I think my dilemma of the past few years in my own work is very much this: that I want to maintain the “performability” of my work, while increasing the space inside it; increasing the detail and particularity of it without creating work that’s so specific that it can’t be understood by anyone except the “inner circle.”

I want sacred space in poems and readings — space where the intent of the audience and the poet combine and mesh in such a way that the expectation for each — to do their best to connect with the work — is the same, and is honored.

I want to be comfortable trusting the audience to follow the poem, not the poet; to not fret about “Did ya get it?” To trust that when I do my job right, the poem will be heard and absorbed even when the space in it is deep, and not immediately accessible to linear analysis and interpretation.

This is not to say, “to hell with accessibility.” Not at all. It’s a reinterpretation of what accessibility means; it’s not leading the audience by the nose, it’s creating a space for shared discovery.

Maybe I want too much.

I do know I don’t find this in slam, not nowadays; the superheated atmosphere in most of them no longer allows for this. I know I’ve heard “new veterans” telling “real newbies” to make sure they fill the three minutes with words; to use every bit of the space in the poem.

I think it’s sad, and silly, and frankly insecure.

It’s a new world I want — bring the excitement and stage values of slam into a poetic school that demands excellence and impact beyond the literal impact of strong words.

I want — I need — strong silence, too.

A conversation with a friend has just made me realize the single thing I hate most about a lot of poetry nowadays: a lack of space within the poem for the reader/listener to include their own experiences in their understanding of the poem.

We are drowned in the need of the poet to make sure we know exactly what he/she is talking about, no questions asked, every detail provided. Linear space/time is the rule in poems, with no chance of misconstruing the intent allowed.

The hectoring in political writing is one example. The lack of imagery and the prevalence of clumsy metaphor in so many slam poems is another.

There is a lack of generosity of spirit. We don’t trust our audiences to get us.

Add to this a healthy helping of atrocious writing skills (that sometimes make poems seem more difficult than they actually are) and you’ve got a recipe for disaster.

Thoughts?

Our second hard frost of this season
has kicked in fall’s teeth. We put on
heavier jackets and dig our scrapers
out of our trunks.

Pulling out of Moody Street
before my back window defrosts,
pulling into this world where
radio stations chatter endlessly
about their politics, where
newspapers draw conclusions
from trivia, where fanatics come and go
splintering Michaelangelo,
where (if I opt for silence)
there are always bumper stickers
to deal with,

I’m starting to think that
we should delete “the”
from our vocabulary.
We’re too frozen.
It’s an icy world out there now.
When I look into its eyes,
my head slows down, my breath
turns sluggish, all I see is
a mass of bergs
with nothing below.

I don’t want things
to be so definite.
I don’t want to know
everything for certain.
I want a world of particulars
where we need to get close enough
to feel each other’s heat so we
can understand ourselves
and keep warm.

But tomorrow is supposed to be
colder, and colder still
next week and next month;
so I guess I’ll just
turn up my collar,
speak only when spoken to,
think for myself
until spring.