The Seven Cs of Poetry

Discover Andrew's Philosophy on Poetry in Seven Words Beginning with C

Commas; Communing; Communion; Criticism; Community; Canonicity; Continuity

What do you look for in a book of poetry?

I asked this question to the participants of my recent book on Diane Seuss’s Modern Poetry, and everyone came up with different answers. I always remember Douglas Dunn telling my Masters group at St Andrews that a poem should connect with three parts of the human body: the head (it’s got to be comprehensible), the ear (it’s got to sound good) and the heart (it’s got to move you). I can’t really think of a better, or more succinct way of summarising what I look for in a poem. But, that hasn’t stopped me trying to expand and explore this idea, and in doing so I’ve come up with the seven Cs in a bid to develop Dunn’s maxim (in the spirit of the seven Cs). 

The question of what I look for in a book of poetry is one I ask myself a lot, and think about a lot, often coming up with different answers depending on what day it is, i.e. it changes all the time. However, there are some elements which reappear in the poetry books that I go back to, and I’ve tried to distill their qualities here under the headings of these seven C words. 

But how do these writers create that intense sense of communion, and how do some writers achieve it better than others? 

Commas

Readers know to trust their instincts, and one reader’s instincts are the same as another's, as they are the instincts of the human race. Therefore if a reader senses that a poem has been dashed off, is sloppy in some respect, or somehow inauthentic, while they may not be able to articulate and pinpoint the technical reasons behind their dissatisfaction, they will be able to sense that something is off. A poem either works or it doesn’t. So, the commas I’m referring to here symbolise the writer’s attention to detail and their process of editing. What is editing but a form of respect for the reader? A poet’s pledge may go something like this: by editing my work, I hereby respect your time as a reader, and respect your participation in reading my work.

Communing

I was going to choose ‘communication’ for this section, but that sounds too clinical/corporate to me, and if a poem is anything it’s not clinical or corporate. However, that’s not to say that I don’t think a poem should communicate - I do, and I’ve written before about the importance of clarity and comprehensibility (more c words) with regard to poetry, and how both are actually hard-won attributes that only the most well crafted poems achieve. So, I do think poems should communicate, but I expect them to do more than just communicate, and this is where the word ‘commune’ comes in. The verb ‘commune’ (I’m not talking about the writer moving into a squat with a gang of readers) is related to communicating in an intimate way ‘at a deep level of spiritual engagement’ according to the OED. In real-world poetry terms, I take this to mean the poet’s voice, i.e. their style as a writer, their syntax, how they string words together in a way that is distinctive to themselves; for me, this creates the voice of the poet. It’s also about subject matter and finding a subject matter which engages the writer as much as the reader. It may be that we are not able to commune with all writers we read, simply because we’re just not that interested in their subject matter, however, I think the best writers have the broadest appeal because they’ve tapped into something universal, they’ve found a voice that speaks to all readers, not just those who’ve read a particular book and get the obscure allusions. So much about voice, then, is about inclusivity, and writing in a way that everyone can access. And so much of finding your voice as a writer, comes down to trial and error, comes to editing, and those pesky commas of the first paragraph. 

Communion

Hokusai, the Japanese artist who painted the famous 'The Great Wave off Kanagawa', and 'Red Fuji', believed in a sense of communion not only with nature and the divine, but also with the human world, including his audience. He wanted his work to be shared and for the audience to be able to recognise the pictures and relate to them in some way. This idea of communion is directly relevant to poetry. When I open a book of poetry I want to feel a sense of a shared moment with the writer, that we are there together in that moment of page silence. The poet has offered us their words (carefully chosen and edited all for this moment), and we have read/listened to their words carefully and given them the space and time they deserve. Both parties have to meet on the page for this communion to happen. The best poems, then, offer up the most intense moments of communion, moments of shared wonder, devastation, humour, and so on. For many, the term ‘communion’ is overloaded with religious connotations and sitting in church given a dry biscuit, some ribena and uttering pieties. And I don’t want to overlook these connotations as I do wonder if there is something spiritual that happens when a reader takes a moment to read words on a page. While we may argue about that religious aspect, we would surely agree that reading and writing for that matter are about connection and participation. Both the writer and read must participate for poetry to work, and both must have the other in mind. If the writer neglects the reader in their writing, the reader will surely tend towards neglecting the writer when they meet on the page. And if the writer has had to go too far to satisfy the reader, the work becomes dumbed down and overly simplistic, whereas if the reader has to sweat to get anything from the poem, then this is a sign of a poet who has not been working hard enough to clarify and distill their meaning. The perfect poems are the ones where both reader and writer gain: the writer has made some kind of self-discovery, perhaps, while the reader has also been enlightened.

Criticism

Criticism does not mean writing a hatchet job on a book you don’t like, in fact criticism doesn’t necessarily have to mean being negative about the poetry of others, it doesn’t even really have to mean having any kind of opinion, in fact the best criticism leaves opinion at the door and lets the analysis of the poet’s language and craft do the talking. For me, criticism is about paying attention, critical attention to the work of others. This high level of attention may result in you writing a response to one’s peers, or it may result in a conversation with a friend who also writes, or a group of writers. The expression of the criticism is not as important for me as the act of criticism, which, in effect, is the act of close reading. It is only through being readers first, that we can ever truly be writers, and we must be detached and without bias, if we are to learn from our peers. Criticism is about being open minded to the work of our peers and the work of the past masters, in order to enhance our own writing. 

Community

Criticism leads to a sense of community, because, in many ways, on a fundamental level, it’s about acknowledging and respecting the fact that others, like you, are also attempting to make great art that will last. So, there is a high level of humility required in being a reader, in saying “I will make time and effort to read the work of my peers” as bound up in that is a sense that the poet wants to learn from their peers and, indeed, that there is something to learn from one’s peers, as opposed to simply a sense of competition and one-upmanship. The master poet respects their peers and is always on the look out for a new ways of saying something, and therefore accepts they are one member of a community, and in doing so, allow a community of voices and styles and grammars to influence and inspire their own work. A masterful poem, we could say, is the product of a community, and is therefore also a community in itself. When we open Paradise Lost, we are entering Milton’s community, the same goes for Yeats and so on, we are communing with communities of the past. Community also refers to attending readings and listening and supporting or just giving your peers a chance to read their work to you, without prior judgement and bias - in short, it also means participation, which in my own experience can be antithetical to the work of a writer, which in essence is a solitary life. 

Canonicity

Of the communities in which we find ourselves, the community of the now, the living, which works will survive and pass the judgement of the ages? There are, naturally, strong debates which rage in our lifetime, and great resentments and bitterness and grudges which arise from such questions and the doling out of prizes and awards. And it’s true: how can any of us know which poems will survive the test of time? And anyway, what is the canon? The canon as far as I’m concerned is a body of work which over many years, generations, ages, we (many parties, not just academics) have come to agree on as excellent. It’s difficult to know who will survive, and indeed, the idea of the canon is something which also changes all the time - is it an ever fixèd mark? Probably not - however, I do think there are works which we agree are excellent. Does the poet simply set out then, to be included in the canon? This seems to me to be a soulless, joyless and empty task. Surely, the poet sets out to go beyond the canon, beyond status and prizes, which is to say embracing their own passion for their art for the sake of it, not for external acclaim. Tastes change, prizes come and go - but the artist’s passion for their craft transcends these things. By the same token, we rely on the canon to know who to read, to inform us of our best teachers, and help us find the tools in our trade to make great art, great poetry. 

Continuity

And that brings us onto continuity. Our final C. When I write ‘continuity’ what I don’t mean is continuing to write the same thing, in fact that’s exactly the opposite of how I interpret continuity in terms of poetry. In one way, I’m referring to the continuity involved in writing, the simple aspect of keeping going with one’s artistic endeavours which, in many ways, is no mean feat. On the other hand, I mean continuing to challenge the poetry of the past, as that is where poetry really seems to reproduce, as it were, when one generation challenges the work of the past. Poetry will only continue if there is a spark, and that spark is generated from the poetry of one generation causing friction with another. This does not have to mean that we reinvent the wheel, but it means learning from the past masters so that we may challenge (another c word) their stance or style, not out of animosity, but through study, learning and a deep appreciation and respect for their craft. 

Conclusion (Bonus C)

These seven Cs cannot work independently, though, and I’d argue it should be the aim of poets writing today to set out to integrate these aspects into their writing life. I’d go as far to say that it’s only when these seven elements are working in tandem, and the poet has worked to bring them into tandem that any work of real significance can be achieved. I’m not saying I’ve done this – heaven knows I struggle with participation – but it’s a philosophy to try to live by.