Saturday, July 14, 2012
Writing class at the home school
Maybe it is too much Pablo Neruda, too much wondering how the writer slips out of his own skin and becomes the water, the leaf mold, a Chilean winter. Maybe it is too many years of interviews, press releases, weddings with peau de soie and stephanotis. Too much telling, to little being.
Reporting trains us in useful skills: paying attention, taking really fast, legible notes, writing under pressure and in chaos, presenting information. It does not train merging. It is not preparation for shape shifting.
What I think I am beginning to understand about poetry is the need to inhabit. The Method Acting of writing. In it, one has a single task, to be. To be the loneliness, the anticipation, the fire, the furniture.
This truth has been stalking me. It jostles me roughly on crowded rail platforms, cuts me off in traffic shouting expletives. I believe it is how one lifts out of dead places with hollow sounds and ascends to music. Now all that remains is the doing of it.