The Mind in Motion: Unsettled Poetry

Many definitions of the word Poem include phrases like condensed language or heightened language, and refer to patterning through the use of rhyme, rhythm, or other literary devices. I do love condensed poems with musical, or heightened language. And I love rhythm, and even rhyme (when it’s done well). But I think there is also a place for the messier, rambling poem that shirks patterning—for a sense of being unsettled.

Why? Because in such poems we often meet voices that speak truthfully, or wistfully to us in a way that we can easily identify with. It’s like the difference between walking into a bedroom where the comforter and the curtains match, where colors are coordinated and everything has its own very tidy place compared to a room where clothes are crumpled on the floor, books are scattered, the bed’s unmade, and there’s a half-eaten cookie on the nightstand and a dribble of dried milk in a glass.

On the one hand, we can admire the beauty of the perfectly set room and feel a sense of balance and rightness about it. But in the messy room there’s a sense of intimacy, of humble honesty. We know this messy room is a stage upon which a very particular person has been caught in the process of being him/her/their/self. I often find enjoyment when I encounter poems that strip away any scent of rigidity or academia, and delight in being a bit disheveled—on purpose.

Poems in which we catch the poet’s mind floundering to capture the subject can provide a deeper sense of what it means to be human and create art. We are flighty mammals, our minds zipping with thoughts going up to 270 mph. (So the scientists say.) We’re changeable, unsure of ourselves. When a poet lets us see that vulnerability, we become privy to a world that lies unwritten between the lines—perhaps shy, nervous, angry, or afraid. How is this evidenced? Below are some examples.

From Frank O’Hara’s “Lana Turner has collapsed!”

. . . I was trotting along and suddenly
it started raining and snowing
and you said it was hailing
but hailing hits you on the head
hard so it was really snowing and
raining and I was in such a hurry
to meet you but . . .

In O’Hara’s poem the “I” of the poem is bouncing from one thought to another. It’s very relatable to trotting through the rain and having one’s thoughts trot quickly, too. We can feel the poet in this poem urgently trying to get a grip on his thoughts. In Anne Starling’s poem below, the urgency isn’t there, but the unsettled searching is.

From Anne Starling’s “The Difficulty of Crossing a Field” (Retitled from “Objective Correlative”)

. . . The field is illusory.
You do not go there. The field is where
you already are, and always have been.
The field is corn secretly growing.
The field is you, placing one foot in front of the other.
The field is sleeping or feigning sleep. The field is the oldest
thing there is; as far as you’re concerned,
it’s an absence . . .

When poems trail off, use white space to pause, or break the 4th wall and seem to use interior monologue with phrases like “I meant to say,” or “No. That’s not right,” or “What I’m getting at,” they mirror the messy mind in motion. Caesurae, asides, parenthetical statements, and qualifying language say a lot. Thoughts try to settle; poets try to get it right. When we see this effort—see the trying—we know we’ve “been there, done that.” We get it. We see indecision in Ross Gay’s poem below, and the poet speaking to herself in Elizabeth Bishop’s poem.

From Ross Gay’s  “A Small Needful Fact”

. . . perhaps, in all likelihood,
he put gently into the earth
some plants which, most likely,
some of them, in all likelihood,
continue to grow . . .

From Elizabeth Bishop’s “One Art”

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

How refreshing it can be to discover poems that embrace us in their very human disarray—perhaps better than a perfectly coifed poem on the same subject could. All of this is not to say that these poems that capture the mind in motion were not finely crafted! It takes a great deal of skill to sound natural, and loving courage to take delight in the messy way our minds work.

I’ll leave you with a few lines from a favorite poem that uses white space to think about what it wants to say next. It’s a good example of hesitancy while trying to get the narrative right.

From Caryl Pagel’s “Old Wars.” (From her book: Twice Told)

. . . this incidental narrator and whomever you
are telling the story to      You
are trying to remember how it
happened       There was a woman on
a train       This woman told a
story not to you but you . . .

Resources

• The Art of Voice by Tony Hoagland & Kay Cosgrove
• “Pros & Cons of Breaking the Fourth Wall” by WriteonSisters.com