I have no idea what I'm doing…
…and you can too!
I received a master’s degree in poetry writing in 2006 and then got a job adjunct teaching at a community college for a year. I had also been performing at national poetry slams for several years and toured a few places, headlining open mics like the one I used to host in college. As an undergrad, I placed in two different national finals in the poetry interpretation category of speech team, as well as ghost writing several poems for other people on the team to do in their performances. My young adult life was totally submerged in poems, but when it was just me and my brain I was confronted by a disgraceful truth: I did not know what poetry was.
After my teaching year (where I taught some poetry writing classes), I was hired as the Performances Manager by Young Chicago Authors. For the next six years, I organized a weekly poetry workshop/open mic for youth as well as the biggest youth poetry festival in the world. And despite that, I was still not sure what poetry was. (Is it like music, but less fun?)
But I could walk and chew gum at the same time, or rather, pretend to be a poet while secretly trying to educate myself enough to say confidently what poetry was. So maybe it was more like chewing gum while reading books about how to walk while stumbling down a slight hill.
I came up with various definitions and explanations but none were ever totally satisfying. And I couldn’t force myself to read some of history’s most celebrated poets.
Underlying all of this, more importantly, was a generalized anxiety disorder, an internet sex addiction, and ADHD (I did not use those words then). So I was not only carrying the relatively small shame of not knowing what poetry was, I also held the larger shames of not knowing who I was and why I kept doing the things I did.
I’m not disclosing this stuff to try and create an artificial sense of intimacy with whoever reads this. Nor am I seeking absolution from the hurtful choices I have made over the years. I am trying to chart a useful route backwards through the disorganized mess called my 20s.
During one of my breaking points, I had lunch with Marc Smith where I opened up to him about all of what I knew of my debilitating shames. I was talking to him because he was the director of my poetry ensemble, but also because I knew he had made it through his own addiction. He said to me, basically, that he figured out that if he wanted his poetry career to go anywhere, he had to get clean. He knew that these two things were related, even if they seem like they shouldn’t be. It made sense but I still couldn’t figure out how to be the better version of myself. He had AA as well and offered to be the friend I called if I was ever in crisis but I never did.
A lot of compulsive behaviors, whatever their form, are about the short term dopamine hit you get when you engage with your compulsion of choice. These behaviors can often deepen and worsen when the addict goes through a big loss or high stress. And the more time one spends chasing that short term joy, the less time you have to handle responsibilities as well as the slower, more profound, healthier long term joys. Joys like, say, writing, watching and reading poetry.
And despite not really knowing what poetry is and also not knowing why lots of famous poems are famous (are people pretending to like this to get a good grade?), I really liked the poetry I liked. I liked writing (some of) the poems I wrote. I had a lot of fun going to poetry shows and organizing poetry events and performing. For the longest time I couldn’t reconcile this: how can someone like something they don’t know how to explain?
Now that I have been falling downhill and chewing gum for four decades, I care less about a unifying definition of poetry, or of any art for that matter. Like Frank O’Hara says:
I don't even like rhythm, assonance, all that stuff. You just go on your nerve. If someone's chasing you down the street with a knife you just run, you don't turn around and shout, “Give it up! I was a track star for Mineola Prep.”
For me, it has been about cultivating what my nerve is. Following my curiosity - which is hard to do when constantly awash in cortisol. It’s also hard to follow my curiosity and hear my nerve when I’m overly concerned about its value in capital (be it monetary, social, or intellectual). But mostly it feels like all my poems are lies unless I can be the person whose values I hold. I’m still learning this but getting better at it.
It turns out that Poetry is a big starship, man. I can go on away missions with all kinds of different poets, visit the holodeck with thousands more dead poets. And if I don’t like John Donne’s poetry or whoever it’s fine! I won’t hurt his feelings! He’s fuckin dead!
I guess as someone who struggles with executive functioning, I’m saying it’s important to develop priorities and poetry is low on the list of stuff that needs attention but as I get better at handling my shit, the quicker I can turn to poetry. The higher up the list it can be because I’m not having to wade through as much big and small shame.
(I also suspect a lot more poets don’t really know how to define poetry either.)
In the absence of a do-over for my 20s, I can just tinker with what I got and try to keep building little word machines and see if they work or if they don’t or if they explode my face off. But poetry isn’t a value, it’s a byproduct of them. A beautiful heartbreaking byproduct.