You Can Write Poetry - Jeff Mock [21]
As an editor, I read poems submitted to The Gettysburg Review with the exacting standards that Betty Becker succeeded, finally, in teaching me. Some poems submitted to the review show imagination, but they're poorly written. Their sloppy grammar and punctuation betray them. (I imagine Betty Becker shuddering in the presence of such poor performance in these poems.) Imagination is the lifeblood of poetry, but poems must be well written for the imagination to shimmer and shine. Language is the medium of the art, and faulty grammar and punctuation make for faulty art. Mary Oliver notes, "A poem that is composed without the sweet and correct formalities of language, which are what sets it apart from the dailiness of ordinary writing, is doomed. It will not fly."
Little in the world of arts and letters is as dreadful as a poorly written poem. Either the reader labors doggedly to get through it—bless the soul of such a reader—or sets it quickly aside. Neither is the response we seek. The poem has failed, and whatever sterling imagination has shaped it is negated.
The mechanics of writing—the conventions of grammar and punctuation—are important. Some beginning writers think of grammar and punctuation as restrictive, binding, as though they're straitjackets, as though they hamper the imagination. Such writers value the content of poetry over its craft. But that's like valuing the physique of a dancer over the grace of the dance. Good poetry doesn't choose between imagination and craft. It chooses both. The imagination is expressed in language, and proper grammar and punctuation provide clarity to the language. They make sense of the words that create the poem. They help the reader enjoy, instead of stopping to puzzle out what the words are supposed to mean. They provide the fluid grace that makes poetry memorable.
Some poems do break the conventions. They make use of odd syntax and irregular punctuation. Some have no punctuation at all. Read any of e.e. cummings's poems—for example, "next to of course god america i"—and you'll see broken conventions aplenty. But he doesn't break conventions willy-nilly; he does so to create certain effects, a pause, or a poem spoken at breakneck speed. Other poets do the same, for effect, when a poem calls for it. That's key: Do what the poem calls for. Most poems call for standard grammar and punctuation. Breaking the conventions does the poem good only when there's reason to break the conventions, which means you must first know the conventions to understand when it's beneficial to break them.
Because you use them daily in conversation, you already know most of the conventions. When you're in doubt, logic and intuition usually point the proper way. The written word, however, is more exact than the spoken word. Errors appear more glaring on the page. In conversation, context makes clear the difference between its and it's. The former is the possessive form of the pronoun it; the latter is the contraction of it is. Its and it's are homophones, words with the same sound but different spellings and meanings. In conversation, we tell them apart easily enough, but on the page, the wrong word sticks out like a circus clown at a church service. It draws the reader's attention and disapproval: Its nine o'clock. The elm shed it's leaves. If the language is flawed, the poem is flawed. It doesn't say what it's supposed to say. And where there's one mistake, there are bound to be others. How can the reader trust the poem now? Trust is essential. The reader must never doubt the poem.
Recall what Mary Oliver said: "A poem that is composed without the sweet and correct formalities of language . . . is doomed. It will not fly." Ezra Pound, the great expatriate poet, said, "Poetry must be as well written as prose." If you won't abide sloppy, incorrect prose, don't abide sloppy, incorrect poetry. Poetic license doesn't justify careless writing. Certainly, you may break the conventions of grammar and punctuation to achieve certain effects, if they make the