Showing posts with label William Wordsworth. Show all posts
Showing posts with label William Wordsworth. Show all posts

Tuesday, March 25, 2014

How Poetry Perfects the Human Emotion


Poetry is feeling, the expression of feeling, and the exploration and discipline of feeling.”
—Robert Wallace

Ray Charles in der Hamburger Musikhalle, Septe...
Ray Charles Courtesy: Wikipedia
I’m trying to see how this quote by Robert Wallace explains Wordsworth’s Criterion for poetry. I’m trying for that and I assume it’s pretty much going to come out highly opinionated. I guess I can live with that, after all.

Poetry is Feeling
Let’s take this feeling and modify it as a verb. Imagine yourself in a dark room where you are deprived of the sense of sight and are made to depend entirely on your alternate senses.
This is important on two levels. First, your other senses because you are blinded, assume heightened consciousness. The senses of touch, smell, taste, of sound are emphasized; you start feeling your way through the shadows. On another hand, there’s the opportunity—let’s imagine you are in familiar setting—to reacquaint yourself with the objects you come in contact with in that darkness. When you come in contact with an object, your fingers register the touch and send a message to your mind which, consequently, builds a resourceful table of vocabularies to describe it or redescribe it. You gain or develop a new understanding of things once known; the upshot stands out like a silhouette. Poetry works that kind of magic. It makes you see stuff—even clichés—in a different light.

Poetry is the Expression of Feeling
Well, this looks easy enough. If you can visualize a processing machine—the kind where you input data or hardware and it coughs out a totally different matter maybe, you have an idea what this is about. Poetry gives voice to your feelings or rather is the voice of your feelings. Let’s say your emotion is the earth without form and verse is the creative force that lends it the beauty of art. Poetry can do that much for feeling when we use it to channel deep-seated passion.
Poetry adds radiance to fogged-up emotion when it untangles and stretches it out into metric quantities. It modifies feeling, in other words.

Poetry is the Exploration of Feeling
The picture of the early explorers appeals fiercely to the imagination. Those old-time pioneer new world discoverers with their seafaring crew on their heels sailing deep into the sea, burrowing far into places—villages, towns, kingdoms and countries—yet unknown to the ancient western world . . . As far as the emotions go, poetry can take the poet and the reader on a journey packed full of equivalent measure of heat and adventure. It can jaunt the soul through little-known passageways within the human heart, regions alien to detection or previously unexplored. Poetry conducts depth rich in meaning into words and in this manner it illustrates the endearing feat only this form of art can quite achieve.

Poetry is the Discipline of Feeling
In other words, it keeps a tight rein over your emotions. Here’s a practical example of how this works from the life of a legend, Ray Charles.
                “She’d say, (referring to his mother) ‘Now look, I want you to learn how to get around by yourself without seeing. And the way we are going to do this is, I’m going to place some chairs in certain areas of this room. And I want you to learn how to navigate these chairs. I want you to learn how, when you go into a place, to observe what it’s like.’
“No dog and no cane. You know I’m going to walk into things, but it taught me to remember where things were.”
—Ray Charles,
Jazz Superstar

Poetry helps you master your emotions, but I think coordinate is a more appropriate phrase. Somebody might wonder, do I need to know these much about how poetry relates with the human emotion before I can write poetry? Well, not really. But it’s good to know there is more than one way poetry deals with our true selves and that’s exactly what I’ve tried to illustrate.

Keep your pens bleeding!

Akpan


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Saturday, April 21, 2012

Creed


For Barca FC. Champions for Life!
Don't mess with Messi.

No!
With the O as round as the O of Soweto.
I’m calling it quits with point zero,
Next port of call’s numero uno.
I’m taking a shot at the ace:
Remember this face!

As the ship of karma set sail
For strange shores,
I run my race
Like an athlete fighting strong.
A race to paste details of my name,
And come to it with a measure of pomp,
On history’s immortal page.

In these last days,
One of the last ones believing,
It’s tough to keep breathing,
Scars off the battle ground still bleeding.
But there ain’t no stopping me;
I’m so done retreating n’ hate-breeding.

I’m staying strong
In the outbreak of war.
And it won’t be long
Before the dawn will respond.
Strung on the highway of immortality,
I have turned my heart on a soul odyssey;
An inquest into the makings of me.

I am naturally endowed,
The things that speak for me are sound.
I dance with wolves;
I battle werewolves.
I am one that defines a million
Steadily straddling the lines of criterion.

Verve, with me, has never been an issue
I’m more fascinated with the crisis in Mogadishu.
In the beginning, there was me
Somewhere along the lines
Came the expression of myself from within,
And last, there will be I
After all is said and done.
Still keeping it real,
Hot like a C4
Because I believe.

I believe ain’t a road without obstacles
And those trip you up so high into a spectacle;
Little ordinary miracles
That fork out from dark regions like tentacles.
Fetch the right attitude and snap! tentacles
Morph into broken manacles.

The moments have arrived
To ride in the light
Thro’ the pathway of imagining
And snag the swag.
Ain’t no stopping me,
Let it flow pull the gag.

Instinct is strong
And my juice vibes like a pump.
I can feel the surge
Of adrenalin like a slug
To the lung.

I navigate faith like a pen-
I’m writing the epic of a titan
Incarcerated in a den.
And still reclining in a rocking rattan
Cause, I couldn’t care less if trapped in a glen.

I found the greatest glory in living:
The deal ain’t hinged on not falling
But, getting your butt back up off the flooring.
Because I’ve been to the mountaintop,
I’ve surveyed the universe from a vital spot,
Yea, I know that I can take it
In the company of love, faith and expectancy,
Because I believe.



Akpan



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Monday, December 6, 2010

How You Can Write Poetry I

Poetry is reflecting what you feel deep inside.

Be it on paper or by verbal altercation, it’s as simple as that. Now, I’ve had people say, “Poetry isn’t my thing”. Or “No matter how hard I try I just can’t write poetry” and so on and so forth like that.

Well, excuse me; I’ll have to disagree with you on that single score. Anybody, and I mean just that, anybody can write poetry if they put their heart to it. But not too much of their heart or they look like they taking an entrance exam for the School of the Great By-and-By. Loosen up, buddy. You can’t write no poem with your muscles all tensed up. Relax.

Now that we got that out of the way, I should add that we must come to the garden of verse with an understanding that mastery comes in varying shapes and sizes. And that’s exactly where many potential poets stand or fall. I’m using the word potential with the utmost care because you are either a poet or you’re not. The quality of your line of verse matters not as the fact that you write poetry. That’s all you need to be a poet. Write poems.


When I was younger, I got myself worked up a lot because I believed a standard poem required a large dose of big vocabularies. You can’t blame the kid I was though. You should have seen my first collection of poetry books besides the Nursery Rhymes which I regarded as childish and substandard poetry. One of my favorite poetry texts was A Pageant of Longer Poems edited by E. W. Parker and that’s just one among numerous skull-cracking, mind-racking collections of poems by classical poets, in my personal possession. So, I grew up with a belief that was as staunch as it was childish that reading standard, acceptable verse ought to pay in migraine or at the least, a mild headache. Any poetry that missed that mark was low on the ratings, mine.

From Milton’s Morning of Christ’s Nativity to Arnold’s Balder Dead, my young escapades took me through the works of my favorite classical poet, William Wordsworth. Here’s an excerpt from a personal favorite,

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star,
Hath elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar:
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God Who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
                                                             William Wordsworth,

Can you imagine how easy it would be for a ten year old to get lost in between those few lines of verse? Lost and totally wrecked out my mind, such was my dilemma on the road to the mastery of verse. The years, like foam-tipped breakers have blessed me with a few gifted poets, men and women through whom I’ve gained my footing and a lot of stamina in the field of cadence. Maya Angelou (my favorite), Langston Hughes, Robert Frost, Audrey Lorde, Ezra Pound, Laurence Dunbar, Sylvia Plath and many more masters of the art.

I’ve done my share of reading up on works attributed to these greats, did a little extra as a matter of fact, dug up the BGs (that’s short for Background) and worked the poetic interpretations with those. And I assure you it’s been non-stop pleasure. I’ll give my thoughts pause, presently. Next time, I’ll be sure to pick this up right where I left off. Until that time, read a lot and I mean A LOT of poems.

Keep your pen bleeding!

Akpan


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Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Wordsworth's Criterion

Poetry Workshop by Pooja Nansi 3
Poetry Workshop (Photo credit: Steel Wool)
Okay, let’s talk poetry. I’m not interested in the fundamentals – form, structure, or metric fluidity, right now. I’m more at home with unwinding the spool of mystic which wounds around the craft like a shawl; the touch of poetry on the soul and the spontaneous ignition that accompanies the reaction.

I’ve heard people argue that the human emotion has no business meddling with the heartstrings of poetry. This school of thought points out that far too much research and constructing goes into the making of a poem. And so, they stress, to fling the craft at the mercy of a thousand nameless emotions is, stating it mildly . . .  flimsy. I disagree, though. Well, I’ll give them due fairness and add that these school does not deny entirely the relevance of our feelings to the flow of cadence. Actually, they view them as mere poetical attachés and nothing more. They assert that sensations are fickle and lacking in depth to be a route to the core of poetry.

Well, I don’t know about that one. What I do know is I’m out to understand the essence of poems and I’m taking into consideration the pick-and-choose nature of the craft. The selectiveness of verse, its choice of delicate words differentiates it from prose. I like explaining it to myself like this, if narrating in non-fiction is telling, if in story writing it’s showing, then in poetry above all, it is feeling.

Of course, I speak in defense of poetry; the emotion is an indispensable ingredient in every form of writing created to have a personal edge. Maybe, just maybe news reporting might be excused from what Stephen King calls Wordsworth’s Criterion.

The poet feels his way through each word applied to each line of verse, skillfully selecting, streamlining, and fine-tuning them to sync with the emotive flow of the entire tapestry. Poetic language is attentive to meaning, nuances, and sound patterns of words a poet repairs to in creating his art. This is something readily overlooked in any other form of literature, (Like I stated above, only writing that does not call attention to feelings maybe exempted.) except of course, music which at its finest is characterized by elements of poetics. By the way, writing which appeals to human emotion always always is the offshoot of poetics.

Aristotle said, ‘The greatest thing by far is to be a master of metaphor’.  You would easily agree that without metaphors poetry would be one first class piece of dead meat. The metaphor is the evocative force of poetry which paints mental pictures of sweet delights within a reader.

Robert Frost was thinking the same thing when he remarked, ‘There are many other things I have found myself saying about poetry but the chiefest of these is that it is metaphor . . .’ Poetry is the vehicle of emotion just the same way the emotion is the writer, the driver of poetics.

Robert Wallace puts a ring of finality to it when he says, ‘The metaphors virtually stand for or present the emotion.’  Remember, William Wordsworth’s definition of poetry; Emotion recollected in tranquility?

The metaphors are visible passions which lend their charm to the poem. In other words, they ain’t just the thrust of feelings in the verse but the seen aspect of emotions recollected.

Keep your pen bleeding!


Akpan


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Tuesday, December 22, 2009

Writer's Role

Writer's Stop
Writer's Stop (Photo credit: Stephh922)

We live within our characters. When they bleed, we bleed. When they die, a part of us-that part that stirred them into existence in the first place-dies with them. Our emotions meld and erupt as our stories reach a climax. We are gods who share; partake in the sufferings of his creation. Who feel what they feel in order to associate with their ideas and views of their 'imaginary' universe.

A place in which they are as alive and real as we are in our own world. An existence so real that a stroke off our pen could mark a fatal mistake or an irreparable loss in someone's previously perfect life-a tangible mortal sin that wakes to hubris.

In the roles we write, we are alive and present. We matter. . . 

The responsibility of a writer can not be played down.

Like bite marks on fossils identifying probable cause of extinction of a species, our scribbles outlast us. They become our voices and direct the imaginations of our readers, influence what they think they know about us.
 We all must push towards a point in our personal lives where we appraise our works through eyes of a reverence that's not arrogant. Pure and deserving of wo/men who create believable universes from the simple creed of creative thinking.

As chroniclers we define how the world we live in interprets the history of its people. The burden we've received can not be exaggerated.

When we pick up our pens to create a world through the power of the imagination, we ought to do it with the respect it deserves. The ideas we represent live forever. They will survive us long after our bone is dust to dust.

Laurence Dunbar, William Wordsworth, Sylvia Plath, Audrey Lorde and the army of writers who are no longer here with us did their share creating works of art for which readers and writers hold these in untamed reverence through the years.

We ought to live for something that will last. We ought to breathe our souls on the pages of our journals, weave our essences into the 'dots and slashes' and allow the waves of inspiration to muster the letters that form from the blots of our pen into phrases.

We are not to assume we will be up to this task when we are perfect.

We are writers. Writers write!
Like right this minute!

Keep your pen bleeding!


Akpan



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