Food For Thought
What makes a poem a poem? Is it something as simple as
adding
line
breaks?
Or being clever about analogies – like describing yourself as a fish when you really mean to say that you feel suffocated, water on all sides?
Or being sneaky with your sounds – like the constant cacophony of koalas in the Koolibah trees?
Or being brave – like writing your life in stanzas as if there were no filter between your heart and the world?
Maybe it means living in pain, retching your most profound desires, fears, and observations onto the page without an ounce of mercy for yourself. Maybe it means living silently but writing loudly. Maybe it means never really touching the world directly, but only through analogy, and therefore occasionally suffocating in the essence of abstract concepts. Or quite the opposite, maybe the poet’s life is the life well lived. The life that seems so secretive but in truth is so tangible, so deeply seen and felt that even after a poet dies he or she is granted immortality through his or her own words.
And must a poet always use the written word of a place at the podium as a medium? If true art is poetic, including living an artful life, then couldn’t we all – each and every one of us – be poets in the making, or makers of our own poetic lives, swimming in a sea of sweat from our collective striving and divine attempts?
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Each of you has your personal story; it is your history. Keeping a diary or writing your feelings in a special notebook is a wonderful way to learn how to think and write about who you are — to develop your own identity and voice.
People of all ages are able to do this. Your own history is special because of your circumstances: your cultural, racial, religious or ethnic background. Your story is also part of human history, a part of the story of the dignity and worth of all human beings. By putting opinions and thoughts into words, you, too, can give voice to your inner self and strivings.
A long entry by Anne Frank on April 5, 1944, written after more than a year and a half of hiding from the Nazis, describes the range of emotions 14-year-old Anne is experiencing:
“. . . but the moment I was alone I knew I was going to cry my eyes out. I slid to the floor in my nightgown and began by saying my prayers, very fervently. Then I drew my knees to my chest, lay my head on my arms and cried, all huddled up on the bare floor. A loud sob brought me back down to earth, and I choked back my tears, since I didn’t want anyone next door to hear me . . .
“And now it’s really over. I finally realized that I must do my school work to keep from being ignorant, to get on in life, to become a journalist, because that’s what I want! I know I can write. A few of my stories are good, my descriptions of the Secret Annex are humorous, much of my diary is vivid and alive, but . . . it remains to be seen whether I really have talent . . .
“When I write I can shake off all my cares. My sorrow disappears, my spirits are revived! But, and that’s a big question, will I ever be able to write something great, will I ever become a journalist or a writer? I hope so, oh, I hope so very much, because writing allows me to record everything, all my thoughts, ideals and fantasies.
“I haven’t worked on Cady’s Life for ages. In my mind I’ve worked out exactly what happens next, but the story doesn’t seem to be coming along very well. I might never finish it, and it’ll wind up in the wastepaper basket or the stove. That’s a horrible thought, but then I say to myself, “At the age of 14 and with so little experience, you can’t write about philosophy.’ So onward and upward, with renewed spirits. It’ll all work out, because I’m determined to write! Yours, Anne M. Frank
For those of you interested in reading some of Anne Frank’s first stories and essays, including a version of Cady’s Life, see Tales From the Secret Annex (Doubleday, 1996). Next: Reviewing and revising your writing
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