The Small Space of Miracles

Poetry calls us to explore the physical property of words. So – we know we ‘hear’ a poem – either silently in reading, or in having it read to us, but how do we see a poem? How do we feel it, or taste it? How do we, as poets, make the poem a physical experience? What is the relationship between poetry and dance, or music, or film, or visual art? What is its relationship to the physical space it exists in? What is its relationship to the landscape it grows from, and lives in?

The poet, in taking this journey, attempts to capture something of what it is to exist, holds it up so that we, the reader, can understand ourselves, and them, a little better. In many ways, the poem attempts to hold what we cannot hold – the transient miracle of life. Our lives.

The exploration and the fun is in finding ways of creating poems that move beyond the A+B+C building blocks of functional language and begin to inhabit this ‘small space of miracles’.

It is important to delve deeper than the construction of the word-poem and consider in our composition the sound and breath held in a word, the rhythms, the music, the beat, the dance, the movement, the shape. It is about loosening the connection between word and meaning, allowing the air back in. Allowing the breath back in.

The poem, in its essence, communicates something of the experience of its composer. It is the unique expression of that individual, or the shared song of a community. It captures not the mighty (though it can) but celebrates the ordinary miracle. Joseph Brodsky, a poet and activist, said that “poetry is essentially the soul’s search for its release in language”.

In a world where language is increasingly about control, power, access, function and manipulation, poetry

“encourages us to revisit our language, to experience it anew, to come to understand it as a means of communication, deep connection and understanding between ourselves and others, and between the different aspects of ourselves”

(Staying Alive, pg 24 Astley, N).

This is the value of poetry. This is why I choose to share my poetry with others, because in my own life, it has enabled me to live through challenges, learn through experience, understand myself, the world, and others better and, when I had no voice, to communicate to others the existence of my unique being in this wide, wide world; my unique gift.

And every person has a gift to offer the world. Poetry, like all the creative arts, helps us to listen to our hearts, to find that gift and to share it. And that is the right of every human being, and I hope that in some ways, my presence within Beaumont contributes to that exploration.

I would like to finish today with a line from the poet, Denise Levertov, that inspired me, taken from her poem Variations of a Theme by Rilke;

“...what I heard was my whole self
saying and singing what I know: I can.”

Only in silence the word... (Ursula K. LeGuin)

What is poetry? and what is it for?

At its most basic, poetry is made up of units of language, ordered in a certain way. We all use language, in one form or another, every day. It is a functional currency. In its most common form, it is a means we have adapted to communicate our basic physical needs – from indicating we want to use the toilet, to sending an email to a colleague. Language becomes exhausted, overused. We forget to listen closely to the sounds of its composition, its versatility and creativeness. Poetry then, refreshes our senses to language and encourages us to play with the different ways it can be used.

Poetry is a musical composition. We listen to music to uplift our spirits, to aid reflection, to remind ourselves of a time gone by, to release energy or an emotion…yet we tend to overlook poetry, even though a poem does the same thing. The process of composing a poem involves the same consideration as composing a piece of music. The poet searches for the right word, the best sound, the most evocative rhythm to express the meaning held within the poem. We experience a poem twofold – receiving simultaneously the meaning of the words and the construction of the language. If the poet has done it well, we will not be aware of the construction, but instead receive it as part of the meaning – and in this way, a poem becomes something that is understood both intellectually, and physically.

In this world, the word is both functional and expressive. Poetry digs deeper in order to discover the base note held in language. At its base line, language is made from sound and silence, and poetry becomes a composition of breath, sound and silence. Silence is a prerequisite for the voice, a space for it to invest, a resonance chamber in which to reverberate. In silence resounds voice, in voice silence is present. Poetry consists in turning the invisible—silence or a voice—into perception and presence.

How then, does language and silence define our world, and us within it? How does the act of naming define our world? How do words take shape? What ‘shape’ are these words? What ‘shape’ is silence?

In my poem, Poem 16, also from Fragile Bodies, I attempt to capture a life changing moment, the moment when the mother is told her pregnancy has failed. Through the use of silence, and space on the page, as well as the sound and meaning of words, I have tried to communicate to the reader the sense of loss and the silence of that moment:


Poem 16

They say:
the structure is growing somewhere else.

They tell me:
the womb is empty.

I look, straining to see
the pinprick heart
that will tell me
you have stayed.

There is nothing;

only space

and water

and longing.

The poem, in this way, becomes a physical, sensory experience, moving language from the purely functional, into the experiential, the expressive. Here there is interplay between functional language, and expressive language.

Dragonflies from the sun... (James Broughton)

'...Poets are not gnats in the wind.
They are dragonflies from the sun.
Come, burn your bliss in midair.
You are more needed than you know.
Be arsonists of the phoenix next
and glow!'

(James Broughton)

I thought this would be a good opportunity to share a little about where I have come from and what guides my practice...

I began writing and reading poetry as a small child. The way it spoke entranced me and I knew from an early age that this was the basis of my life. Later, I discovered the power of poetry to save lives, in this case – my own. More than that, I discovered the value and importance of poetry in empowering of the individual voice and in allowing the silent to speak out. The basis for my work has always been the firm belief that poetry is a vital part of our human expression and that, as such, it lives within every human being and is accessible to every human being, irrespective of education, literacy, culture or any other social, physical, mental or psychological condition. More so, it is often a vehicle for those who are under-represented, marginalised or un-heard to speak out. In her poem, This Poem… Elma Mitchell takes a wry look at the radicalism of poetry.

This poem…

This poem is dangerous: it should not be left
Within the reach of children, or even adults
Who might swallow it whole, with possibly
Undesirable side-effects. If you come across
An unattended, unidentified poem
in a public place, do not attempt to tackle it
Yourself. Send it (preferably, in a sealed container)
To the nearest centre for learning, where it will be rendered
Harmless, by experts. Even the simplest poem
May destroy your immunity to human emotions.
All poems must carry a Government warning. Words
Can seriously affect your heart.

Poetry is no fluffy toy; poetry is an explosive bomb, ready to blow apart our prejudices, our misconceptions, our busy-busy brains. Listening to a poem, reading a poem, writing a poem, creating a poem – not only connects us back with parts of ourselves, it connects us to each other, and to what it is to be human. It awakens something in us that the keepers of the status quo would probably rather stayed asleep. That is the power of all creative exploration. It has the potential to turn our lives upside down.

Poem 1

To do this
will change everything.
See? Already the clouds
are rolling backwards.

(from Fragile Bodies, V. Bennett WWP 2004)

Why is it so important to leap in though? Why bother?