Wendell Berry Reminds Us How To Be A Poet
A friend of mine knowing that I’ve been suffering from writer’s block for the past several months sent this to me, a poem by one of my favorite authors about the writing of poetry. I’ll add one thought but otherwise let the work speak for itself. I remember several years ago listening to acclaimed poet Li-Young Lee read some of his poetry and thinking at the time that his words created silence in me. In regards to the last lines of Mr. Berry’s poem here, I’ve often thought that the best books, poems, and songs - though filled with sounds and words - create a quiet place in us and give us an opportunity to actually listen to silence. Now, from Mr. Berry:
How To Be a Poet
by Wendell Berry
(to remind myself)
i
Make a place to sit down.
Sit down. Be quiet.
You must depend upon
affection, reading, knowledge,
skill—more of each
than you have—inspiration,
work, growing older, patience,
for patience joins time
to eternity. Any readers
who like your poems,
doubt their judgment.
ii
Breathe with unconditional breath
the unconditioned air.
Shun electric wire.
Communicate slowly. Live
a three-dimensioned life;
stay away from screens.
Stay away from anything
that obscures the place it is in.
There are no unsacred places;
there are only sacred places
and desecrated places.
iii
Accept what comes from silence.
Make the best you can of it.
Of the little words that come
out of the silence, like prayers
prayed back to the one who prays,
make a poem that does not disturb
the silence from which it came.
A.S. Peterson has crafted a work of compelling historical fiction which begs the question, “Can this really be a debut novel?” With dogged fidelity, Peterson captures the spirit, manners, and social conditions present during the American Revolutionary War. We meet colorful, credible characters who navigate the high seas of life and love, dependence and independence, war and peace, truth and consequence, and despite forays into dark places, The Fiddler’s Gun is beautiful, lyrical, and redemptive.
Walt Wangerin, Jr. strikes again.
Janner Igiby lives in Glipwood, a nothing little village in the land of Skree, on the edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness. Manhood is on the horizon, but Janner finds it hard to feel much hope for the future. Skree is ruled by foreign oppressors, snake men called the Fangs of Dang, servants of a shadowy emperor named Gnag the Nameless. The Skreeans are weak and weaponless. They’re even tool-less. Any Skreean who needs to use a hoe has to borrow one from the Fangs (and fill out the requisite paperwork). And from time to time, the Black Carriage arrives in Glipwood to carry young Skreeans toward an unknown fate across the Dark Sea.
I am not a fan of Civil War literature; in fact, I have always thought of it as one of those weird sub-genres for obsessive types. They’re almost like Trekkies with their re-enactments and maniacal devotion to detail. It’s just not my thing (although I’m secretly jealous that they get to dress up and shoot cannons).
A Randall Goodgame song is like a great independent movie. Characters deliver lines like they were lifted from a break room, a truck stop, or a downtown diner. Seemingly incongruent scenes are juxtaposed and plot isn’t obvious; in fact, narrative–a good story–is often more evident than linear plot lines. An indie movie, like a Randall Goodgame song, seems to tell itself. Rather than being rudely yanked by a chain through a sequence of contrived events, with a Randall Goodgame song, I have the sense that I’m being allowed a willing, but vicarious sneak peak into the real lives of his real characters.
Sara Groves irritates me just a little bit. With each album she makes, she moves from strength to strength and is always raising the bar with the quality, depth, and lyrical ambition of her work. And as a fellow artist, that’s just a little irritating since it means the rest of us are going to have to work harder if we hope to keep up.
I am outside on my front porch. The yellowed leaves are methodically falling from the black walnut in the yard, my breath is chalky visible in the recent cold snap, and lately I have been exploring the unpleasant nuances of the dark night of a soul - my own, to be exact. It is a strange passion we live out on this over-glorified orb of rock hurtling through space at some rate that I’m sure would astound me were I to know what it was. It is an odd series of days, I am realizing, when you question your own faith more than you question your own doubt. And, indeed, it is these nagging questions which have prompted me to share my thoughts on Andrew Peterson’s 2003 album, Love and Thunder.
11-year old Reuben Land, a character in the 2001 book Peace Like a River, provides narration that is clear-eyed and insightful, yet retains the magic, wonder, and innocence of youth. I found it easy to entrust my imagination to the author’s clever method of telling the story through the sensibilities of a pre-teen boy. An author with lesser skill would have either made the boy too smart-alecky for his own good or impossibly cute.
I just finished a book that upon closing it, I felt like it finished me in a sense. A quiet meditative book that reached down and stirred the deep waters in me. It’s Marilynne Robinson’s 2005 Pulitzer prize winner Gilead, given to me by my friend Andrew Peterson.
Eric Peters’s body of work addresses a diverse range of topics, but hope is a recurring theme that gently percolates in the midst of it all. And yet, somewhere between the 2001 masterpiece Land of the Living, and Scarce, the flavor of hope that Peters’s work emits has evolved closer to a tone that is more resolute than what came before. And though the complexion of hope has a broad range, the lyrics from Scarce–while intermittently contrite and timorous as in previous efforts, are now strengthened and bolstered by roots that have grown deeper, radiating an underlying grit and security.
Having read The Great Divorce many times over the years, I’ve found this classic from the great C.S. Lewis to be full of startling clarity and depth on the differences between Heaven and Hell. The only thing both have in common is that both begin in the human will; we can either let Heaven enter us and rule in us to blossom into love and goodness, or allow Hell to infect and reign in our hearts by the daily refusal to submit to Heaven.
Even if you haven’t heard Room to Breathe, its still likely you’ve heard Andy Gullahorn. He’s what I’d call a heavy lifter by trade. He writes lyrics, plays guitar, arranges vocals and adds production help to the work of artists like Jill Phillips and Andrew Peterson.
Allow me to preface this by telling you that I am a great despiser of gushing reviews. I’d much rather write (or read) a scathing dismemberment of the latest Brett Ratner film or Terry Goodkind book than suffer through four hundred words of overblown hyperbole about even the best of things. But when asked to write some thoughts on Frederick Buechner’s Godric, no amount of distaste for high praise was able to intervene. I hope you’ll take what I say with the understanding that I do not say it readily or lightly.
Yes.
great stuff! add the Holy Spirit to that and you have a powerful combination. be quiet and listen to the poetry of God…and sometimes He gives us something to say too. thanks for pointing us to that.
That is amazing!
Beautiful.
That is timely help.
That’s wonderful. I’m also very fond of Dana Gioia’s “The Next Poem”:
The Next Poem
How much better it seems now
than when it is finally done–
the unforgettable first line,
the cunning way the stanzas run.
The rhymes soft-spoken and suggestive
are barely audible at first,
an appetite not yet acknowledged
like the inkling of a thirst.
While gradually the form appears
as each line is coaxed aloud–
the architecture of a room
seen from the middle of a crowd.
The music that of common speech
but slanted so that each detail
sounds unexpected as a sharp
inserted in a simple scale.
No jumble box of imagery
dumped glumly in the reader’s lap
or elegantly packaged junk
the unsuspecting must unwrap.
But words that could direct a friend
precisely to an unknown place,
those few unshakeable details
that no confusion can erase.
And the real subject left unspoken
but unmistakable to those
who don’t expect a jungle parrot
in the black and white of prose.
How much better it seems now
than when it is finally written.
How hungrily one waits to feel
the bright lure seized, the old hook bitten.
A few things that hit me from this poem:
“Any readers who like your poems, doubt their judgment.” This seems to advocate less accessibility. Honestly, I find that I enjoy the praise of others far too much. Why is it hard to wait/work for a higher reward?
“. . . stay away from screens. Stay away from anything that obscures the place it is in.” In the age of digitized special effects we often search for realism in unreal environments. Mr. Berry is right to draw inspiration from the everyday encounters because therein lies the parable.
“. . . make a poem that does not disturb the silence from which it came.” Too much clamor may turn a few heads, but they usually won’t stay turned very long. It’s often during the silent moments that inspiration comes to me.
Silence.
I once heard Alister Begg say — quoting someone else — that “you cannot simultaneously impress others with yourself and impress them with Christ”. That’s not verbatim, but the heart of it still comes through.
Peter,
I love listening to A. Begg.
A Joni Mitchell line: “…the times you impress me most are the times when you don’t try.”
Jason - supreme wisdom and a lot to chew on in few words from Wendell Berry.
All this talk of brevity lately is giving me the hives.
Brilliant.
One line in there reminded me of two other great authors.
You must depend upon
affection, reading, knowledge,
skill—more of each
than you have
“more of each than you have”
L’Engle talks about the need to “obey the story.” The story - or in this case, the poem - is greater than the author, and the author’s job is to listen to the story, and to obey it.
George MacDonald said that though God’s words can’t mean or say anything more than what He intended (for he has full knowledge and is self-sufficient), human words must mean more than we think or intend. There is something greater than us that we tap into in the creative process.
I’m going to go ahead and confess that at first glance I had absolutely no idea what this poem was about and had flashbacks to reading Oswald Chambers devotions as a high schooler.
It was interesting to read the comments with what stood out and interpretations. Could someone help me with the “live a 3-dimesioned life” part. I think I know what he is saying, but I would be curious to hear other interpretations. I bow to the intellectual brainpower in here. You all are wicked smaht.
Mark,
My interpretation of the “live a 3-dimensional life” bit was that he was referring to interacting with what is immediately in front of you. He follows that line with “stay away from screens” (or a 2D life). Turn off the t.v., computer, etc. anything that is going to interfere with your ability to see what is immediately in front of you in its purest state.
That makes a lot of sense Chris. In hindsight, I can’t believe I didn’t pickup on that. By the way, I think all the rabbitroom people followed Mr. Berry’s advice. It’s like a holiday ghost town around here.
I will add all of you to my list of people to be thankful for. Even though I don’t really know any of you, I like what you have to say.
Now, it is my sincerest hope that other people will make comments soon in order that I don’t sweep the “Recent Comments” section. Thank you.
The end.
Sincerely,
The recent comment dominator
I always enjoy, and have a chuckle at this little tidbit:
“The aim of good prose words is to mean what they say. The aim of good poetical words is to mean what they do not say.” G.K. Chesterton
Ron, yeah; I usually get to listen to him on my way to work (embarrassingly enough I spelled his name wrong, which I attribute to the fact that I’ve only ever heard of him on the radio).
Hang in there. There is hope, even for those of us brevity-impaired folks.
Many years ago before I even knew who he was, I heard an interview with Mr. Berry on CBC radio up here in Canada. The depth of his replies and wisdom along with the poetic illustrations he gave were forever burned into my mind. Once again this poem did not disappoint