Spending
Time with Words as Words
During my MFA back in 2004, I tried to
explain to my sister what writing poetry felt like: “It’s like spending time
with words as words.” I meant that
writing poems involved engaging with words not just as vehicles to represent
thoughts, feelings, and ideas, but as objects in their own right in all of
their particularity: sounds, patterns, connotations, associations, etymological
roots, and so on. The phrase words as
words still flits into my mind sometimes when I’m sitting down to work on
poems.
Writing, especially writing poems, requires
a different relationship to time and efficiency than most other things in my
life. With my responsibilities as a teacher and a member of a family, things
have clear deadlines: dinner must be ready for the children to eat or the
assignment sheet needs to be posted to Canvas by 9 am on Monday. I can also
expect a more direct correlation between time and results: an hour spent
commenting on student work will yield a certain number completed, the zucchini butter spaghetti will take about half an hour
to cook. In contrast, no one is urgently requesting poems. I am accountable to
no one for them. And I have much less clarity about what an hour or five hours
spent writing them might yield. Maybe something? Maybe something I’ll discard
80% of in a few weeks? To write poems, I need to find ways to enter that
uncertain time, that inefficient time.
Now
Entering Inefficient Time
Often, the container of a set amount of
minutes is enough. For thirty or sixty or ninety minutes, I am in it, and I can
set everything else aside. I used to tell myself mean stories about this: that
real writers feel the poem rise up in them and overflow and don’t need
dedicated time, that sort of thing. But now I’m more ok with the idea that
there are many different kinds of writers, and I can just be the kind that I
am. And the kind I am often needs the parameter of dedicated time for being
intentionally unintentional.
How do we know when the poem is done? If
it’s a sonnet, we can at least say when we’ve achieved the form, even if we may
still be left with big questions about which word belongs in which place and
continue to revise forever. But when we’re not writing into an established
form, so much, everything, is up for grabs. Having a time parameter can let me
stay with a poem and its uncertainties—and return to—it without constantly
asking if it (or I) am done.
Pre-Deciding
Another thing that helps is pre-deciding. I
often engage in some kind of daily practice. Having decided ahead of time that
I will spend thirty minutes with my first coffee, writing by hand and just
tracing sound patterns, or that I’ll send my friend a new sonnet before I go to
bed, lets me shift the focus to how I’ll
do that thing rather than whether I’ll
do it or what to do out of the many
possible things that could be attempted.
Mornings are often a good time for me. I
have lots of optimism and fortitude in the morning, but still a bit of
fuzziness and lack of inhibition that can be good for drafting. And, especially
when I manage to get up early and not check my email, the morning can feel like
time outside of time, like it “doesn’t count yet,” which lets me slip more
easily into inefficient time.
From
Material to Poem: Gathering and Arranging
Sometimes when I write, I’m just putting
out feelers—documenting what’s going on, looking for emergent patterns in the
words. Occasionally something will stick this way, but mostly this kind of
writing becomes material I draw on later.
Other times, I’m working in a mode. Most of
these modes involve a two-step process: gathering and arranging. Once I’ve
found a generative mode, I often try to stay with it for a while. I’ve talked a
bit before about reading Proust in French and then starting poems from the words
I was unsure about, my guesses, and their dictionary entries. In this case, the gathering
principle was “read Proust, find opaque or semi-opaque words, make guesses
about them based on context and similarity to other words, look them up in
French-English dictionary (and often a French dictionary too).” And then the
arranging principle was something like “use this material to write prose poems
that speak to your life, however obliquely, or that intuitively give pleasure
by their juxtapositions or patterns.” Then, of course, so many revisions!
I can trace recognizable bits from this act
of gathering (above) in at least two different poems in my book The Silk the Moths Ignore. Here’s one of them:
This book—and these prose poems, in
particular,—have had a long revision process with a multitude of changes along
the way. I initially wrote them in prose blocks, and then at some point, I
played with lines in some of them, but eventually, I settled on this “prose
verset” form that doesn’t use line breaks but relies heavily on paragraph
breaks for pacing. In “Creating What We Name,” I see words and phrases that
came out of that initial gathering (zither, remove seeds from a melon), but
then the whole second paragraph I can trace to more recent play with puns and
sound (felt/felt, cut/cut, shear/sheer). There’s often a period in my revision
process that involves writing intuitively into a gap. I picture this as
reaching out slowly with my eyes closed, feeling for something I can’t yet see
but know is there. Sometimes revisions require an opposite impulse: I also like
breaking up continuities to allow a greater leap.
Notebooks of freewriting are often a source
for a gathering step. Other gathering methods include generating anagrams of a
significant word or sketching out a moment from the day and finding a pair of
words connected to this moment that rhyme and might form a kernel to write
around, as in these Lorine
Niedecker-inspired short poems. Other arranging principles might involve
shaping fragments into a set form like these ten-liners
that shift between couplet and monostich or repeating the same word
with shifting meanings along a chain of sentences. I’m working on some poems
now that use notebook fragments and anagram word lists as gathering methods and
rely on colors and fairytale tropes as arranging principles.
Whatever mode I’m working in, I’m
constantly looking for emergent sources of pattern and friction and trying to
draw these out. In any poem, certain elements are marked or activated while
others remain absent or in the background. Friction means change, movement,
tension, something at stake. And patterns—especially where and how we break
them—determine where attention gathers.
Bronwen Tate lives in Vancouver, where
she is an Assistant Professor of Teaching in the School of Creative Writing at
the University of British Columbia. She completed an MFA in Literary Arts at
Brown University and a Ph.D. in Comparative Literature at Stanford University.
Before coming to UBC, she was the entire Creative Writing department at
Marlboro College in the Vermont woods. Her poetry collection The Silk the Moths Ignore (Inlandia Institute, 2021) is available for preorder. Recent
poems have appeared in Tinfish, The Rumpus, Typo, Carousel, and Court Green. Bronwen also has a few new
essays: a brief one on participating in a collaborative homage to Bernadette Mayer (the project is forthcoming
from Black Lawrence Press) and a longer one in Contemporary
Literature on how ambivalence, complicity, and feeling can coexist with
critique in the work of Harryette Mullen. You can find her on Twitter or IG at @bronwentate or on her website at https://www.bronwentate.com/.