lucybychoice

06-01-2025

Every so often on my twitter feed will pop up a Richard Siken poem in the form of a very short response to someone else asking him a question. I stumbled upon the following the other day:

The thing that gets me with Richard Siken's poetry is its such short form, which somehow takes nothing away from the strength of the message and the beauty of the work. I've read much, much longer poetry that speaks a lot less. This particular response, however, struck a chord in my head. As a writer, I'd like to think my work is magical, all knowing, healing. I write on my worst days. The truth is, as Siken puts it, writing isn't any of those things.

Today I'm using words to help me problem-solve: How do I write? Why do I write?

Poetry as Meditation and Reflective Practice

This is the first point that came to mind when I first sat down to answer those two questions. It's the most obvious answer I'd think, and aligns with Siken's post: problem-solving and expressing emotion. Most often when I sit down to write I don't know where it's going. My writing is therapeutic in that sense–it brings clarity and comfort. It allows me to scream or to share my love. I can discuss things I can't discuss with others, or it can help me say things I can't tell others out loud.

Just as with meditation, I can't write 'well' whenever and wherever. The pieces I'm most proud of were written in very specific mental spaces, in very specific contexts, with no outside influence. I've never really done schoolwork in my bed but I find it's a great writing space.

As a long distance runner I spend a lot of time meditating and reflecting while out on training runs, but those moments are messy and confused, without structure or direction, as many thought work is. But then I can come home and go through the process again, on paper, and give it structure and direction and meaning. And then I can look at it and think, yeah, I know more now.

Poetry to Music

I very very rarely write in silence. I'm pretty sure I've mentioned music in all my previous blog posts. I'm currently listening to Bleached by Video Days. I'm not sure why I struggle to write without music; maybe it has to do with the aforementioned mental space I require, which music helps to induce. I'd like to think of it as a conversation.

As songs play and follow one another during my writing process, my words and tone often follow to reflect the music. In that sense there is quite significant external influence, actually, because I'll match my words to the music and the emotion follows. In my first entry here I wrote the following, and I think it's quite a good example of what I mean:

In high school poetry class I actually wrote an essay about the "perfect poem," which was based on the idea that there is a theoretically perfect song, at least in terms of sounds the human brain enjoys the most. But a key underlying thought was also the fact that in my head, music and poetry are one and the same. Music is poetry and poetry is music. I grew up writing because I grew up listening to slam poetry, but I would call it music then and I'd call it music now. Music and poetry are always in tango, in conversation. I can't write without music, and I wouldn't want it any other way.

I'm not sure what else to add to this section. I just thought it was important to note.

Stolen Poetry

Yeah, I steal poetry. Well, not actually. Obviously. But how could my work not be a combination of every text I've ever consumed?

I realized a few weeks ago that much of the language I use to talk about certain topics comes from The Perks of Being a Wallflower, which I first read when I was 14 and which altered my brain chemistry (literally–the brain is very malleable throughout much of childhood and adolescence, and I was particularly impressionable).

I mentioned that I grew up writing because I'd listen to slam poetry, and that goes right there with it. I wrote my first love letter to a Grand Corps Malade (french slam poet) love song, and it was my own words, my own ideas, but how could I not borrow a couple ideas? I don't remember the content of the letter–it was 14 years ago now–nor how similar it actually was to the song, but I still listen to the song and it makes me want to write love letters. If I did I'm sure it would look like the one I wrote so many years ago.

This brings me back to this idea of poetry as conversation between artists. In the previous section I wrote about me conversing with the music I listen to while writing, but I think there's also conversation with other texts. I converse with Grand Corps Malade, I converse with Charlie and Stephen Chbosky, I converse with every text I have ever laid eyes or ears on, and I think that is so so beautiful.

Poetry as a Cave Painting

Towards the end of the previous section I mentioned that if I wrote a love letter to the same song as the one I wrote a decade and a half ago they would be similar. This brings me to my last point: my writing is a memory trace.

A memory trace in psychology refers to the activation pattern of nerve and brain cells associated with a memory. The interesting thing is, when we think of a specific memory, this activation pattern is the same as when you first have the experience. Essentially, your brain is literally reliving the memory. The same neurons fire, the same brain areas are activated.

My work serves as a hypothetical memory trace. In the beginning of this exploratory piece I discussed my need for a specific mental space and place to be able to write. Reading old work brings me back to the space I was in when I wrote it, and with it all the associated feelings. In that sense, my writings are cave paintings. I've changed, I've lived more, I've looked back and reflected, and sometimes I fear I don't remember who I was (which I've actually talked about in this blog before!). But if I can find something I wrote then, then I'm fine, I'm right there again.

It's a big part of why I don't like reviewing and editing my pieces, no matter how imperfect they may be. They are so rooted in the time and place I wrote them in that it feels wrong to go back and change it. Memory traces can be subsequently altered due to the "reliving" aspect, where new, sometimes erroneous information can be added. I'm always scared of doing that to my work.

In the process of determining how and why I write, I've meditated and reflected. I've listened to music, and I've borrowed someone else's work to shape mine. And I've also done plenty of looking back, through really old texts and more recent ones. And now I know. And now this piece is done.

lucybychoice