BELOW THE SPRUCE

Great books have many secrets, both good and bad, that come out only in the reading. This is the nature of the book: in order to understand it, see the treasure or dross within, and develop a true relationship with what’s contained between the covers, you have to read the whole thing. In my own experience, a great book is something that stays with you. It will end up on one of those ship-wrecked-on-an-island lists we see from time to time. It will be kept in a readily accessible place, even if that means it’s not shelved properly in your home library. It demands we come back to it, whether it be for guidance, entertainment, or to remind us what’s possible in times when we’re not feeling up to scratch.

The question that comes to mind when thinking of these books is predictable: Can a book change your life? I think anything resembling an answer to this question will likely have a number of layers. What do we mean by ”change your life”? What kind of book are we talking about? Fiction? Non-fiction? Poetry? A personal account is the only way a question like this can be answered, since we don’t all share the same life and have not read the same books (not to mention the fact that it’s a very personal thing to describe one’s relationship to books).

When I was a small child just learning to read, my mother would, due to a complete dearth of local bookstores in rural Newfoundland, create her own books for me. Sometimes these books were filled with pictures she had drawn and coloured of airplanes, boats, robins, or trout captioned by that object’s name, or sometimes they were short stories illustrated to help with my learning. She even kept notebooks filled with words I had learned up to a certain point to help me with spelling. As a child I did not see the value and time my mother put into such things. I have no doubt it is why I read above my grade level all through school.

In primary school I remember a book (but not its name) about a three-legged Scottie terrier named Candy. There was something very sentimental that affected me on an emotional level when I read this book. I’ve since tried to find it without success, but the basic story itself has stayed with me and is one of the most memorable parts of my childhood. There is now a part of me that does not want to read it again; just like watching old cartoons you loved as a child and finding, as an adult, the magic isn’t there the way you remember it, I would not want to ruin the memory of Candy.

In junior high my father, a teacher in a college school in a neighbouring community, would borrow books from the campus library to bring home for me to read. Among the ones I remember best were Doctor Zhivago and an illustrated volume of Roman history. The former was perhaps too steeped in Russian history and social change for me to fully grasp its wonder, but the latter opened up a love of history, especially of the ancients that I still hold today. I remember how strange it was to discuss some of the book’s contents with my friends who had not heard of the Romans, let alone Julius Caesar’s strategy to defeat the Vercingetorix at Alesia. When one is interested in new things one often wishes to share them.

I did not begin writing until I reached university, indeed, until I was nearing the completion of my undergrad. While browsing a bookstore one day I found a, then new, selected poems of Al Pittman, an influential Newfoundland poet. It struck me all of a sudden that good writing could be produced by people living where I lived at around the same time as me. Writing, especially poetry, was not something I associated with Newfoundland (the only Newfoundland poet I knew at the time was E.J. Pratt, who had become more significant in a Canadian context). I bought the book and it began a long journey of poetry reading and, eventually, writing for me. It was at this time I discovered my father’s hidden love of poetry, especially Tennyson and other 19th century poets. Some of the fondest memories I now have of my father is of discussing poetry and writing late into the night.

In the last two years I’ve begun reading Stoic authors and learning about this school of philosophy. At a second-hand book sale a found an edition of the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius, completely by accident, which I read and found fascinating. Written as an exercise in determining his place in the world through an exploration of his own beliefs in Stoicism, the book had an immense effect on me. Ancient philosophy was concerned more with how to live your life as well as possible, not only how, but why (religion had more of an official state role). I’ve come back to this book a couple times already and reread passages that really make me think and question my own spiritual views and I consider this a positive interaction. From Aurelius I moved on to Epictetus, once a slave who would become one of the foremost Stoic philosophers. I highly recommend reading either his Discourses, or the Enchiridion, a handbook or manual for living life effectively.

The ways a book can affect your life are varied and unpredictable. We do not sit down to read and expect a huge impact on our views of life; it’s when you find a book has caused you to change an opinion you had, or entertained you incredibly that you see the value in books. I think great books are connected in some way with transition periods in one’s life, whether big or small, and provide that little extra in experience that makes life the varied journey it is.

My friend and fellow poet Jake Mooney has been posing some questions about poetry that, though difficult to answer, lead to valuable discussion about the art form.

In a recent post at Vox Populism, Jake asked the following:

How many truly “great” poems would you guess are written in the English language in a typical calendar year?

This is, without a doubt, a loaded question. Nearly every part of this sentence can be broken down and analysed to determine what, if any, criteria should be used to answer the question. At least we know we are dealing with poems in the English language, that’s the only certainty (but then again, are we including poems translated into English? Ok, Ok, I’ll be good). I’ll see what I can come up with while attempting to ignore the easy criticisms and uncertainty related to the topic.

Great poems, in my experience, seem to be those that endure for one reason or another. Maybe they are brilliantly original in form or in the way poetic techniques are employed. Maybe they provide many levels of interpretation surrounding issues and experiences that are important to us as humans, but also as individuals. Is there an element of challenge involved? Do these poems turn our understanding of some minute part of the world upside down? I would argue that great poems do all of these things, perhaps more. On the most basic level, a poem is communicating something important to the reader. Great poems communicate ideas of terrible significance, things we hadn’t noticed before (but wish we had), but also things we wish we may not have known. There is, above all, an honesty in such discourse, something that strikes us as true; not only true, but something able to change our understanding of the nature of truth.

Of course, any of these above mentioned points can be relayed through a medium other than poetry. One might argue that Bill Watterson’s Calvin and Hobbes comic strip shares some of these. A photograph can achieve much the same, as can a novel. The difference is in the mode of expression. In poetry the minutia of word, sound and syllable combine with metaphor and other techniques to present a thought or idea in a powerful way; one that strikes the reader upon hearing or reading; the ability to imprint an idea on the mind in a sonic or visual way that makes that idea at once prominent and revolutionary. Auden suggested at one point that “poems make nothing happen”, but this needs qualifying. A poem cannot perform an act as it is a stationary piece of art on a page. The ideas, those impressions that form in the mind from the act of reading a poem, are also unable to make anything happen, but the person who has experienced the poem, its significance, the skill and craft that reinforces the thought behind it, that person can respond to it and in doing so can then act. The responsibility is placed directly on the individual who is engaging with the poem to achieve some change, either in philosophy or understanding.

The poet and the reader of poetry are both crucial to making a poem great. The greatness of the work may, in fact, be more in the discussion between the reader and the those doing the reading, that communication of ideas from one person to another reinforced in an awe-inspiring way. The poem itself is neither good nor bad, great or terrible (it is a simple object created), but it is the interpretation of the poem and the significance placed on it by the critic and reader in the turning of the gears of the mind that is worthy of such a value judgement. A great poem is one that is held in esteem by a large number of rational individuals with critical, questioning minds. It is able to transcend or appeal to a wide readership ascribing to a variety of critical approaches. I do not mean the lowest common denominator, but the other spectrum where the appeal is common in the highest order: that of the individual and the community.

I really can’t say how common this is, especially when one is looking at an entire calendar year. Recognition of poems as great takes time and a chance for exposure. I think the actual number of great poems being written every year is less important than the discussion such a topic generates among those who value poetry as a medium for thought and cultural development. This, I think, is above all Mooney’s goal in asking such a question. Critical discourse in most cases certainly will not hurt poetry, but rather advance it and to this end asking how many great poems are written in a year is just as important as asking any other question.

Wednesday is hump day and the only way to get through it is to read random pieces of lit news. So here we go:

• British publisher Faber & Faber have decided to open an academy (writing school) in Toronto in the near future. Such an endevour has been undertaken with success in Paris, Geneva, London and other European centres, which is encouraging for the project’s success in Canada.
• The Guardian blog has an article on Bill Watterson and the legacy of Calvin and Hobbes, the absolute greatest comic strip of all time. Worth reading, as is the article.
• The CBC Literary Awards have announced a big list of finalists from all over the country.
• The March Hare has announced its line-up of readers and performers for this year’s festival. For those of you not familiar with it, the Hare is a literary event that takes place each March (didn’t see that coming, did you?) in a variety of locations in Newfoundland and Labrador, as well as in Toronto. It’s sure to be a great evening and I’m proud to say I will be reading at the Gander location this year. If you get a chance to check it out at any of the venues I highly encourage it.

I’ve been somewhat ambivalent towards the cultural Olympiad thus far, not for any personal reasons beyond not being interested enough to follow along carefully. My wife has an iPod app that allows her to follow various events, both athletic and cultural, so perhaps I will start there.

I watched a portion of the opening ceremonies on Friday (I fell asleep, thankfully, before the Gretzky/truck debacle. I mean, really, what kind of planning was that anyway?). I stepped out of the room for a second, no doubt to feed my RSS feed addiction, when my wife called me back to the TV to watch a poem being presented as one of the events at the Olympic opening. Shane Koyczan had a great spot doing a spoken word piece about Canadian identity called “We Are More” and, I have to say, though I’m not usually into spoken word poetry, I enjoyed the performance. The poem was uncomplicated enough to grasp the ear of many viewers who might not have been receptive to poetry, but appealed enough to the patriotic side of the country to allow the event to go over well.

I am not familiar with Koyczan’s work and this was another reason I wanted to tune in and if I can find some of his other poems easily enough I may look into it. Regardless of how well-known he was before the opening night of the Olympiad, he was much more well-known shortly after:

His performance of an abridged version of his poem We Are More during the Olympic opening ceremonies has suddenly made him a star. He woke up to 600 messages in his inbox. He struck a chord with the likes of The Wall Street Journal, New York Times and Entertainment Weekly. And in the half-hour he spent with a Globe reporter, he was approached 12 times by autograph seekers and well-wishers, including children, teenagers and a police officer.

That’s not bad. It’s not every day a poet, or artist of any kind, really, gets 600 messages in the old inbox. The olympic platform, undoubtedly, has contributed to this poet’s career. Perhaps we will hear more from him in the near future.

Another poet who has received some notice from the olympic spectacle is Brad Cran, Vancouver’s Poet Laureate, who is, ironically enough, not part of the spectacle. If you follow the Olympics you may be aware that a while back, VANOC sent a directive to Vancouver Public Library staff telling them to cover the names of organisations that are not sponsoring the Olympics, to do the same with rented sound equipment, and, “If you have a speaker/guest who happens to work for Telus, ensure he/she is not wearing their Telus jacket, as Bell is the official sponsor.” This enraged a number of people in information sciences and has been discussed and debated since the memo was first sent out in January. This sort of activity does, in effect, go against the ideals that public libraries uphold, namely that no information be censored in any way and that the public has full access to information that remains untampered-with. Upon first hearing about it, I had a lengthy and frustrating discussion with my wife (a librarian) about the possibilities of censorship that such an action on VANOC’s part can produce were such attempts not kept in checked.

Brad Cran, for these and other reasons, has opted out of participating in the Olympic celebrations as Vancouver’s literary ambassador. It is refreshing to see an artist take a stand based on principle and basic human values, even when doing so involves passing up an opportunity to promote his work. I’ve been debating what effect such an action could actually have, since poets at the best of times are not front and centre in the minds of the country’s people (neither apparently are Canadian authors in general). Among the ranks of writers there is much discussion of this issue, but I’ve not heard much of it mentioned outside of this context, though I believe this is changing. I think Cran’s stand is getting the attention it has due to the fact that he is not just a Vancouver poet, but the city’s poet laureate and an official government employed artist. Some may wonder why a person employed by the city has issues with the way VANOC has been organizing the events surrounding the 2010 Olympiad. The other fact that requires consideration is that there is now a world stage for this controversy where a larger population has to come along for the ride and in doing so have been made aware of the issues. Recently a former official of the Salt Lake Winter Games has slammed current Olympic organizers for these attempts at what amounts to censorship. Cran’s choice to not take part publically may do some good in light of such concerns.

I think it’s essential that he has made a choice and acted on it and I support him in his decision. It’s easy to talk tough at these times, but few of us have the strength of character to hold true to what our reason discerns.

The history of poetry seems littered with references to the biographical, the ways in which experience can influence the product of one’s writing, or even the impetus for that writing. With our interest in the dark and twisted sides of human personalities, it’s no wonder mental and emotional stress and instability has taken a prominent place in our understanding of writers’ personal lives. There are many writers who, for one reason or another, have experienced duress of this nature: T.S. Eliot checked into a facility for a mental break down, Alfred Tennyson suffered from lifelong bouts of depression, others still resorted to suicide (John Berryman and Sylvia Plath to name just a couple).

I had read somewhat recently (in a source I can no longer remember) that of all types of writers poets live the shortest lifespans (novelists rejoice!). This seems a strange statement to make, but when one focuses on such considerations as those mentioned above, it becomes easier to acknowledge. Is there some way the process of writing poetry (or prose for that matter) is therapeutic? Do writers find solace in composing their inner most thoughts and arranging their personal philosophies or approaches to life in words on the page?

When I was younger and first beginning to explore poetry, I gained the general impression, primarily from amateur writers and people who read some amount of poetry, that writing is often a kind of personal therapy, a way of exploring what one’s issues are and how these can or should be handled. As time went on, this explanation did not seem enough for me. Therapeutic writing became something less than desirable for me, almost as though such an activity was far too withdrawn and personal as to make the product of that writing interesting to anyone other than the person who created it. This was an early opinion before I began writing seriously myself.

I had written one or two “poems” (I call them poems in the flimsiest sense of the word) back in high school, primarily as school work. I found little fun in this at the time and for several years afterward I wrote nothing of a creative nature. It wasn’t until the death of a close friend (the first death I’d experienced close to me) that I attempted poetry again. I don’t believe I can adequately state why I suddenly began to write poems, nor did I know why an overwhelming urge came over me to reopen a relationship with them. The best I can do is reference some kind of inward navel gazing that sought to come to terms with the loss of a great friend. Poetry seemed a way to lay my thoughts, experiences and memories on the table for study, to make some sense of a period of chaos and uncertainty that, for a time, was difficult to cope with. Afterall, didn’t many of the great poets write of lost friends and family members, hard times and inner strife? Tennyson’s In Memoriam is perhaps one of the most accomplished of these and, having been exposed somewhat to this by my father (a lover of Tennyson), it was natural that my reading would come to focus there for some time.

Those early poems were no more than pathetic attempts at writing something of meaning. I had neither the writing skill or  breadth of reading to produce anything worth saving, let alone something to show others. It was that sudden wish to fix how I felt, the therapy of it, that produced for me a strong bond with poetry and poured the foundation for what has turned out to be a love of the power of words. Poetry, I think, needs something to kick-start a relationship with you, whether it be a death, a loss, a moment of utter bliss or some personal or intellectual revelation. It can be difficult and hard to handle at times and to harness poetry’s wonder there needs to be a personal investment on the part of the poet, an honest and deep-felt engagement with an intricate and many faceted mode of expression that, once approached carefully, has benefits that can’t be seen beforehand.

Sure, poetry can be therapeutic to some extent. I no longer think of it in these terms, as I now write for other reasons that are equally difficult to articulate. Poetry has since become one of the most important parts of my life, one that serves as entertainment, hobby, and even contributes to my identity and understanding of self. The need for personal peace certainly can have its rewards.