I didn't know any poets before pursuing my MFA degree, but
at Stonecoast, I quickly
got to know many. It was through poets – individuals I liked and listened to,
talking about their craft – that I learned to appreciate poetry; so much so that
I now begin every nonfiction class I teach with a poem. Ruth Foley was at
Stonecoast while I was there, but I really got to "know" Ruth after
the MFA, connecting on social media, through mutual writing friends, and alumni
updates. (I think I developed a little
crush on her with her series
of posts about weight loss at her blog Five Things,) Ruth is
managing editor at Cider Press Review,
a member of the writing faculty at Wheaton College (Massachusetts), and teaches
workshops at The Barred Owl Retreat.
Her poems appear in many places, including Rattle,
River Styx, The Bellingham Review, Sweet, and Bluestem, and her new
chapbook, Dear Turquoise, is available
from Dancing Girl Press.
Please welcome Ruth Foley.
I have never intentionally begun work on a series of linked
poems, but three times, they have begun work on me. Each time, I found the experience to be a
little like possession—I stare off into space a lot, have trouble getting my
other work done, and babble endlessly without making much sense.
As a poet, I'm used to brief possessions, a poem taking me
over until it's finished with me, but when it becomes clear that I'm working on
not a single poem but a series, I've
learned to go along for the ride. A friend told me recently that he's begun to
apply a rule he learned in aikido: it is best not to try to stop a powerful
force. If you're lucky, you might be able to direct it, but if you try to get in
its way, you're in for a flattening.
An individual poem is, in some ways, easy to handle. It's
almost always small enough for me to keep in my head, for one thing, which
means I can walk away from it once I have a workable draft. I'll go make
dinner, walk the dogs, go for a run, take a shower—almost any activity will
suffice—all the while turning the possibilities over in my mind. I'll make a
mental list of rhyming words; I'll spend some time trying to figure out the
right texture of an object I'm describing, the qualities of a specific tone I'm
looking to capture, or looking up variations of color names; I'll test out
rhythms and line breaks; I'll work out the details of a metaphor. Any aspect of
a single poem is available to me at this point, largely because the form is
compact, easily contained.
A series, however, isn't so compliant. The poems in a series
are likely to take on multiple angles. Some of them might be free-verse, while
others are in a received or nonce form. They can use different perspectives and
speakers, different language, different tones. Though related in theme, their
specific topics often vary. Writing a series is an opportunity to explore a
topic in depth, and because of that, there's often no time at all between my
finishing a draft of one poem and beginning work on a brand new one. Sometimes,
I finish a draft and believe—rightly or wrongly—that I've made it through the
generative stage of the series-writing process. Sometimes, I finish a draft
knowing there are three more poems lined up behind it, and maybe more behind
those.
When a series takes me hostage, often I can do nothing else.
I spend all of my free time—and some time that isn't technically free—mulling
ideas, thinking about the last poem or the next, wondering when it will be
finished with me. I know that eventually I'll have to sort through what I've
written, discard the redundant poems in favor of ones that handle their
particular aspect of the topic more successfully, and revise the promising
poems, but when the series is in control, there's no point in worrying about
any of those tasks.
Thus, my advice for living with the creative stage of a
series: just go with it.
As with individual poems, when a series is finished with me,
I know it. When this happens, I often find myself taking a brief break from
poetry, sometimes from literary endeavor altogether—I'll read a crime novel,
maybe, or watch some terrible television. Eventually, I start to wonder, What exactly am I going to do with all these
poems I just wrote?
While one of poetry's sad realities is its limited market,
that is also one of its advantages, as poets can choose between submitting a
series of poems individually or together to traditional print literary
journals, to online journals and poetry websites, and as part of a longer
collection; and we also sometimes have the option of self-publishing, be it
online or in chapbook form (though publishing a full-length collection through
a vanity press still carries a stigma, and often rightly so). This means that
any of my series could appear as individual pieces in journals, as chapbooks,
or as part of a larger collection.
For me, the right method of publication for each series I
have written so far has been different. The first is a set of what I came to
call "the infidelity poems"—they felt personal and real despite being
fictional. While they might have made a good chapbook, they also risked
becoming overwhelming when read as a whole. For that reason, I decided to send
them out individually, where most of them eventually found homes in journals.
The second is a series of poems inspired by the Universal
monster movies of the 1930s and '40s. I became obsessed for a time with the
archetypes—the mad scientist, the specific visions of some of the monsters, the
villagers—developed in those films, and with the actors who helped create them.
This is, in some ways, the most complicated of my series, because it's most at
risk for misinterpretation. They're not monster poems or Halloween poems, but
poems about what it means to be human; and for two years I was unable to decide
what to do with them. Some ended up in journals, but because so many of them seem
to belong surrounded by others in the series, I eventually decided to put them
together myself into a chapbook called Creature
Feature, a process I'm undertaking right now.
The final series is difficult for other reasons. Styled as a
series of letters written to my cousin Turquoise after it became clear she
would not win her battle with liver cancer, these poems are deeply personal. While
I've included a small handful of them in the chapbook Dear
Turquoise (from Dancing Girl
Press), it felt to me that collecting them as a whole might become
overwhelming for a reader. In fact, I was reluctant to send them to journals,
even in small batches. There is no gap in these poems between the
"speaker" and the poet—both are very clearly me, the poet, and the
subject is very clearly my grief. It was important to me that I find the
perfect way of putting these poems out into the world—I kept saying that I
needed to do right by these poems,
because publishing them in the wrong way would cheapen them.
A few months ago, I realized that the poems could serve as
thematic anchors for a longer collection, so although they could certainly fill
a dedicated section of my book-length manuscript, I've chosen to weave them
throughout as guideposts along a larger route through the book. There, they
feel settled, at home, honored. Will a wise editor agree with me? That remains
to be seen.
I'm comfortable with my decisions about the three series
that so far have come to me. Working with a series—both the writing and the
publishing options—can teach us more about who we are as poets and the place we
want our work to take readers.
Note from Lisa: You can watch a video of Ruth reading one of
the Dear Turquoise poems (and 2
others) at the Extract(s)
site. Two of her monster movie poems ("Dear Dr. Griffin" and
"Dear Ardath Bey") are up at Forge.
No comments:
Post a Comment