Apr 22, 2023·edited Apr 22, 2023Liked by Alison Acheson
I suppose like many I’m of two (or more) minds about the role of knowledge in writing. For example, it’s hard to imagine writing decent parody or satire or pastiche without being immersed in and knowledgeable of the language and style of what you’re mocking or mimicking. For example, want to write a modern-day “Ulysses”? Kind of have to be familiar with Tennyson’s.
Similarly, if you’ve ever had personal knowledge or experience of some event or person written up in a newspaper or magazine, you’ve probably experienced the weird feeling of disconnect between what you know and what the journalist thinks they know (or even the weirder feeling that what you thought you knew was wrong).
But at the same time, you don’t want the surfacing of that knowledge to make you sound like the big shot, the smartest person in the room. For many of us, that’s an affront to the way we were raised (and all praise to our parents for that — my mother’s phrase: “Self-praise stinks”). The Southern U.S. expression “Don’t get above your raisin’” also comes to mind here.
One solution would be to present your knowledge in a humorous or self-mocking tone, as in Mark Twain’s Roughing It and other books.
Another solution, I suppose, is to adopt a voice that matches the material. I’m thinking here of Joan Didion’s 1966 magazine piece, “Some Dreamers of the Golden Dream,” with its forceful statements and declarative sentences, yet with something of the crime reporter to the writing, perhaps what we would now call “true crime.” I believe she wrote somewhere that she came to this voice via Hemingway, which is to say via a fictional voice. That is, we don’t see the countless hours of research, the notebooks, the interview recordings and transcripts.
And then there’s the voice of modesty, or at least what sounds like that. For example, one of my favorite poems is this one by Miller Williams (musician Lucinda’s father, if you’re keeping track), where he creates the “simple” voice of an old museum curator, yet basically tells an incredible and detailed history in the process:
I did not know Lucinda's father was a poet. "The Curator." Glad you shared this! Yes, I said the same to Michael. I appreciate these pieces. This work does feel to be modest. I'll be looking up the collection it's from. (Great title--Some Jazz A While.)
I think that when we experience the labour of writing and of creating, it's pretty humbling stuff. It frequently makes me want to sit on the floor in a corner, and not speak.
But I think too of Joni Mitchell going on about "false humility," and think she's right. I'd prefer a wee bit of healthy pride to that; it's all a fine line.
I like how Williams hides his erudition. For example, at the end of the list of famous painters, we come to “your Whistler, Wood, and Gropper.” That’s a telling half-line. Maybe we know this, maybe not, but those three alone in the list are Americans, so that “your” tells us the curator is speaking to an American (the poet stand-in). And also that those three painters were leftists, that is, acceptable to the Soviets.
That’s probably an example of “show don’t tell,” although it does depend on the reader figuring it out. But it provides Miller a way of conveying this information to us without having the curator literally saying it, like in bad movie dialogue. Since this is a persona poem, it’s important that the speaker not sound or think quite like the poet.
I also think there’s a nice unstated parallel between the soldiers, who only see the absent paintings via the curators’ descriptions, and us the readers, who only see that roofless museum in winter via the voice of the curator, that is, via the poem, in our imaginations.
There is nothing about this poem that makes me think "bad (and pointy!) movie dialogue." No.
Really, I'm left with a sense of almost magic in the evocation; I feel as if I'm one of the sightless he speaks of, and feel oddly blessed in the inclusion that comes with the whole--the invite to see and feel the works he speaks of. I've reread, and it's rich.
I wrote my first (and very short) poem in a decade! https://michaelmohr.substack.com/p/poem-for-my-father
Very nice: "I am forty, in love, ready."
Glad you shared this! Hiking, shared, and through one--and another's--lifetime.
I suppose like many I’m of two (or more) minds about the role of knowledge in writing. For example, it’s hard to imagine writing decent parody or satire or pastiche without being immersed in and knowledgeable of the language and style of what you’re mocking or mimicking. For example, want to write a modern-day “Ulysses”? Kind of have to be familiar with Tennyson’s.
Similarly, if you’ve ever had personal knowledge or experience of some event or person written up in a newspaper or magazine, you’ve probably experienced the weird feeling of disconnect between what you know and what the journalist thinks they know (or even the weirder feeling that what you thought you knew was wrong).
But at the same time, you don’t want the surfacing of that knowledge to make you sound like the big shot, the smartest person in the room. For many of us, that’s an affront to the way we were raised (and all praise to our parents for that — my mother’s phrase: “Self-praise stinks”). The Southern U.S. expression “Don’t get above your raisin’” also comes to mind here.
One solution would be to present your knowledge in a humorous or self-mocking tone, as in Mark Twain’s Roughing It and other books.
Another solution, I suppose, is to adopt a voice that matches the material. I’m thinking here of Joan Didion’s 1966 magazine piece, “Some Dreamers of the Golden Dream,” with its forceful statements and declarative sentences, yet with something of the crime reporter to the writing, perhaps what we would now call “true crime.” I believe she wrote somewhere that she came to this voice via Hemingway, which is to say via a fictional voice. That is, we don’t see the countless hours of research, the notebooks, the interview recordings and transcripts.
https://www.therivetermagazine.com/some-dreamers-of-the-golden-dream/
And then there’s the voice of modesty, or at least what sounds like that. For example, one of my favorite poems is this one by Miller Williams (musician Lucinda’s father, if you’re keeping track), where he creates the “simple” voice of an old museum curator, yet basically tells an incredible and detailed history in the process:
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/47104/the-curator
I did not know Lucinda's father was a poet. "The Curator." Glad you shared this! Yes, I said the same to Michael. I appreciate these pieces. This work does feel to be modest. I'll be looking up the collection it's from. (Great title--Some Jazz A While.)
I think that when we experience the labour of writing and of creating, it's pretty humbling stuff. It frequently makes me want to sit on the floor in a corner, and not speak.
But I think too of Joni Mitchell going on about "false humility," and think she's right. I'd prefer a wee bit of healthy pride to that; it's all a fine line.
Yes, to "no getting about your raisin!" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PFoiSFpN_us
I like how Williams hides his erudition. For example, at the end of the list of famous painters, we come to “your Whistler, Wood, and Gropper.” That’s a telling half-line. Maybe we know this, maybe not, but those three alone in the list are Americans, so that “your” tells us the curator is speaking to an American (the poet stand-in). And also that those three painters were leftists, that is, acceptable to the Soviets.
That’s probably an example of “show don’t tell,” although it does depend on the reader figuring it out. But it provides Miller a way of conveying this information to us without having the curator literally saying it, like in bad movie dialogue. Since this is a persona poem, it’s important that the speaker not sound or think quite like the poet.
I also think there’s a nice unstated parallel between the soldiers, who only see the absent paintings via the curators’ descriptions, and us the readers, who only see that roofless museum in winter via the voice of the curator, that is, via the poem, in our imaginations.
Frank, I so appreciate these thoughts!
There is nothing about this poem that makes me think "bad (and pointy!) movie dialogue." No.
Really, I'm left with a sense of almost magic in the evocation; I feel as if I'm one of the sightless he speaks of, and feel oddly blessed in the inclusion that comes with the whole--the invite to see and feel the works he speaks of. I've reread, and it's rich.
Thank you!