When Words Speak Pt 2: Pausing

My Fellow Contributors,

Here is the second part of my series "When Words Speak". In this video I discuss how pausing can be used to stress certain parts of your performance as well as enhance the understanding of the poem by your audience.

As Always

Undoubtedly Yours,

Bermuda the Man

Letter to the Leaves: There is No Try, Only Do

My Fellow Contributors,

While researching the life of Charles Bukowski for our Facebook profile's "People of Character," I came across a quote that he had etched into his grave stone.

"Don't Try"

I was troubled at first glance, but as I researched more into his life, I found it strangely gratifying.

I mean, think about it. To try is to accept the fact that you might fail. But to do is to resist failure and leave her in the rear view mirror.

This reminded me of a few lines spoken by the famous fictional philosopher, Yoda, in The Empire Strikes Back.

"No. Try not. Do... or do not. There is no try"

I remember hearing these same lines, from my sixth grade Drama and Performing Arts teacher. The point she was trying to convey is that "to try" implies to the receiver of such a phrase that the sender is not fully confident and wants to give a sense of possible failure whether conscious of this intention or not.

The power of language to guide and shape our subconscious is without doubt. When Bukowski says, "Don't Try," he means do not set out to write great poetry or the next classic novel. Let it flow out of you. When we try we put up dams which block the flow of words. But when we let the Muses take over and let them guide our pens we find that we have uncovered something in ourselves that is mystic and cosmic. Something that doesn't even feel like us.

It's as if Milton and Ginsberg and Burroughs and Kerouac and Shakespeare and James and Howells and Twain and Emerson and Whitman and Poe and Hemingway and Sartre and Sedgwick and Dickinson and Austin have met in your mind to form an unctuous orgy in your unconscious, leaving their love children to berth themselves onto your page.

I find it strangely gratify to relieve myself on the page without trying. To relax and release and let go.

Remember as writers we're are a mixture of mediums.

1st is the writer who uses words to create clay.

2nd is the reviser who molds and shapes the clay into a form.

3rd is the editor who bakes and hardens the form into a sculpture.

4th is the publisher who displays the sculpture and shares it with love.

5th is the viewer who looks, reads, and touches. Appreciating art in all its minute nuances which strike with each sight.

Greatness comes not from the writer but from the reviser and editor.

Remember, just do it, think later.

But if you feel like you've hit a wall laced with writer's block, then please:

CONSIDER THE FOLLOWING:

You have to live vicariously in order to write interestingly.

And On the Road was written by Kerouac when he was 29, after he had lived through the lines he let flow onto that long continuous script.


As Always

Undoubtedly Yours,
Bermuda

The Art of Absence and other opinions

I don’t know about you, but I love sad poetry.

Triumphal poetry seems too showy, poems about requited love are dull, and poems about children frequently appear insipid to me.

I love the poetry of funerals.

This should come as no surprise to anyone who knows me well – I used an adaptation of Auden’s “Funeral Blues” as part of my wedding vows – but somehow it surprises me every time I pick up something dirge-like and walk away feeling enlivened.

I think my enjoyment of depressing poetry is mostly due to the fact that I’m continually astounded by the enormous well of sadness that humans are capable of experiencing; many people will know great joy in their lives, but suffering is really more of a universal emotion.

Funerals make people horny (this has been documented – a lot – just trust me). People get married in droves after national tragedies (and tell me, honestly, do you not know of a child who was born around June 11^th, 2002?) and during wars.

Why? Well, to quote W.B. Yeats, because “man is in love and loves what vanishes.” We are addicted to our own temporal instability – think about the traditional symbols of love; hearts that stop beating, red roses which wither when cut from the bush, arrows meant to rend flesh and end life – love is death and death is love, that which has died can only be remembered, and then only imperfectly, and usually as a more perfect version of that which existed in life.

The poetry of absence is, in my opinion, more complete and more tragically energetic than poetry about a living presence. Consider Ginsberg’s “Supermarket in California,” the poem is an ode and a eulogy to Walt Whitman; Ginsberg transforms the old poet into a clown and a god, powerful and pathetic because he is dead. It is harder to write poetry about the living because the living will contradict themselves (which is fine, they do after all contain multitudes) and pervert the poetry written for them or poets will pervert their own attitudes about their muse – think of Rosaline in Romeo and Juliet – Romeo falls for her, swoons over her, prates and prattles and poetry-s over her then ditches the whole concept of her because she less than Juliet. Poetry is like studying language – Latin is ideal because it is dead and no one is going to suddenly declare that “D’oh” is a word or that “less” is an acceptable (and inevitable) replacement for “fewer”; just like a dead lover won’t cheat, get fat, or suddenly declare undying allegiance to Justin Bieber.

I’m being ridiculous, of course. There’s wonderful poetry written about life and living and love and silliness and the now. But I just can’t bring myself to love it as much as the poetry about what was but isn’t any longer.

Maybe I’m just a downer, maybe I’m just an emo kid at heart, or maybe I simply love what vanishes. I cherish the perishable and I treasure the lost; the glass is empty but the memory of the sweetness of the drink is sweeter than the drink could’ve been.

So, how about you?