“You just go on your nerve.”

Dorianne Laux took a pin to our significant, pastoral, first-person confessional, lyrical, serious, West-coast bubble with a great talk on Frank O’Hara. She read several of his poems and traced the influence of finding universality in absurdity through to such contemporary poets as Tony Hoagland and Charles Simic. The progression from the whimsical to the profound, through a conversational, person-to-person address, has had a significant influence on contemporary poetry. More importantly, it refreshes the language and encourages us writers to begin with a vital aspect of the creative process: not taking ourselves so seriously. It reminds me of the liberated-yet-practical turn of mind expressed by Marvin Bell, that, “on the one hand, it’s poetry! On the other, it’s just poetry.” Thanks heavens for the iconoclast.

Cut off from daily life, thrust into long hours in close quarters with other artists, many of them strangers, others new acquaintances–the temptation to impress, or at least win acceptance, is all too human. The same insecurities of grade-school children searching for a seat in the cafeteria also manifests, in only slightly more rarified ways, come lunchtime during residency.

In the end, however, there is a single thought which I use to steady myself in this tide: I am not here to impress any of these people; I am here to become a better writer. Because in becoming a better writer, I will be more likely to impress some people who do matter–editors. That process, however, has nothing to do with lunchtime chat, and everything to do with what comes across on the page.

I do my best to adhere to this thought, even if it is wrong–even if it is, in fact, a brutal, careerist world out there, where attending the right parties is everything. I want to inhabit a world where good writing is paramount, even if that world represents a small, undervalued subsection of contemporary poetry. I have seen the power and significance of a receptive audience of one.

It is important to be generous, kind, and respectful in life–because human beings are precious, no matter how well they write. But whenever I have faced a decision to try to further my career or follow my heart, the latter has always propelled me further faster than any of my petty scheming would allow. So, whatever ambition I have, I try to direct it inward–toward writing rather than networking, toward equanimity rather than allegiances, toward actually getting better rather than simply looking good.

It is about as easy as anything else that involves cutting against the grain of cultural conditioning. But my commitment to getting better is ultimately what got me here, to Oregon, to freeze my butt off and learn.

• Shift the time frame, vantage point, or speaker.
• Explore the opposite of the “expected” viewpoint or tone.
• Take wild associative leaps.
• Link the story to other stories, or a “story behind the story.”
• Ask why this is being told now; why it is necessary?

During the question and answer portion, she admitted that, in her own process, she will often not resist the temptation to become heavy-handed or draw too-neat conclusions in her poems; instead, she writes them down as a kind of platform on which to rest momentarily, knowing that in the final version the line must go. I found her candor, practicality, and commitment to craft both refreshing and inspirational.

“You must be careful not to deprive the poem of its wild origin.”

Peter Sears gave a dense and compelling talk today on the larger aim of revision–which is not only to add and subtract from a work, but to also to re-envision. Drawing on numerous specific examples from talented poets, including himself, he held up a litany of mediocre poems made great through craft–from minor tinkering to dramatic shifts in perspective and tone.

The most striking example to me was one of Peter’s own poems, which he expanded by pushing it out beyond the bounds of the natural ending of a decent poem, into far more personal territory. Then, he pared down again, and those newfound details caused the poem to fuse into something at once both more specific and universal than before. It galvanized the poem.

It occurs to me, fresh from workshop, that one of the inherent perils of taking feedback about one’s own work from a group, is that the primary instrument at the group’s disposal is subtractive. That is, they can cut–but it would be presumptuous to actually add lines to someone else’s poem. Also, as Marvin Bell points out, groups often naturally tend toward compromise, the stuff of mediocrity.

Fortunately, at the Pacific residency workshops, the faculty encourage us to look at the work more holistically, and often use certain elements of a poem to address larger themes in the group’s work, or poetry in general. In the end, it is on us authors to discover the ultimate destination behind every wild impulse that starts a poem. But having, rather than a trail guide to follow through specific terrain, instead tips from experienced travelers who have walked many trails–is what makes this process invaluable.

Related Topics:

• MFA Residency One
• MFA Residency Two