Style

What's on my mind now is style. What makes a poet recognizable? Many poets, particularly the "big name" ones, have a distinct style. Give me uncredited, unknown poems of certain poets and I think I could match the poets to their poems. But what constitutes a poet's style? Form (and I mean this loosely...form, not Form)? Tone? Imagery? Language? A bit of all of these, perhaps. There is something else, though, something that's undefinable.

I don't think I have a distinct style, which makes me wonder...am I lesser poet for this? have I not established a style yet or is it my style to have no recognizable style? Maybe I'm too close to the work and can't label my own style.

As I write this post I realize I'm not really saying anything, just talking to myself. I feel better when I consider that talking to oneself is something we all do, and more than that, it's useful. Talking to oneself helps sort out one's thoughts and feelings. In Writing Poems, Robert Wallace says:

Talking to oneself, literally, like Wordsworth on the footpath with his terrier, may be a help in keeping the poem going.

and later:

Enjoying the sound of his or her own voice, sculpting, relishing, caressing the unfinished poem is part of the job, one of the tools.

So, too, sculpting, relishing, caressing the unfinished thought is part of living. Having talked to myself about style, I'll be ready to receive "the answer" when it comes.

Crocosmia

Krokos (saffron, in Greek) + osme (smell) = crocosmia, whose dried leaves apparently smell like saffron. I'll have to crush the dried leaves this winter and test this etymology.

The Poet's View -- Kay Ryan

This clip gives you a little taste of Kay Ryan, recently appointed the country's poet laureate.

And here you can read some of her work, though the selection doesn't include one of my favorite poems by her, "Cheshire." For that you'll have to buy or check out from your local library Say Uncle.

Second Opinion

Leatha Kendrick’s Second Opinion (David Roberts Books, 2008) begins with a poem that acknowledges “I still desire what’s gone. What I’m leaving” and ends with a poem titled “What You Leave Me.” Between these bookends the poet explores the equally expansive subjects of loss and joy, often within a single poem.

Covering such ground in a single collection, a lesser poet might come across as unfocused or artificial. In the hands of Kendrick, this expansiveness is seamless, even essential. Kendrick invites the reader into familial relationships and imagery of the home, native landscape, and body in a way that both illuminates and transcends the personal experience.

She shares an acute awareness of the past, the uncertainty of the future, and the mischievous hands of time, but above all she insists on the present. From “Into Flame”:

My body brittle, dry with age,
I break out of sleep aflame,
remember every spring—
they all come down to this one.

One of the most haunting poems for me is “In Passing” with its gritty voice and a face that doesn’t turn away from the harshest realities:

...
I don’t have so much
as a nickel’s worth
of advice to spend on you

or on anyone, now death’s
resident already
in my flesh, insisting

on her solid, if misshapen,
reality. I’ve got to say
only what is necessary,

things like, What a meal
that was! How’s the wife
been feeling? Isn’t this
a gorgeous day?

The poems that play within the boundaries of traditional form and the poems that fall into the category of free verse have a clear and definite sense of form and language. “Threshold,” a double sonnet, takes a fresh look at the mothering of daughters, from when the poet “held my daughters, cradled / like sprays, bouquets extravagant of flowers” to the present day when “Together we wrestle / separate futures, listen for the rustle, / breathing through the line.” Even in these small snippets, Kendrick’s command of sound and delight in word play, characteristic of the collection, shine through.

The poems of Second Opinion are at once heart stopping and heart racing. As is the case with all things of the heart, the poems overflow with love and honesty.

Ginger and the Mockingbird

Ginger is finally getting some much needed rest.

Her excitement began a couple weeks ago when a mockingbird began patrolling the yard. It seemed like a strange courting ritual. The mockingbird perched on the deck railing, singing to Ginger and frequently swooping down in front of her, flapping its wings. My ever-brave cat alternated between hunching before the glass door, making guttural noises, and backing up into the corner, behind the blinds.

Of course, in reality this was no love affair, only an indoor cat and very aggressive bird with an active nest nearby. I think we probably had multiple mockingbird nests this year, but I only found the nest in the hawthorn tree, where a pair nested last year as well. I counted three or four yellow beaks opening like flowers before I was dive-bombed by an adult bird. This week the nest sits empty and Ginger's feathered suitor no longer visits her.

The River Birch Revises Its Life

Sometimes disparate parts of my life come together in surprising ways. Or maybe not so surprising, since we humans seem inherently drawn to metaphor. We want to see connections. Maybe we even need such connections to survive.

This afternoon the guy who designed and developed much of our landscaping stopped by to take a look around. We had a look at the river birch, which has a few clumps that look distinctly different from the rest of the tree. These clumps have smaller, drier, more condensed leaf clusters. Upon closer investigation, Daniel determined these clumps belong to the original tree, the one with a root ball that came from a nursery. The rest of the tree--the healthier, larger part (that looks like the main tree now)--is actually from an offshoot that grew after being planted and adjusting to the soil.

Then this evening in Leatha's revision class, she pointed out that sometimes we must abandon the original impulse of the poem to find a truer, better poem--the real poem. What a challenge for most of us! Particularly if the original impulse has some nice language or images, if it looks like a real poem. Sometimes we can develop a poem only so far using the original impulse and thus must follow the offshoot that becomes the real poem.

I tell myself: remember the river birch.

Notes from the Garden in July

While I was outside grilling salmon (my first attempt at cooking fish at home--which turned out pretty well, by the way), I was delighted by the first hummingbird I've seen this season. The last couple years the hummingbirds have tended to show up at the end of summer, stopping by briefly to drill nectar from the last flowering wells before heading further south. Yesterday's bird darted around the crocosmia and hosta then darted away just as quickly. This morning I set out the nectar feeder with hopes of enticing the visitor to return and stay a while.

On another note, I'm once again being defeated by the Japanese beetles. Every year I battle them. Every year they win. They are especially vicious to our Harry Lauder's Walking Stick. I pick them off and drown them every evening, and last week I even broke down and sprayed the tree with insecticide. Still the beetles persist, eating away until only filigree vestiges of leaves remain. I know the Walking Stick looks best in winter--when it's naked and can show off its gnarled shape--but that doesn't mean it needs to be bare the whole year. My neighbor has resorted to trying the traps, even though there are reports that traps only draw more beetles to the area. Thus far, the beetles seem no worse, nor no better, than previous years. So I go on, my only satisfaction watching the little devils come to their end in a bucket of water.