Ela Kini
This summer, I had the pleasure of reading Stephen King’s On Writing. In his book, King offers advice to those emerging in his field as he reflects upon his own journey towards becoming a writer. One of the most recirculated comments he provides in the text is this: “If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot. There’s no way around these two things that I’m aware of, no shortcut.” Every writer could tell you of the many authors that came together to form their approach to craft. A mentor once told me to read my favorite writers’ favorite writers. Good writing comes from good reading—however it’s said by whomever it is that tells you, that’s one of the most important lessons we are taught as writers. To know how to write is to know how to read. But it’s difficult to know where to start. Particularly in my own genre, poetry, print runs are short and chapbooks are rarely known to make their way up the New York Times Bestseller Lists despite their quality. In this column, I’d like to offer another, running list of works that deeply influence the way I write and permanently have changed me both as a reader and writer. The three poems discussed below are united with a faint thread of shared meaning. Each considers power. Each rejects power. There is something viscerally beautiful in that idea, and therefore, in all of them.
First, Phillip B. Williams’ “Final Poem for a King.”. Sometimes, I find it hard to envelop myself within a work; that was not the case with this piece, which begins:
I used to be friends with a man who raped a woman
whom he told was too dark for anyone to believe
though he himself was no lighter than the blackhole
he had become which means he did not believe
himself thus hated himself and will hate beyond himself.
Poets often struggle to be blunt—where does the metaphor slip in when we make ourselves too clear? Here, Williams displays brutality so beautifully, with such violent strength, beginning by pressing the reader into the pain of the context without any flowery language to sugarcoat it. He then layers the meaning of the experience—suddenly, the reader understands a greater context, understands this poem is grounded in nuances far beyond the initial statement could suggest on its own. Williams has crafted a piece based around the fact that his reader does know what is going on. He is clear and upfront, but also devastatingly clear in his discussion of the background details. The grasp on rhythm he displays throughout the piece as well as the flow between ideas all provide a brilliant lesson in execution, making the poem a truly valuable read.
Second, Jericho Brown’s “Ganymede.” The opening piece of his Pulitzer Prize-winning chapbook, The Tradition, “Ganymede” is about violence and how we choose to ignore it. Whereas Williams tells us his premise from the start, Brown begins with the lie. He reacquaints us with the story we are told again and again and believe because it is easier to digest, then confronts us with our own complacency. He writes:
A man trades his son for horses.
That's the version I prefer. I like
The safety of it, no one at fault,
Everyone rewarded. God gets
The boy. The boy becomes
Immortal.
Soon, he transitions, tells us:
When we look at myth
This way, nobody bothers saying
Rape. I mean, don't you want God
To want you? Don't you dream
Of someone with wings taking you
Up?
He tells us to reexamine our views. To reexamine how easily we are manipulated by the dolled version of the narrative he first presents. He, as the author, tells you not to trust him. There is something fascinating about being able to retrain a reader’s perspective within a page of text. Brown’s poem is both concise and poignant at every step. Again, there is the rhythm, each beat of rest making the next line most resonant. Brown’s lacing of two versions of the same narrative is the sort of basis that can be applied in all our poetry to create truly meaningful, striking work.
Third and finally, Ocean Vuong’s “Aubade with Burning City.” Here, Vuong speaks of a different power—that of the surrounding world on the individual. How do we react when the sky is falling in, when there are more bombs left than stars? How do we love in the midst of such violence? How do we live? Two things Ocean Vuong executes perfectly time and time again are form and repetition. The lines of this poem flow long across the page, some indented, some not, some right-aligned, some to the left. In the form of the piece, Vuong adds to the story. He tells you: run your eyes along the length of this battlefield. Do the work and see. Experience. Feel how the subjects of the poem feel. Then, there is the repetition. Early in the poem, he writes:
He fills a teacup with champagne, brings it to her lips.
Open, he says.
She opens.
We are reading about love. Much later, as the piece ends, he leaves us again with the line except in different context, writing:
In the square below: a nun, on fire,
runs silently toward her god —
Open, he says.
She opens.
We are reading about violence. We are reading about love in spite of it. Or love because. Here is a story about reciprocity, about resignation or revolt against the powers that be—these actions being in the smallest and largest of ways: love, death, experience. The repetition is jarring. It is less repetition than a reframing. Like his form suggests, the reader is experiencing a scene. Here are two occurrences ongoing simultaneously. Here is the reality of a warscape—so beautifully, Vuong inserts the reader into the context of his narrative, by approaching every element of the work with intention.
Ultimately, here are three very different poems. Three very painful poems—three poems that know how to hurt you and how to bring together the scenes that deliver that hurt. The pieces are united by their subject matter, vaguely: here is the poet talking about power. But more so than that, they are united by their sharpness. The clean lines, the depth of the metaphors, the dance they embark on with the reader in mind. Each word in each line, but also each pause between words, deeply influences how we receive the pieces. These poems exemplify the importance of intention. They remind us how much more a poem is than good lines pushed together on a page. They remind us of the importance of fit between these lines, the importance of crafting the right dynamic between piece and reader—how much does the poet tell and when? Why? How? These poems inform us that the balance between clarity in telling and forcing thought through suggestion is something that, once mastered, repeatedly produces lasting, awe-striking works.
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