Today begins National Poetry Month. Each year, during the month of April, I try to set some poetry goals. Usually I try to write a certain number of poems (and fall short) or submit to a certain number of magazines. I don’t think I’ve set reading goals, which I might do this year – I have a stack of partially read poetry books sitting next to the sofa. Also this year, I have my first published poem appearing in the April issue of the online journal Anti-Heroin Chic. You can read it here.
Quite often, I don’t think I’m serious enough about my writing (or reading) to consider myself a poet. Yes, I finally have a publication under my belt. If I didn’t already mention it, you can read it here. Yes, I try to write new poems from time to time and sometimes succeed in crafting something… but I often get the sense that “real” poets produce a lot more, publish a lot more, and generally spend a lot more time on their craft. One of my friends who occasionally reads my blog has said he thinks the daily fifty-two project is a form of poetry. I appreciate that, and once in a while I view it as an attempt at employing language and style in a poetic fashion. But it seldom makes me feel like a poet.
All of this brings me to two inter-related questions for which I have no answer: what is poetry and how might I break down the barrier that prevents me from practicing/writing more of it? Or I suppose more succinctly for the present moment: why is it that I can write a fifty-two word observation every day for over half a year, yet the notion of writing a poem every day for the month of April seems unrealistic and unattainable? Is my definition of poetry too limiting? Is it holding me back?
Among the things emphasized in an “essay camp” in which I loosely participated was the practice of getting it down (the writing) without concern of form, or quality, or any of those constraints that might kill the impulse before the writing has begun. On a fundamental level, I understand this. Yet, when it comes to the practice of writing a poem, I freeze. I get caught up with the idea that a poem has to say something or go somewhere or reveal some understood universal truth. I get even more caught up with the fear that I have nothing to say. When I think about it too much, I begin to believe that I don’t even know how to start or what a poem is.
I know I could apply the techniques the I use in my daily fifty-two to writing poetry… but for some reason, it’s never that simple. It’s as if there’s an invisible force that prevents me from being so free. Maybe… and I’m just thinking out loud here… the idea of poetry month, and reading poetry, and writing poetry is counter-productive. Maybe it puts too much pressure on the act. Maybe for the month of April, I shouldn’t read any poetry, and only do things that push me out of my comfort zone and have little or nothing to do with poetry – a sort of anti-poetry month?
Today begins National Poetry Month. No matter what I do to “celebrate,” it feels like getting my first publication is a nice way to start.