How does a poem begin?
Difficult questions, rob. To answer them, I sought clarity from texts by my man, Walter Benjamin. Now I’m more confused.
The most urgent task of the present-day writer, Benjamin says, is to recognize how poor he is and how poor he has to be in order to begin again from the beginning. In other words, I’m not only a poet; I’m also a broke poet. I have to first acknowledge that I work and raise children in one of the most expensive cities in the world, shackled by student loan debt, high rent, and inflated price of basic commodities, trying to write poems while competing for depleting arts grants that might not come. Precarity, I must point out, is a reality for many workers, including authors.
Goodness, rob, what is it? As you know, my debut poetry collection, which came out last year, received an award. It was a pleasant surprise, needless to say. I was truly glad to be read and recognized by peers. I mean, seeing my name alongside admirable poets is such an honor.
But it also got me reflecting on the myth of meritocracy, particularly in relation to the neoliberal and discriminatory logics that govern, generally speaking, our economic, political, and cultural institutions. Meritocracy purports the notion, among other things, that such recognitions is a level playing field. This equal-opportunity illusion based on quality fails to consider, for instance, class disparities and the financial capital needed for training and the subsequent expansion of one’s social and cultural access. Not to mention the subjectivities that inform ideas on beauty and taste. Awards, scholarships, grants, residencies, and other creative credentials do not necessarily equate to goodness. As someone relatively new to this field, I understand that to sustain a writing life requires a certain degree of acquiescence to the immense and even debilitating pressure that emerging writers—particularly the under-resourced and disadvantaged—need to overcome, and hence compete for one merit-based recognition after another every step of the way.
I do not mean to minimize my—or anyone’s—achievements; I just hope to include some political context to the idea of goodness. I write this knowing the risk of sounding ingrate, but as someone who immigrated here, I’m already familiar with such discourses on gratitude. But no one is forcing you to write! This neoliberal adage, I think, is akin to the idea of “pulling oneself by the bootstrap” or “no one’s forcing you to live here.” It paints a picture of depoliticized, individual labour, as if the poet creates in a vacuum, ensconced in natural talent and self-determination alone, separated from the economic, political, and social realities that affect them.
I’ve been reflecting, rob, on creative labour as a basic need, an indelible aspect of human life. Viewed as such, wouldn’t it be possible, too, for me to draw pleasure and meaning primarily from the labour of writing the poem itself—where I feel, albeit fleetingly, most unalienated—regardless of its qualitative success as a commodity, which, by definition, is estranged from me, the producer? When I’m creating a poem—an activity that includes reflecting, reading, conversing, writing, and so on—I feel very connected with myself and others, surely to life itself. Idealistic perhaps, but certainly not naive. I understand that I write within the parameters set by an industry and got overdue bills to pay, but still, I’m open to discussing, imagining, and creating alternatives.
A note on your second question: where do poems begin? Or, paraphrasing: where do poems come from? Simply, making poems is one of the ways I respond to the world. While I acknowledge the influence of poetry’s divine origins and metaphysical tendencies on my work, the poem, I think, emerges from a world that is very much material. I don’t mean this in a positivist sense; in my world, there is always room for serendipity and encounters with a duende.
I have a little confession to make, rob. I believe in literary canons. I have, indeed, a personal canon of sorts—poetry collections on my shelves that I return to time and again for various reasons. Although politically and thematically plural, these books, looking at them now, possess a formal kinship: the lyric. Some of them experiment, true, but I still hear the whispers of a lyrical voice. This is not to say, of course, that the lyric poem reigns supreme. Not at all.
Cognizant of diverse poetic lineages and traditions, I’m only expressing my preference here, comfort, or, perhaps more accurately, bias, but at the same time, technique, as Benjamin notes, arises from social context, and I have been primarily orientated with techniques to create and appreciate a lyric poem, which has been extensively practiced, published, taught, awarded, and anthologized. One of the reasons I gravitate toward the lyric, though, is its ability to express complex thoughts and emotions in the simplest of ways.
With that, I’m returning to your initial question—what makes a good poem? Benjamin warns that the logical result of Fascism is the introduction of aesthetics into political life. While I think a good poem should have some level of craftsmanship, show some control over the tools of the trade, so to speak, I don’t experience a poem through its formal intricacies alone. Poetry, like any artform, is part and parcel of our political fabric.
Sidenote: I took a break from writing this and scrolled on my social media feed. The headline of a Philippine news platform teases: Where to get Imee Marcos’ crocodile handbag. The irony: Imee—an incumbent senator, brother of the current president, and the daughter of corrupt dictator Ferdinand Marcos Sr.—flouts the pricey handbag (it costs roughly $3000 USD, while minimum wage workers earn about $350 USD per month) during an investigation on massive and systematic corruption scandals that involve public infrastructure contractors, elected politicians, and government bureaucrats.
Poetry, of course, is not crass as a clickbait masquerading as important news. But can it, really, claim innocence? What good is the poet’s effective use of caesuras and enjambments if the poem glorifies a demagogue and empire? What is praiseworthy about a fresh metaphor if it perverts history, perpetuates injustice, and denies exploitation? What is ground-breaking about experimentation if the future it envisions and espouses is fascism?
Lastly, defining what makes a good poem, I think, demands passing an evaluative judgement. This requires a great deal of reflexivity. Alas, rob, my humble answer to your question: a good poem, to me, possess some formal, affective, and/or political acuity and relevance. That said, Benjamin also writes that significant literary effectiveness can come into being only in a strict alternation between action and writing. Similarly, I admire poets whose writing is not separate from their political activities—whence the quality of their work develops (or regresses) dialectically. Examples abound, but the first person that comes to mind is the Filipino poet and revolutionary Kerima Tariman, particularly her poem “Aralin sa Ekonomyang Pampulitika” or “Lesson on Political Economy.” Here was a poet who did not only pen well-crafted, moving, and politically relevant poems, but also immersed herself with some of the most exploited and marginalized sectors in the Philippines, serving them fully, while participating in a mass struggle to change her society. Can I live up to that, rob? I don’t know.
References:
“The Author as Producer” by Walter Benjamin
The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction, by Walter Benjamin
One-Way Street, by Walter Benjamin.
“Crocodile
bag”
https://philstarlife.com/style/100413-where-to-get-imee-marcos-crocodile-shaped-bag?page=2
“Estranged Labour” by Karl Marx https://www.marxists.org/archive/marx/works/1844/manuscripts/labour.htm
Marc Perez is a poet based in British Columbia. He is the author of Dayo (Brick Books) and the chapbook Domus (Anstruther Press).
