by humans does survive, and continues to reach people,” I can say that Orr illustrates a key facet of the power and importance of this “simple stuff by humans”–the power to heal not only the author but to communicate a more fully integrated experience of life to the reader as well. As long as we will be struggling with order and disorder, trauma and hope, we will continue to make meaningful art. Thanks to Sarah for nudging me toward this book. It is a gem.

In short, poetry is art. If the artist finds all the necessary materials for his craft in rummaging through the toolbox of his past, so be it. But the notion that great writing should (or, equally, should not) be about self-expression in a personal way is like saying all good cars should be red or all great paintings not trees. Absurd, and strange.

There is a tendency to focus on personal experience as the source for creative writing in beginner courses. Memory is readily at hand, often harbors rich detail required to give a poem a sense of veracity, and the right kind of memory can bring the emotional weight and conviction to bear required to sustain a powerful poem. Then again, emotion, haphazardly expressed, is never art. In fact, some feelings and thoughts may never make great art, no matter how well described.

While this trick of focusing on the personal can make unreadable, ambiguous poems take some shape, failing to evolve from this device into other approaches limits the scope of the artist. It cripples her with the notion that poetry is about being understood–rather than making your work understood. I think we must all accept that we will never be understood in the ways we would like to be. But what we write can strike a chord in the poetic minds of others, give them a great experience that transcends prosaic thought. Whether the subject matter is me or something else entirely, the satisfaction of communicating art is the greatest success an artist can hope for. Usually, it comes in a comment like, “Wow. That was a good poem.”

Personal intimacy can create conviction. But so can deep observation. Mary Oliver’s House of Light is a stunning work you could call intimate–but intimate with her keen observation of life around her, and her wise, strange, and beautiful extrapolation from the natural world to the world of artistic thought. BH Fairchild’s The Art Of The Lathe is likewise an intimate portrait of the blue collar Midwest in the 50′s and 60′s. Yet this sense of closeness to the work, to the poet’s genius, comes not from the prolific use of “I” but from excellent writing.

I am reflecting now on events in my own life that have affected me profoundly, and I know that I may or may not ever write about them in a poem. Yet I do write, I do express, whatever I want and as often as I need to. I work through a process similar to Julia Cameron’s morning pages concept–where I write uncensored for as long as I need to, to “clear the pipes” if you will. What I write, I tear up and burn. Literally. Then I get on with writing, thinking and living.

Perhaps there are such, “Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.” (Wordsworth is often misquoted as saying such thoughts are too deep for words.) And surely poetry is one of the best possible media for expressing such thoughts, or approaching them. Still, until I discover a compelling image, an interesting rhythm, something to put at the heart of a poem that tells me it could succeed–such thoughts are likely to remain below.

Poetry has never been a matter of simply choosing the right subject. Which is why I find courses specializing in, for example, writing protest poetry, like a course in composing only music in G major. Honing the craft–not the content–should always be the aim of a writing course.

My teacher Suzanne Lummis, for example, has a very different style and voice to my own. She is interested in the sultry, decadent and noir. I put paper covers on toilet seats before I sit down on them. Yet I learned a lot from her about what it means to write, because her love of poems transcends her love of genre. If only all teachers were so magnanimously made.

More than the personal, or transpersonal, I think the best aim in art is the transcendental. Whether that means elevating a personal experience beyond the personal, or is achieved through keen observation of the natural world–or something else entirely–matters less than the trajectory it describes. Poems are art. Self-expression is healthy. But to consider the work of writing well has shifted in balance to a kind of “art therapy” seems to miss the point of writing well. Poems are not meant to be understood. People are not meant to be understood. Both are designed to be experienced. Great poems lift us up into a great experience, and our aim as poets is to write such poems.