How to Write Poetry
by Nicolas Greenwood
Writing poetry isn't easy. But, contrary to popular belief, the difficulty isn't so much in the structure, in the rhyming — it's what to write about. Just think of it: come up with a poem topic. All kinds of ideas pop into your head, from nature to love to grief. Now, forget rhyming. Forget structure, forget that syllables even exist. Try to express the feeling in your chest. A first line tumbles out. Words fail you. It sounds like a conversation, like you're about to unload a week's worth of life events to a friend. It sounds almost ridiculous, like anything but the elegance, the neatness, the perfection that is a poem. And by the time you reach line 3, you've lost any idea of what to write about. The feeling still burns in your chest, but words? They don't come. There's nothing to express it. No metaphors come to mind. And soon that sweet rush of inspiration you had when you picked up your pen fades into something between a headache and the flush of frustration.
And you know what? It's entirely normal. It's why true, beautiful poetry is rare. It's why a poem, when it's finished, means something. What is a poem? Yes, it's a piece of writing that reads differently than prose — it flows, or it rhymes, or it almost sings. But it's more than that. Unlike a story, or a novel, a poem can be nothing more than a flash of light. It can be a glimpse, a feeling. It doesn't need context. It doesn't need a background story. All it needs to do is express. And in that lies the power of the poem over other forms of written art.
Much like a painting, or a piece of music, poetry's often lack of background makes it so much more relatable to admirers. A poet can write a poem about jealousy, for example, based on a personal experience; and someone else reading his work experiencing jealousy in an entirely different context can find solace in the poet's naked expressions of the emotion. Novels and stories also carry this potential, but often the reader must isolate a part of the narrative to apply it to themselves. Expressive poetry skips this step. It strips the emotion from the situation and presents it bare and brief to the reader's eye, ripe for consumption. And there is no greater satisfaction than reading a poem expressing exactly as you feel. Not only can it satisfy—it can comfort, heal, resolve, and beautify life itself.
With this in mind, let's go back and approach our attempt at poetry once again. This time, forget the context. Forget the background story. What did you feel? Anger? Love? Grief? Joy? A bizarre blend of all of those? Now, pick up the pen. Don't try to define them—dictionaries are for that. No, just express them. When you were angry, what did you see? The faces of those you were angry at seemed revolting to you, suddenly. Exaggerate that. Describe how their features became distorted, for example. Make eyeballs and lips twist and curl into something grotesque. Describe the light turning red. Let your imagination fly.
And be authentic, entirely. Were there dashes of a strange, passionate love in your anger? The volatility of human emotion makes for excellent poetry. Use it to your advantage. Suddenly, the distorted face seems beautiful to you. Those eyes you once raged at, you yet rage at, shine back at you in confusion and fear. All at once, you're in love with those eyes. And you falter, your voice fading into silence.
Well, there you go, I got a little carried away with my description, but I hope the idea makes sense to you. The more personal, the more relatable it will be to others who experienced the same emotion. Make it intimate, make it vivid. Exaggerate eloquently. And think of words that describe, not necessarily words that make sense. Because in poetry, only authenticity makes sense.
Okay, you've written something. Sure, it's a mess — it looks like one of your diary entries after a bad day. If that piece of writing was a picture, it'd be one of Jackson Pollock's works. Somehow, through the scribbling, there's a spirit of elegance to it — some sort of powerful honesty to it all. But, it still needs work.
Modern poetry is very accommodating of individuality. Indeed, one might say that individuality is its only standard. While this is seen as a triumph by some, others see it as many do contemporary visual art: a sad testament to the end of the era of great, true art; art that took technical skill, art with a beauty anyone could recognize. But in the end, we must ask ourselves: what is art? And why do we do it? Art, very briefly, is the expression of feeling through an artistic medium, like sculpting, music and so on. And why do we do it? The answer will vary for many, but to me it will always be the pursuit of beauty. Beauty, wisps of it, are everywhere, just escaping our reach. And poetry captures those wisps, expresses them sincerely, without censor, and draws our attention to them.
When we think of modern poetry, and indeed all modern art with this in mind, it becomes clearer to us why the art of today is the way it is, and even, one might say, its inevitability that it would become so. For purity of expression and the pursuit of beauty bend not to human judgment and perception. They exist outside of our tastes, and the way we choose to express them matters less. What matters is authenticity. What matters is truth. Art and its history are like one great journey of discovery; a great search for some unknown mystery—some great thing we know we must find, even though we don't know what it is. Poetry, when sincere, is an indispensable guide in this great pursuit. And modern art, though it has shed much of the technical skill and understandability of the art of the past, yet retains this integrity to authenticity. One might even say it elevates to new heights, as it leaves behind all the trappings and decorations of technical skill that might be mistaken for artistic value to the untrained eye, and exposes truth and reality raw and bloody to stand alone in front of our eyes.
And now, when you look at your attempted poem, that bad diary entry, that elegance you noticed blossoming through the chaos makes more sense. The truth is there. Your contribution to the great search for the unknown thing that is art is on the paper. It can stay as it is, and it would be beautiful in its own, raw way.
Still, some correction is helpful. Minimalism is essential in modern poetry, and carving your piece into something that not only expresses, but expresses neatly, and without excess, purifies your poem. Read it, and think of ways to put what you meant without phrases, without cliché, without unnecessary articles. Let each line linger on your tongue—short, but flavorful. Make it vivid, make it sudden. Whisper it to yourself with your eyes closed. Don't be afraid to use a simple word if it's the right one. And the same goes for complex, longer words.
Read it from start to finish. It should flow, but not so much in words as in images, emotions and pauses. It should tell a story, but not a typical story—it should tell the tale of how you felt, the things you saw, and stop there. It doesn't have to say why. It doesn't have to say where, when and how. It just...happened. And there's no need to question it.
This is all fine and well, but often, even with our newly-acquired understanding of how emotions turn into lines of poetry, we will find ourselves at loss for words. The truth is, there are no perfectly accurate words to describe emotional experiences, and there probably never will be. Poems are attempts at just that—we swirl together bizarre mixes of color, nostalgia and visions all to describe one simple feeling. And even then, we fail. The delight of poetry only lies in the attempt to describe it—not the successful description. Still, there are ways to help us make better and better attempts at description. And one of the greatest methods of doing so is listening to music.
Music is poetry in sound—but it's more than that. It defies the rules of expression in many respects. I mean, just think of it: the fact that a series of sounds—basically different kinds of vibrations in the air—arranged in some sort of sequence would be able to convey any emotional meaning is downright incredible in itself. And the variety of emotions we can express is practically limitless. Why is this so? Why can our brains understand emotion in a sequence of individually flat and meaningless vibrations?
While I don't pretend to know the answer to this question, it seems to me that this is yet another testament to the power and mystery of art. There, in that paradox of emotion carried on meaningless notes, lies a hint to that great something that all artists pursue without knowing what it is.
Music is a great tool in the poet's toolbox. Music without lyrics is preferable for poetic inspiration. Music with words could influence your writing's originality. No, the words are for you to write! Music is just an assistant to your imagination.
Choose music that, to you, relates to your poem's topic. Keep in mind that this is largely subjective. For example, Federico Mecozzi's Winter Wail was obviously written with snow and sorrow in the composer's mind, but to me, it inspires thoughts of sunlight, of flight, of bittersweet sorrow and confusing passion. Respecting others' while following your own artist's intuition is nothing to be ashamed or worried about. Select music that you understand, and make sure it doesn't bore you. When you listen to it, have your notebook open and your pen poised, and imagine. Let imagery play, and write it down. Go with the music, and let it take you places.
One composer I must recommend for poetic work is Ludovico Einaudi. Arguably one of the greatest classical composers of our time, his music is not difficult to understand, while at the same time carrying enough emotional complexity to keep trained ears entertained. His notes are simple, but emotionally finely-tuned. He paints pictures with his music. He paints pictures, and he takes you on a journey through your own memory.
There are times when I'm not calm enough for poetry. My heart is pounding, my mind is racing, my limbs are fidgeting. I cannot think—I cannot focus on my imagination. I open a window, close my eyes and breathe in the fresh air. Earbuds slide into place. Einuadi's notes wash up like waves on the shores of my consciousness. The room around me fades away and is replaced by eyes, faces, leaves and white clouds.
And now, on a closing note, I'd like to address poetry as one of the many expressions of love. Poetry cannot only express love—it is among the loftiest ways of doing so. It brings out the aesthetic side of it, and paints it into scenes and colors we can savor. Love in poetry is honest. It's beautiful, it's frightening, it's haunting. To me, it seems like the very pursuit of the meaning of life itself.
There are many kinds of love, and all of them possess their unique beauty in poetic expression. One of my favorites to write about is innocent, youthful love. There is a certain freshness to it, a kind of idyllic quality that makes it the closest thing to fantasy we can experience. It is then that worship of the beauty and glory of each other is complete. We see nothing but perfection, and while one might justly point out what an illusion it all is, at the same time it is the sweetest illusion one might ever experience. And thus it deserves our appreciation and respect.
There is a kind of love that lasts forever, and not only so, but burns just as bright as when it was first kindled. It's a love that exists outside of time—completely unaffected by it. It's the kind of love that outlasts a lifetime; that death fears. Its power is so great it is almost frightening. It's seeing beauty through the gnarled darkness of old age; it's hiding in the sweetness of the raindrops falling from a bitter, grey sky. It's healing the hand that rose to wound you, and it's wiping the tears away from the face of a stranger.
Of this let us poets sing. Of the grand, sweeping emotions, of the great thunder and beauty in the human heart. Of the details we all notice, but that nobody notices. Of the beauty all around us, in us and above us.
The next time the leaves of your notebook fall open in your lap, don't clench the pen in frustration. Be patient, listen to some music, and dream. And the words will come.
