On Poetry and Twitter

A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. ~ Robert Frost

My college professor’s eyebrows jumped as he scanned the pages from his latest writing assignment, his forehead breaking into tight lines as he stared at one particular sheet of paper. From under a newly-troubled brow his gaze shifted almost tectonically in my direction. Once again, I knew the jig was up for me…

It happens whenever I’m required to take a writing class, typically after the first few assignments are handed in. I get spotted. The invisible kleig lights of the classroom are shifted in my direction, and for the rest of the semester or year the teacher singles me out. I don’t mind the attention; Hell, I welcome it when I hand in the damned assignments, don’t I? I love to write, to catch the attention of others through it…

The writing bug hit me during the Winter of 1980, comfortably nestled into 8th grade, and helplessly in love with every girl who dared to approach within 10 yards of my hormones. It probably helped that I had been living in beautiful, incredible Verona, Italy, surrounded by the historical architecture of Romance.

A poet looks at the world the way a man looks at a woman. ~ Wallace Stephens

Our English teacher announced to us that the Armed Forces Radio Network was running a poetry contest. The ultimate feel and topic of the piece was to be left up to us, but the poem had to do with the theme “Gates of Tomorrow.” There was a quiet murmur in the room, a slow-building excitement. Why was I feeling it, too?

I had never cared for or about the act of writing previous to this moment. My childhood had been spent in determining the daily fate of my G.I. Joe action figures or watching enough cartoons to force my mother to launch me from the house. As far as I was concerned, writing for homework was the quiet punishment I deserved simply for not having attained graduation as of yet. As my teacher passed the instructions to each of us, stapled to a blank sheet of paper, it simply happened for me. From my mental eclipse emerged the thumbnail rays of blindingly bright words, brilliant and pure concepts, all promising to emerge further, if I merely paid attention to them.

Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood. ~ T. S. Eliot

I wrote furiously, unable to keep up with the torrent of ideas, the shape-shifting ocean of words coming into view as they crested all around me, only to disappear from view again. What the Hell was happening to me? I wasn’t simply jotting down rhymed words letter by letter; no, I was the potter, single-minded in handling my spinning clay, choosing its shape gently by feel and pressure, in the palms of my hands. I had the certain feeling that the poem was already written a hundred different ways, bits of it strewn as random forest trees, I having to decide my safe path among them.

If you enjoy writing, you know this feeling. You are not so much coming up with something as tapping in, opening a valve and directing the flow. Oddly, I am not much of a reader. I have a stack of books awaiting me at home. Like the mountains I see in the distance, I can see the tomes on the shelves, knowing therein resides a part of myself I can find only upon visiting. If I made them my home, if I forced myself to stay there and set all other worldly needs aside, I would eventually change, wouldn’t I? Those many books, you see, are my gates to tomorrow…

Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful. ~ Rita Dove

Today is Great Poetry Reading Day, an annual reminder to include in our lives, to take back into ourselves, those concise, condensed works of literature surrounding us. I know I tend to steer clear of the mental work required of good poetry, taking the time to read and re-read, to think and filter, the words of others. But the tide is turning for me…

Of all things, Social Media has been bringing poetry back to the forefront of my mind. Poetry takes the many words we might use to express what we feel to others, and wrings out as many we may deem unnecessary. It is distilled writing, a path from one emotional state to another lined with stones set far apart, so that we must extend ourselves in getting there. What is Twitter, but a method of bringing people into our lives through 140 character outbursts?

Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. ~ Thomas Gray

I’ve always enjoyed sharing my writings, whether here or through my poetry. I find writing something of interest to others to be a challenge, one I love winning as often as possible. If I can touch you through my writings, then I have found a comfortable place for you within my home. I suppose it’s what I love about Twitter – the combination of audience and opportunity.

Twitter, when done right, can be both poetic and beautiful – but it takes time and determination to wring one’s status updates of the extra words. I’m horribly guilty of over-tweeting. So how do I learn to tweet less, to make my status updates dense thickets of thought, desirable for others to hack through over and again?

This would be a good day to begin anew, connecting with those great voices that are all around me, pointing out the next step for me. Perhaps I need to begin, once again, reading some great poetry…

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Posted by Steve on Apr 28 2010. Filed under Featured, Writing. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0. You can leave a response or trackback to this entry