Friday, April 17, 1998
Art of language holds ambiguous meaning
COLUMN: Search for definition of poetry ends with realization
that it is embodied in all things
I once went to a poetry reading back home, at a cafe, where the
old people reading became enamored of the words they spoke, so much
so that they lost all meaning, and I was told that that was poetry,
but I didn’t believe I’d gotten the whole story.
Chicken Pastrami.
So I watched a special on PBS. Late at night. Bill Moyers. He.
Was. The host.
Golf Balls in the Sewer.
And they, the speakers, the creators of words, grilled by our
pal Moyers, all had something to say, these poets, from the ancient
days of Rumi to the modern days of Maya Angelou, and I heard what
they had to say of snails and society and relatives, and I decided
I needed to hear more.
Linoleum.
So I read some thin, thin pages of Emily Bronte, and she spoke
of feeling dead. Like a corpse. And I thought maybe I
understood.
Trundle.
So I read some William Carlos Williams. And he just got angry.
And spoke of our Puritan nation and how we exist on the soulless
soil which they helped to corrupt. And I thought maybe I was
starting to get it.
Smock.
So I looked at a tree maybe for hours. For all eternity, in the
moment I found it, at the graveyard amongst the grass and the rows
of tombs and at the bar amongst the smiling faces of listless
college students and at the ceiling of every classroom I’d ever
entered, watching the words of education rise with the heat, and
then I thought maybe I knew. Something more about what poetry
is.
Cockroach Turds.
And I took a creative-writing poetry class on campus last year,
and we all sat around – all 15 of us – early every Friday morning
for a quarter, talking to each other about what poetry was and if
we had all achieved it or not.
Electric Blue Spandex Tights.
We decided, eventually, that we could never really know.
That’s what poetry is. Maybe.
Pickled Herring.
But I know some songs strike me, and others make me sizzle, all
because of the words they use and how they, release them, into, the
air.
Soul Train.
I know some people are just poetry in the way they move. And
make me crumble. In the way they. Rotate. Their eyes.
Wonder Woman Pez Head.
I know some books make me squirm like a swamp eel. All in the
way they grasp me. To them.
Bunyan.
Other times, I just read Dr. Seuss and understand the creatures
all around me, the demons in the night and in the day, have names.
And haunt others, and amuse them. As well. And are our own precious
poetry.
Cup of Fur.
I even tried to start a zine at my high school, sporting
primarily poetry, with my best friend Enion. But after one issue,
it fell apart. We were too shy to sell it. So we let it rest in our
rooms the rest of the year.
Aunt Jemima Pancake Syrup.
And this year, another zine-esque publication was in the making,
but it, too, never got off the ground.
Weasel Sweat.
I think sometimes you can find poetry in a good yell. Or verbal
abuse that you give to friends that aren’t present. In the park, or
on the way home from class, or in your sleep, when no one else is
around.
Greasy Treaties.
Sometimes, if you yell loud enough, it becomes like a
proclamation of your indignation with the cruelty of life. Even
though others may hear you. And call you insane. Those low
mumblings you call screams. Those self-conscious gurglings under
your breath between bites of food. Those vapid stares you shoot at
the walls before whipping your head around to answer the call to
attention that the person sitting next to you never made.
Rubber Bungalo Bed Sheets.
This is poetry.
The people in the other room laughing. Are poetry.
Your suffering.
Your scowls of discontent along with all of the things which
don’t make much particular sense.
VanderZanden is a third-year English student.