30 Poems in 30 Days: Confessional Poetry
September 26, 2007 by John Hewitt
This is Day 23 of 30 Poems in 30 Days
The Personal Postmodernist
The current era of poetry is commonly referred to as the Postmodern Era. Postmodern thought is a complex series of philosophical and literary responses to the post World War II changes in world view and the acceleration of society. It isn’t the sort of thing you can explain in a blog post. I’ve taken entire classes on postmodern thought and I still can’t really explain it. The important thing to remember though, is that postmodernism is greatly concerned with challenging the traditional conventions of thought and communication.
One of the poetic movements that rose to prominence in the Postmodern Era is confessional poetry. Confessional poetry is about the writer. The poetry is about the writer’s life and the world around them. While confessional poems often touch on universal themes, they do so from the personal perspective.
The concept of poets writing about their own lives is not a recent development. You can go back through the ages and find poets discussing elements of their lives. What changed in the Postmodern Era was their approach. The language became more direct. The subject matter became more personal and the limits to what poets were willing to discuss evaporated. If a human being does it, chances are there’s a poet out there writing about it. The boundaries of sexuality, drug use, violence and other morality issues were the first and most obvious to fall, but the movement extends far beyond that.
Poets were writing about their role in society. They were writing about all of the things that were changing around them. The rise of commercialism, technology, social awareness and discontent were all subject matter for the postmodern era. In confessional poetry, all of this was related from the personal point of view. Problems weren’t presented as being out in the world at large, they were presented in the way that everyday people faced their problems.
The key to confessional poetry is an honest assessment of the poet’s life and experiences. Confessional poetry is written in the first person. While it can still be poetic and beautiful, it is often more direct and common in its language. It presents the poet’s point of view and relates strongly to the realities of the poet’s world. In many cases, no conclusions are drawn and no philosophy is discussed. Instead, the poet conveys their point by presenting life as they experience it. In other cases, the poet lays their point out directly, telling the reader exactly what they want them to think about things.
Today’s Poetry Assignment
Write a poem that discusses a real moment in your life without discussing its larger meaning or attempting to lead the reader to a conclusion.
Today’s Recommended Poet
Terrance Hayes poetry is both personal and sociological. It comes wrapped in pop culture references and discussion of the world around him. He often mixes very real images with surreal touches.
Poems
Books
- Wind in a Box
2006
- Muscular Music
- Hip Logic
Related links
- 30 Poems in 30 Days: Persona Poems (1.000)
- 30 Poems in 30 Days: About Forms and Lists (1.000)
- 30 Poems in 30 Days: A Brief Glossary of Meter (1.000)
- 30 Poems in 30 Days: The Good the Bad and the Meter (1.000)
- 30 Poems in 30 Days: Syllabic Verse (1.000)
Contact John Hewitt
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Email: hewitt@poewar.comPhone: (520) 261-6104
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Apple Trees
And I love the way these apple branches lie
On the path beside my son’s house, right in front of me, waiting for
My human touch to reach down, pick them up, make something out of them
A wand, or a plug for a broom
So I walk across the street to that abandoned house
Looking for something that might be salvaged
And this big mangy part fire point Tom cat jumps out
Of a ragged old motor boat and runs around the South end of the house
I’m good with cats, I call him back, meeeooow, arrrrarrrar
I’m a wolf caller too, they always answer back, but this
Guy is gone, he’s real gone and that’s when I spot the cellar
It’s caved in of course, and I can see the dark coming from way back
I walk around another apple tree and look at the tree house in it
It hasn’t been abandoned for long
But the handicapped ramp behind the house has
So I go back across the street North
And meet my son coming out of his house, red haired in the sun only
Have you ever been behind that abandoned old house I ask?
Of course not mom, can’t you see it’s posted!
Together we cross the street, going South to look in the dark cellar
Just love this one, Connie! Everything about it.
Very interesting – I’m not really noted for long poems, if anything the reverse, but in these 30 days I seem to be producing them more often than not.
TONIGHT
Decided to go for a walk
down at the beach on dusk.
Two young surfers – schoolboys –
we never met before
rushed up wet from the sea
with their boards under their arms
to tell us about the whale.
“Look straight out there,” they said,
“You’ll see him jumping up.”
Sure enough, a long black snout
that familiar platform shape
emerged above the waves
then sank again, and again rose.
I said to Andrew, “Let’s go close,”
and walked to the edge of the water.
The sand was white and fluffy
up near the grassy dunes; at the edge
it was flat packed, damp and fawn.
A man with a towel round his waist
stood watching too, and smiled
as I squealed in surprise
when the spreading tail flipped up,
wiggled a bit in the air
like a festive flag, then dropped
back under the surface.
“Doesn’t look very big,” we agreed,
and, “He’s having a good time out there.”
We turned reluctantly
to start our walk, southward,
still looking over our shoulders.
Then we saw there were more
as mightier tails and huger heads
displayed themselves and disappeared.
And we saw that they kept pace with us
always level, travelling south as well,
towards Byron Bay, their home waters.
Darkness began and they stopped playing.
I imagined them gathering serious speed
down below the limits of our view.
Close to the furthest point, a light flashed.
For a moment I thought it came
from the white lighthouse on Byron cliff,
but it winked a few more times
and I realised it was a low plane
heading out and turning away north.
It seemed that a bank of white mist
rolled in over the ocean. But no,
it arose from the land, it was smoke,
too far ahead for us to see the fire
although that section of sky
had a spreading, reddish haze.
Then black smoke billowed up,
divided and diffused itself
to a shape like a whale’s tail.
We turned for the long walk back.
The sky had gone to a pale blue-grey.
It was hard to pick the horizon.
Where you thought it would be,
black waves rose like humps
with spumes of towering foam.
The sun set bright and fiery.
As always, one last fisherman
lingered in the shallows, alone.
Connie – I loved this poem, the voice, the movement of it, and the story itself. I love the way the cat leads you like The White Rabbit and the way it is your son that says of course not and you that leads him to the cellar which makes me think of childhood and all it’s fearless exploration. It’s very Alice-in-Wonderland for me.
Rosemary – I want to go whale-watching near Byron. I really like the way you use the whale imagery, the humps and the spumes, to describe the scene around you rather than just describing the whales themselves. You do capture the moment.
CM: My adult daughter and I had been doing some research last week ont he Alice in Wonderland Syndromme, she is a nurse at a State School.
I’m really glad you pointed that out to me, I like the poem even more now.
Rosemary: Oh I do so want to see the whales, and I kept wanting you to give an opinion, I wanted to go to closure, judgement, but you were successfully able to avoid it — you just kept leading me on down the beach
Dear Friends, I am sad to tell you I have to spend the next week in Florida doing poetry, visiting disney world and lying on the beach . . . . It’s just breaking my heart. I will be at open mic in Clearwater Saturday night, it is called Milanos, that is if the creek don’t rise. I leave in the morning at 5am — now that is breaking my heart. Bright Blessings until I return iin case I don’t have internet.
Milano’s downtown ClearwaterSaturday night.
I like Terrance Hayes.
This is total confusion to me, Honestly I’m still not sure what this means or is, but this is just what came out when I put my pen to the paper:
It Must be Love
From day to night;
My mind races
My body aches
Both seem too fight
I want him
In my arms;
I want him protected
I need him to be the next of kin
My head is in a spin
A non-stop head first rotation;
Confusion hits
Should this come to an end
The feeling is wild
Like an animal waiting to break free
I have a feeling
This thought will never be filed
Unwanted anger arises
What should I do?
For the future with holds;
Many surprises
Things don’t always go my way
But when he calls
His voice echoes through me
And I seem to forget my bad day
I sometimes think of me
And how I love this freeing
His low voice, with him
I will never be lonely
He makes life seem easy
With day to day events;
And night with out him;
But I love what he does to me
My pain is gone
When we talk;
When we don’t;
It’s hard to go on
I can’t sleep
What he puts me through
How he puts me on edge;
Oh…but isn’t it sweet;
These feelings can’t be denied
The know is tighter around my stomach;
My soul confused
It’s hard to decide
He’s turning me inside out
Going in circles
Stumbling and fumbling;
What is this about?
I act tough
Like nothing’s going on
Like I’m ok
Nothings happening at all;
I can’t seem to wait
I want to jump in my car
Pack my hags
And hop on the interstate
I’m not satisfies;
I need our body
Your mind and heart;
I lay in bed and cry
But I’m not afraid
Though my tarnished heart;
And troubled mind;
I know you feel the same way
Though we’re torn apart;
We’ll always be together
With mind and soul;
And always be together
With mind and soul;
And always with our hearts;
When I read your letters;
After feeling sick
From being away from you;
My tears feel better
With my feet of clay;
My heart of gold;
My soul with wings
I will never stray
We’ve just begun
Only four months have past
You’ve grown to me
You’re the most got to have man
When I loose control;
I’m also in denial
Though one thing is clear
I miss you the most
It’s always the way;
When you call;
To help me through;
‘Have no fear’ is what you say
It’s so complicated
The way I’m feeling
The way I loose my grip;
I’m so frustrated
I want to come through
These wild dreams;
I want to feel
I want to come unglued
Is it written on my face?
People see a difference in me
I act and seem different they say;
I need to hide in a different place
Crazy and uncontrollable stuff;
You and me, how lovely;
Though the feel is great
Boy, it must be love
This is such a long trip
One that will always be on the tip of my tongue;
I’ve waited for so long for someone like you
I want to be the one on your lips
Yes I want you too know, but I’m scared to tell you
With nothing to fear;
I want everyone too know
But only a few;
Do you feel the same?
Is it one way?
But when you call
Then the feelings come back again
I can’t believe what I heard
Our favorite song, maybe ours;
The way you talk
I hear word for word
It’s hard to take
When I feel alone;
You read my mind and call;
Just before my heart breaks;
Like a beautiful dove
You showed up like an angel
As sexy as can be, perfect for me
Sweetie, something tells me, this must be love.
Rianon:
Re the confusion – we were asked to simply describe something we had experienced, without expressing any particular opinions about it, or drawing conclusions. You do that: you describe an emotional experience. It may seem that you are expressing opinions, and you certainly draw the conclusion that “this must be love” – but you do that within the context of the emotional experience; it’s all part of it.
I think your strengths as a poet are your immediate access to your own feelings, and the directness with which you express them.
Having been reading your posts backwards from day 28, I would often like to see you drop rhyming as I think it tends to get in your way. But here it is more subtle and well handled.
Friday Night in ICU
The scabs in the corner of her mouth
Are staring to heal
Underneath the thick white topical cream
When her eyes focus she sees me
I smile and she raises her eyebrows
The trachea tube in her neck
Moves slightly with each breath
And condensation collects inside
Her heart rate hovers at seventy
Her blood pressure is high but steady
No major peaks or valleys tonight
Her kidneys are back at work now
I watch her Foley bag fill
Calculating the difference over the past hour
She is fifty pounds of water lighter
Than just two weeks ago
When she looked like a pale Samoan
Her eyes too swollen for the nurse to force open
Now she looks something like herself
As she stares at me staring at her
Until she tires and closes her eyes
Sleeping for the rest time my time here
I keep watching
Thank you Rosemary, that means allot. I guess sometimes I get scared to really release my true depths without having people focuse on my rhyming. But reading everything that you’ve wrote me, I feel as though I can now. You told me in a different writing that I need to learn to express myself in different styles, I will thank you again. Here is one:
Photo Gallery
Frozen;
To look at one’s self;
Cemented;
You come in;
The loving;
The prize;
In front of me;
Singing;
The next;
Your dance
To step;
A hex;
In time;
You’re still;
Movement absorbs me;
Fine;
Step aside;
Some one talks;
Silence broken;
Thoughts stride;
Life is still;
Time stopped;
Beauty exults;
My soul in fill;
A statue of steal;
Screaming;
Almost alive;
Feel;
Bring forth;
The next turn;
A corner;
Art and more;
Exhilarating;
Pounding heart;
Emotions;
Not just a fling;
Everlasting flight;
Yearning;
Craving;
As beautiful as night;
I want more;
Can you feel it;
I dig deeper;
I soar;
Smile;
Frowns;
Indifference;
Beauties;
Feelings mixed;
Confusing thoughts;
Racing;
Bodies fixed;
Pictures move;
Yet unshaken;
Tricks never play;
I’m soothed.
I agree, I really want people to feel what I write, sometimes I guess I just get scared that they will see inside of me and try to distract them with rhyming. You have shown me that it’s good to do so, you told me once that I need to explore other alternatives in my styles of writing. I have and here is one,
Photo Gallery
Frozen;
To look at one’s self;
Cemented;
You come in;
The loving;
The prize;
In front of me;
Singing;
The next;
Your dance
To step;
A hex;
In time;
You’re still;
Movement absorbs me;
Fine;
Step aside;
Some one talks;
Silence broken;
Thoughts stride;
Life is still;
Time stopped;
Beauty exults;
My soul in fill;
A statue of steal;
Screaming;
Almost alive;
Feel;
Bring forth;
The next turn;
A corner;
Art and more;
Exhilarating;
Pounding heart;
Emotions;
Not just a fling;
Everlasting flight;
Yearning;
Craving;
As beautiful as night;
I want more;
Can you feel it;
I dig deeper;
I soar;
Smile;
Frowns;
Indifference;
Beauties;
Feelings mixed;
Confusing thoughts;
Racing;
Bodies fixed;
Pictures move;
Yet unshaken;
Tricks never play;
I’m soothed.
Rosemary, Thank you! THis one above is for you.
Dear Rianon,
Thank YOU! I read it with delight and excitement, feeling how the staccato rhythm reinforced the sense, thinking how well it was working and how it reveals the true poet I’d glimpsed in your other pieces … and then you say it’s for me. What a fabulous gift!
John: This is so much more powerful, and indeed horrifying, for the lack of extraneous commentary. I guess there are times when all we can do is bear witness. And I do believe it’s important to do so.
Sorry,
I didn’t realize that it was posted twice, I don’t know what happened.
[...] 30 Poems in 30 Days: Confessional Poetry [...]
[...] 30 Poems in 30 Days: Confessional Poetry [...]
Apologies. In the limited time I had, I skipped this assignment and wrote the poem below instead.
–
Quick Study
You can make of yourself a study on losing.
Something is always slipping away.
It’s never your fault. It’s rarely your choosing.
Who’s to blame? You can walk around accusing
everyone you meet of forcing you to overpay.
You can make of yourself a study on losing
but there are dim prospect there. Abusing
the abusers is a dead end, and who’s to say
it’s never your fault? It’s rarely your choosing
where you start, but how you go about using
what you’ve got determines what, everyday,
you can make of yourself. A study on losing,
a moratorium on kissing, even the act of refusing
present joy and casting your eyes astray:
it’s never your fault. It’s rarely your choosing
until all at once, yes, it is, and you’re capable of amusing
yourself, and one day you wake up with no way
you can make of yourself a study on losing–
but that’s the moment you have something worth losing.
Just–just be careful. Just hold it all close, okay?
It’s never your fault; it’s rarely your choosing;
but is that the line you want to go around reusing,
like those broken men in churches who won’t pray?
You can make of yourself a study on losing.
It’s never your fault. It’s (rarely) your choosing.
Saul Nadatas last blog post..Quick Study
Saul,
You got a poem in for the day, thats the important thing.