PD30 Day 25: Poets are Liars
September 25, 2008 by J.C. Hewitt
We tell ourselves stories in order to live. The princess is caged in the consulate. The man with the candy will lead the children into the sea. The naked woman on the ledge outside the window on the sixteenth floor is a victim of accidie, or the naked woman is an exhibitionist, and it would be “interesting” to know which.
Joan Didion – The White Album
I used to write persona poems fairly frequently, back when I was in my late teens and early twenties and everyone’s life seemed interesting but mine. Now that I am in my forties, I don’t really have the desire to write poems in character. There are too many things that have happened to me. Nothing imaginary that I come up with rings as true as my own. It is easier in fiction than in poetry In fiction the length of the form allows me to develop a whole world for my character’s to reside in. Fiction is meant to be a beautiful lie. For me poetry is more personal than that. I want my poetry to reflect my life and my thoughts, so I no longer feel the urge to write the persona poems that I once wrote.
This doesn’t mean that I don’t tell stories. It also doesn’t mean that every word I write is true. I have tremendous sympathy for James Frey and his somewhat fictional autobiography. I don’t think that anyone can write a completely true autobiography. The mind doesn’t work like that. It fills in the blanks. It remembers things the way it wants to. I am absolutely positive that some of the key events in my life seem completely different to the other people involved. Everyone has a perspective and no one has all the information.
As a storyteller, I am perfectly happy to combine two different events in my life into one. If they live together in my mind, they should be allowed to live together on the page. The truth of the story is not necessarily the facts of the event, especially in the world of poetry. We are given poetic license for a reason. To me, poetry is about interpretation and distillation. In poetry, you strip away the things that don’t matter and you say what has the most importance, especially if you choose to write about yourself. That means that, sometimes, you don’t explain that there were four good reasons why you showed up late to the party, you just stick to the one that matters in the poem — unless your poem is about the four reasons.
I don’t encourage people to tell outright lies about themselves, even in poetry. If you are going to do it, though, be upfront about it. Tell the most apparent and glorious lie you can tell. Commit to the lie. Otherwise, make do with the truth.
Today’s Poetry Prompt
Write about the first time you did something.
Related links
- 30 Poems in 30 Days set for September (0.500)
- All About 30 Poems in 30 Days (0.500)
- PD30 Day 1: I Believe in Poetry (0.500)
- PD30 Day 2: Generally Be Specific (0.500)
- PD30 Day 3: A Review of Meter (0.500)
I was a Six-Year-Old Bigamist
Though shy as all getout & small for my size
I drove the First Grade Ladies crazy; just crazy.
Soon it was obvious, though,
That more than two Objects of my Affection
Would be too many.
I declared for The Adorable Mouse
And Viking Girl.
The Adorable Mouse was a head taller than I was.
Once I strained upward to kiss her and kissed collarbone,
Which got her giggling.
Her skin, hair and eyes were brown and warm
And she was delightfully skinny..
Viking Girl was her best friend,
Viking Girl whose hair was more yellow than blonde,
Who was not slender; was sturdy.
Viking Girl had soft voice, keen intellect, rosy angel face.
All Girlhood’s finest attributes seemed embodied in these two.
And so, early one recess, the three of us joined hands,
looked solemnly yet eagerly into each others’ eyes,
And became Boy and Wives.
TAM and VG then did the interlocking forearm grab
And bid me sit in my girlarm throne
And they lifted their new husband
And carried him out to the playground
In radiant triumph.
It was as of today the 117th happiest moment of my life.
If poets are but liars then I must be one of the best, but if it is truth in what you say about me then I speak for the rest…at least you are honest about yourself.
The First Time I Went to Paris
The first time I went to Paris
I just knew I was in a movie
It was more real than life
But cinema nonetheless.
Nothing could be so beautiful and be true.
I was doubting my senses, my head reeling.
Those little pastry shops and outdoor cafes
Were straight from the studio back lots.
The boats meandering down the Seine
The people feeding bread to pigeons in front of Notre Dame
The old bookstores on the left bank I’d learned of in lit classes
All pretend, quaint, like a Christmas fairy town, but lovely.
The artists lined up to paint on the banks of the Seine
They even wore authentic jaunty painter smocks and berets
They were too perfectly typecast to be real people.
My very outdoor cafe-au-lait was too flawless.
I found one whisper of reality.
I’d been proud of my bargain hotel room.
I adjusted a painting on the wall.
Beneath it read, “Look out for bed bugs.”
Finally it became a real place for me
The night a robber stole my purse.
The police spoke no English.
I spoke only college French.
Still, it broke my heart to leave.
Do the people there value how ideal Paris is?
I felt I would never be happy in the USA again.
I still wander to Paris in my dreams.
Tender little finger, cut open on pampas grass.
Screaming at the back door
you made me wait.
With my finger cut.
Before you let me in,
and washed and taped it
at the giant kitchen table.
On tenterhooks
I was on tenterhooks
And practiced the whole night
Trying to get the expressions just right
Trying to imagine your face
Trying to rehearse how you would react
To my confession
I was on tenterhooks
And resorted to dunking tequila all night
Trying to muster sufficient courage
Trying to practice my poker face
Trying to prepare myself for disappointment
Should you turn me down
I was on tenterhooks
And resorted to looking everywhere but at you
Trying to be nonchalant
Trying to sound confident
Trying to appear attractive
And all you did was ask
“What took you so long?”
What an anti-climax
But thank you, daddy
For letting me drive
Your oh-so-previous car.
i lie in darkness
my body tense and scared
an image hovers over me
the devil’s temptation creeps
the willowed night
It’s interesting, the fact that I stumbled on this today. I was just saying this very thing to another writer yesterday, and she didn’t understand what I meant by it. In fact, she called my comment negative. Writers take the truth and embellish it a bit. That’s what makes us good writers – the fact that we can see something beyond the surface. I think it’s a gift.