The day I decided I was going to
be a poet was the same day my grandfather was hit by a city transit bus and had
his hip shattered. He passed away in the
hospital a week after having the surgery to repair that hip. He was 88 years old, and he was tired. In his bed he labored for breath, and after
my grandmother went down the hallway to get a drink of water, he pulled the
oxygen mask off his face and died. It
was that simple. He made a decision and
ran with it, figuratively speaking. It
was what he had done his entire life, and it is how he undertook his last act
of will power. My entry into the world
of poetry was also a deliberate act, and I hope my poetry continues to be an
act of deliberation for me, pushing me further and further along. The only difference is that I hope I will
never come to a place where there is nowhere else to go.
It’s
all bullshit. All of it. I had been writing poetry for at least twenty
years before my grandfather passed away at the age of 88, after he slipped and
broke his hip on the pavement outside of the convenience store where he met
with his friends almost every day. I
actually came to poetry by way of an accumulation of teenage angst and
alienation. I started writing short
little poems in an attempt to impress the girls I liked because at the age of
15 I could already tell there was no way I was going to get their attention by
way of athletics. There was nothing for
me to do except to start writing horrible little poems or to start burning down
the houses of my neighbors.
Seriously. Ask anyone I went to
school with, or the teachers I had. I
was probably the same kid some would identify as a potential shooter. I wish I was exaggerating this part of this
essay, but I am not.
The
creation myths of poets have been of interest to me as of late, and I am
wondering how exactly poets see themselves in contrast to what they actually
are. I know I am treading dangerously
close to some deep and somewhat complex ontological and epistemological
questions, but please bear with me. I
hope my exploration will yield some interesting thoughts. Of special interest to me are the
affectations poets place on their by-line and biographies which are included
with most publications. These bios often
reveal some aspect of the path poets have taken in their becoming, so to
speak. More so, I believe they reveal
how poets see themselves. When we paint
a picture of ourselves, we not only reveal how we want the world to see us, we
reveal how we want to see ourselves.
When
I was younger, I read primarily from anthologies rather than single author
collections of poetry. I found the
economy of an anthology appealing. I
could read a hundred poems from upwards of a hundred poets and I could also
read their biographies. Being a young
poet I wanted to model my entry into and ascent in the poetry community on
other poets. I thought there were
certain things one did in order to become a poet. This was right before the revolution and
saturation of the MFA degree. Had I a
normal trajectory, I am somewhat positive I would have gone through an MFA
program—not simply because I wanted to model myself after other poets, but
because I would have been looking for more schooling in general. Reading from anthologies, I read a lot of
extended and elaborate bios. I read
biographies which were creative and witty, and those which were more reportage
than revealing. I read some that were
strange and some that were simple, and to this day, I still am drawn to read
the bios of every poet I read in a journal or anthology. For me the act of reading the poet bio is
compulsory.
Of
course I have my own preferences, and those preferences have evolved over the
years. Some tell-tale signs of a poet
early in his/her career is the inclusion of a myth story and every single
publication. Other young poets feel that
a bio full of metaphor is the way to go.
My major education in the art of the bio started when I decided to
create my own literary journal. It
wasn’t all that much, just some one-man-band sort of operation of no real
consequence. My journal is where I
learned about the tremendous egos of poets, and to a lesser extent, prose
writers. Yes, it is my belief that of
all the kinds of writers out there, poets have the biggest egos, myself
included.
I
cannot tell you how many times I would accept a nice short, little poem, only
to have the bio sent to me be longer than the poem, even with the explicit
guideline stating I wanted a short, clean bio, with no frills. Of course the next e-mail I would get, after
I asked the poets to proof their pages one last time before publication,
invariably complained that I had gutted their bio, and would ask me to restore
it to the original length. After all the
poets seemed to imply, a finely crafted bio was another opportunity to prove
how witty and clever they truly were. I
can tell you plainly here, dealing with poets and their egos was at the top of
my list for why I never want to try editing a journal ever again. Ever.
Still,
it piqued my curiosity. Were all of these
offended poets truly upset? Were their
efforts at calling themselves ‘rivers of thought’ or ‘creatures of the night’
true and sincere expressions? Was it
trying to conform to a preconceived notion of what poets are supposed to do and
say, or were they truly behaving thus because they were poets. What was so terrible about me asking for a
straightforward biography with a few recent publications and no attempt at
being clever? A very Hegelian sort of
puzzle, don’t you think? For me,
yes. I am guilty as any other young poet
who created the extravagant biography, celebrating every achievement (great or
small) from birth up to publication. I
wrote many bios that went completely over the top, asking the readers to
believe my entry into the poetry world was brought about by the same foamy seas
which created Aphrodite. Well, maybe not
that far, but close. But then I grew
up. I matured as a poet. I realized that cute and clever are more
times annoying than informative or productive. And this isn’t to say I am
advocating for an acquiescence or surrender.
Be bold. Be direct. Be assertive.
Just don’t try to be self-important.
Do you see what I am getting at?
What does a bio really say? What
does it reveal to the reader that is on real interest? What purpose does it serve, and what is its
true value? This isn’t a condemnation,
no matter how opinionated I am against cute and clever bios, it is a genuine
question I wish to explore.
Maybe
I am just being snotty or snobbish by wondering these things out loud. I know there are plenty of poets who would be
upset at me for confronting their creativity with dour realism and calling what
they do both precious and infuriating.
But I am probably out of luck if I have any expectation these same poets
will defend their decision to write effete and smarmy, ego driven
biographies. By talking about this in
public, I am probably opening myself up to the kind of criticism that
originates from the very core of the poet’s being, some element of identity. I get that, but for every poet who proclaims
their right to be maudlin and overly dramatic, all I can see is one more poet
perpetuating a mythology which alienates us from the general population—those
readers who so many poets claim to be writing for yet never seem to
materialize.
I
will return to an earlier question. What
purpose does the bio serve? What is its
value? If we as poets are talking to one
another through our bios, our autobiographies, then what does it serve the
writing community to refer to ourselves in such terms? If we are indeed writing these monstrosities
of figurative bile for each other, I am reminded of American Psycho, where everyone is pulling out their new business
cards and gloating over the raised lettering, font, and various shades of
white. It’s a little disturbing to
me. If poets write bios as a way of
attracting new readers, then why would a poet write something more likely to
widen the gulf between writer and reader by claiming to be some unknowable or imperceptible
mystery of the cosmos? I must be getting
old and cranky to be so very impatient with such self-importance.
Let
me assume that writing such a bio is intended to create a myth that surrounds
the writer, clouds or obscures our vision of him or her. What then?
What am I to believe about the writer when I encounter more writing and a
different bio later on? Am I supposed to
say to myself I have found a real artist, a sincere artist, or am I supposed to
acknowledge defeat, having lost the unspoken but slam-like battle royal we
poets are continually engaged in for the dominance of the poetry world’s
attention? How am I supposed to get to
know a writer if I can’t even get a straight answer about who they are? Or, is that the point? By closing off one venue, I am forced to
confront the work and forego judgments based on gender or societal norms? That is plausible, but it is hit and
miss. I may be forced to ignore a writer’s
rural upbringing if they were to say they are a locomotive of passion and desire,
tumbling through the hate that is today’s political climate. But I am also as likely to assign a negative
connotation based on my perceptions of the ego who would assume I cannot judge
a poem by its merits rather than on who wrote the poem.
I
know it’s a losing battle I am fighting here, trying to get poets to stop
throwing their egos at me like hipster gang signs, telling me how they are so
entirely unique the work is just going to vomit or create a pearl from the
irritation they cause. All I know is I
have an aversion to poets who cannot be honest, straightforward, and demonstrate
some faith in the reader. Just tell me
who you are and where I can find more of your work if I am so inclined. We are all special snowflakes, and we all
love the sound of our own voice.
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