About Me
A poem is a genre of writing that captures the musicality of speech and thought more than any other. A carefully crafted poem marries these two conventions and extends beyond the literal meaning of the words, creating a compact form of a larger idea. Poems come in a variety of forms; poetry has a set of general expectations, and yet openly welcomes exceptions. The goal of poetry, as in any writing, is to be unique. A poet should take traditional writing conventions and manipulate them to make them work for her, rather than working for the convention. For example, as described in “The Geography of Sentences” by Emily Brisse, parallelism in a phrase creates rhythm and a sense of repetitive action. However, knowing this convention, the writer can turn it on its head and purposely break that parallelism to reveal a sense of disconnect or disruption within the poem. The rhetoric of a poem, therefore, should be an extension of the content of a poem. When the rhetoric and content work perfectly with one another, a poem then gains an indescribable “poemness”—something that keeps you coming back to that poem and always wondering why you are so drawn to it.
While a poem may be many things, there are some limitations. A poem is not simply a set of adjectives describing nature, nor is it a paragraph of prose broken up into 4-5 word lines. Instead, a poem requires purposefulness; every single phrase, line break, stanza break, image, metaphor, period, comma, capital letter—everything—has a reason for being there. A successful poem can be pulled apart, word by word, and be explicated for meaningfulness within the greater context. It is not until these necessities are met that a poem can be considered a good poem. While a poet may not have reached the point where my poems innately have “poemness,” she should constantly try to account for the elements that create that feel and use them in her poetry. However, the fact that poems work under this set of loose expectations does not mean that poetry cannot sound unique to the author. In fact, it is ideal that poetry written by a particular author has a unique aesthetic, voice, and style. Over time, an author builds her own aesthetic; perhaps a repeated musicality of lines or particular triggering images and ideas stand out and establishes a distinctive style of that author across several poems. This does not mean that a poet should be limited to a particular set of writing strategies, however; rather, the poet should continue to write in a novel way, but still maintain an aesthetic, voice, and style that only she can have. Poets naturally write this way, as they all have different experiences, backgrounds, and perspectives that influence their writing. As with any other genre of writing, I have created my own aesthetic, voice, and style in my poetry. Because I have a background in mathematics and sciences, these ideas tend to influence my rhetoric, whether I realize it or not. Thus, although I am drawn to write about things in nature, my poems usually have a more scientific-based approach to the subject nature, rather than simply a casual observer of it. I know which scientific anomalies or findings interest me, and always try to translate that same source of wonder into my own writing. Additionally, being drawn to patterns in nature and in numbers, I often subconsciously create rhythm and parallelism in my arrangement of words and phrases. Because my writing in mathematics and sciences must be concise, I tend to write succinctly in my poetry as well. This has proven to be to my benefit, as poetry requires—as much as any lab report or research paper—to have carefully-chosen, meaningful phrases throughout. In the poem “Space,” I chose a trigger directly from an online astronomy lesson about our galaxy I had been following, and used it as a metaphor about a past relationship that dissolved slowly. Therefore, this poem could not have been written by anyone else but me, as the culmination of those two things are unique to my situation. Regardless, this poem is still accessible to any reader who has ever been in a relationship of any sort, who has ever studied astronomy, or is a casual observer of the sky and its interworking elements. Therefore, this poem takes a very detailed and factually-heavy lesson on the galaxy and reduces it to more relatable metaphor: a relationship that slowly fell apart. One of my top priorities in my poetry is creating lyricism in the lines that mimic the content of the poem. For example, within the first stanza of “Space”, I tried to create not only the idea, but the feel of circular motion and mundane repetition. I used images such as sweeping and picking dirt from under fingernails and words such as “around” and “again” to set the tone of the stanza: dull, distant, and repetitive. I then juxtaposed this stanza with the remainder of the poem that has more of a forward-moving feel to it, as a result of unnatural line and stanza breaks, as well as some more complex sentences. For example, the stanza break from stanza 1 into 2 moves the poem forward, as the stanza end in the middle of sentences: Look up for once I say. But your light had burnt out long ago, you were light years away being pulled just a little bit more than the rest of us. I remember the night when your cerulean eyes began to blend into the sunless sky so that I could see not passed but through you like the stars had taken you by the hands dragging you to their ever-deeper core. But you hadn’t fought it either. You took off your shoes, in fact, so that you could be a bit lighter on your ascension. However, I also added line breaks in the middle of sentences, such as “I could not see past but through you/ like the stars had taken you/ by the hands dragging you/ to their ever-deeper core.” This gives pacing to the poem, which is especially important as the content of the poem gains more fervor. I wanted to create an image not only in the words themselves but the pacing of the words; therefore, the reader can feel as the person is slipping away, “being pulled/ just a little bit more/ than the rest of us.” In all of my poetry, I attempt to work under a greater conceit, and constantly work to make each part of the poem act as part of the metaphor. Therefore, I carefully chose the subject of each stanza to reflect a back-and-forth struggle or argument: the repeated subject of the stanzas switch back and forth from “you” to “I”. For example, in the third stanza, I repeat the accusatory “you” in the lines “like the stars had taken you/ by the hands dragging you/ to their ever-deeper core. But/ you hadn’t fought it either.” However, in the last stanza, I repeat “I” and “my” in the lines “I ask:/ shall I assume my place…I begin and where/ I end?” Therefore, the poem works from “you” in the first stanza to “I” in the last stanza—an extension of the metaphor of being pulled apart. This shows the purposefulness involved in creating a poem; each element, from the word to the phrase to the punctuation, can—and should—hold meaning referential to the larger conceit of the poem. Finally, I always try to make vivid images in my poetry. This particular poem focuses on visual images. For example, I used the following image to further illustrate how distant the two subjects were becoming: …I remember the night when your cerulean eyes began to blend into the sunless sky so that I could see not passed but through you I used the image of blue eyes matching the color of the sky behind him so that it looked as if she could see right through him as a fresher way of saying that the two were growing apart. Overall, my writing usually follows the same patterns of mathematical or scientifically-influenced metaphors, short lines, varying stanza lengths, vivid images, and lyricism within the lines. These elements have, over time, established my distinct writing voice, which will always be unique to me, and will be distinct from that of other poets. SpaceYou sweep the dust into miniature
mountains around the house and dig the dirt from under your nails. Again. Look up for once, I say. But your light had burnt out long ago, you were light years away being pulled just a little bit more than the rest of us. I remember the night when your cerulean eyes began to blend into the sunless sky so that I could see not passed but through you like the stars had taken you by the hands dragging you to their ever-deeper core. But you hadn’t fought it either. You took off your shoes, in fact, so that you could be a bit lighter on your ascension. You were always drawn to darkness. You’re like the northern star on my map, you had told me once. Bright and bold and steady. But I should have known that even the northern star will not be forever. One day it too will collapse on itself and become dark as the emptiness around it. And so I ask: shall I assume my place, another star among stars, one whose edges are so dangerously close to the fire from those around it that you don’t know where I begin and where I end? Or one that no matter where you stand is still just a bit too far to see? |