Sounding: the action or process of measuring the depth of the sea or other body of water.
Sounding: information or evidence ascertained as a preliminary step before deciding on a course of action.
Last Thursday at the University of Amsterdam, I gave a talk on “creative process,” which is a topic that I find endlessly fascinating and endlessly daunting and endlessly mysterious. There are, of course, any number of angles from which to approach the question of where poems “come from” or how they are “made”–discussion of influence, inspiration, conversation, exploration, or revision, to name a few possible paths. These are topics I return to again and again in the classroom and in talks, and with each topic, I share favorite poems, to bring the subject to life and into focus. I love sharing, for example, drafts of Elizabeth Bishop’s “One Art” in a discussion of revision, or sharing Robert Hayden’s “The Ballad of Nat Turner” in a discussion of inspiration. This talk was a bit different, however, as my host, the poet, critic (and friend) Jane Lewty encouraged me to focus on my own poetry.
Since she arrived in Amsterdam several years ago, she has been working toward integrating the idea of “creative writing” as an academic discipline into the Dutch system; she thought her students had plenty of exposure to literary discussions of poetry and poetic origins and influences, but less exposure, perhaps, to poetic practitioners navigating questions of craft. I decided to organize my time into a hybrid “poetry reading / craft discussion,” which I had never attempted before; even in job talks, I had always separated the reading of my poems themselves from any discussion of craft.
In focusing on my own work, the topic of “poetic process” suddenly felt more fraught. How could I discuss my own process without claiming more certainty than I possessed? How could I discuss my own process without implying that I thought my poems were exemplary specimens? If an external discussion of “where poems come from” (like “where babies come from”) felt overwhelming and intimidating and easy to mess up, an internal discussion of where my poems come from felt unbearably intimate, like someone flicking the light on as I scrambled to pull the sheets up to my neck.
In the end, I decided to read a selection of new poems generated more by sound and form than by idea or theme, discussing sound and form as forces of both structure and permission. I organized these poems into those generated by “form received and form re-ceded,” “accretion and association,” and “re-vision.” Though both narrative and rhetoric do, of course, make their way into my poems, and my poems discover their themes during the writing process, it is very rare for me to begin with an idea or story I want to convey and move forward from there. I thought that the only way to be honest about my process was to admit the scarcity of my own poems that began “about” something, and focus on poems generated out of play and experimentation with language itself.
I began by sharing a few new (rare) poems that actually did begin with a topic or idea, as in “I wrote this poem about _______.” Perhaps some people can emulate this process (“write a poem about ________”), but I personally have a very hard time generating a poem under this kind of constraint, unless I also find some sonic or structural catalyst to truly move me forward. For me, poems that begin this way are pure luck, a “gift” from elsewhere. Therefore, I moved on quickly to discuss the generative potential of sound and form. “Form received and form re-ceded” included poems in which the catalyst that brought the poem into being was a particular rhythm, shape, received form, or struggle against a particular form. “Accretion and association” included poems that came into being through a building up of sounds or images. “Re-vision” included poems in which images, materials, or ideas re-worked themselves explicitly within a poem, opening up possibilities or alternate readings and viewings, complicating a poem, rather than tidying a poem into one scene or topic.
I did, indeed, feel both nervous and exposed as I read and discussed my own work. That said, the students and faculty were warm and engaged, and I had a terrific time, especially when the conversation opened up to include the students themselves. If I could wish for the students to walk away with something, I’d hope that my vulnerability, uncertainty, and excitement were contagious. And that, despite my best efforts, all the endless mysteries of creative process remain.