“oh, i don’t know what to do — about this dream and you.”

I had the most fascinating discussions recently with several people about poetry. Professor Perrin and I discussed Milosz’s idea of poems as thing-moments — devoted to and embodied in things, evoking, eternalizing, memorializing a certain moment in time. This, she says, is what I privilege and do naturally in my poems. “It’s a simple thing, but it’s beautiful. Don’t be afraid of that.” Lately Professor Perrin has been encouraging me not to be afraid; I should lay claim to more things in my poems, be more declarative and less obscure.

At the end of last week I decided that poetry and art are commitments to the concrete things, at base level, commitments to the concrete, detailed world. So now I am obsessed with the idea of art (any art) as a composite of thing-moments. Also at the end of last week, I decided in my head that when Dad said (once upon a time) that his art is about things that are right in nature, maybe he was talking about this love and awareness and commitment and devotion to the concrete physical world. I say that, but when I talk about love and devotion, I’m also talking about the way in which the physical embodies something - the way it locates the image of God himself.

And last night, after dinner, Liz said “I like the physical because when I move it means something. It’s not something symbolizing something else — it’s action.” That struck me as absurdly powerful. Art should mean something as an action, not simply as a symbol or allegory or metaphor. In itself as a physical object or motion it has meaning and worth, beyond what it symbolizes or means or implies.

And then I’m looking at my wall, and I see this picture that Greg gave me for my birthday. It says “Like a moment so overly abundant that it spills from your mind, through your hand, to the page.” And yes, that’s poetry. Thing-moments. A moment overly abundant and spilling from things through your hand to the page.

Also, I learned something today. Apparently addressing the beloved, an apostrophe to the beloved, began the lyric poetry tradition. I find it strange that any poem of mine is addressing the beloved in any sense — but I am pleased to find out that when my poems do address the beloved, Professor Perrin thinks that they are very strong.

This is what I love about critique: people tell me what I am doing, and then from there I can strengthen it to go where I want it to go. Otherwise I find it impossible to step outside my head and understand what is weak and what is strong. But I am learning, through critiques, to ask the questions that may tell me the answers when I am alone and trying to still work. What is at stake in this poem? That is my primary question, the one she is always asking me.

Well. I am not always sure, but I will do my best to find out. But now I kind of wonder. What is at stake in this blog?

Let me know if you find out.

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