The
poet exists in two states: awake and ‘asleep’, and these two conditions are
influenced/ determined by a singular act, or rather the lack of it. If a poet is not writing is she still a
poet? Is a difference present; is she
different when she is writing to when she is not?
I
don’t think I could live without it.
It’s like water or bread or something absolutely essential to me. I find myself absolutely fulfilled when I
have written a poem, when I am writing one...
Having written one, well then, you fall away very rapidly from having
been a poet to becoming a sort of poet in rest.
(From an interview
with Sylvia Plath)
On a grammatical
level, the difference is caused by the verb usage: the poet is writing a poem or the poet has written a poem. The latter utterance, with its past tense
transitive verb, does not comment upon a current activity, but rather an
activity that has since lapsed. However,
to state that one is ‘writing’ would mean that the present participle is in
application, and thus is very much active.
Therefore, the poet fluctuates from past to present, ‘sleeping’ to
awake, and it is writing that stirs her into full consciousness.
However,
fullness is lost when the pen slips from her grip – a semi half-life envelops
her and her finger is pierced by a needle; the same sharpness and severity as
that found upon the spinning wheel – sending her hand into a motionless sleep. The poet is no longer directly engaged in
writing, her present has fallen suddenly and sadly into the past – and she wonders,
will she stay there? Questioning if she
will ever find writing again, or whether she will merely remember the poems she
once wrote.
In some respects,
when she is not writing, she becomes a victim of the past; a Sleeping Beauty trapped and devalued by the singular
past tense form of the verb to be. And
during these moments there is no third person singular present tense, no knight
on white horse, no ‘magic’ that sees words transposing themselves upon paper,
and no complete self. She was a poet, but what or who is she
now? An
empty bottle that had its purpose drained by fear... If there is no poet there is no poem, and what
becomes of the poem’s identity? A transparent bottle smashed – void of
contents and form... And without the
poem there is no poet. Each relies upon
the other; the poet and poem must co-exist, and the loss of one is a wound which
will markedly impact on what remains.
She makes a
prediction with a negative modal auxiliary and foresees that she won’t be a
poet; her future won’t be poetry and the slumbering figure will never wake onto
yellow paper – ever again. But she has
not died, she is merely ‘sleeping’, and in the dreams and nightmares of her
mind ideas still formulate, thinking still deviates and manipulates, and she
hears a pen weeping for its owner. Thus,
the mind of a poet still remains...
* * *
Self-doubt is
the apple and perfectionism its poison.
She cannot be a poet because she cannot believe it, and she cannot write
poetry (again) because it will never be what the previous poem was. There is a voice whose tones drone with
improbability, and spit with impossible conclusions...
However, she
probably would not alter the day – a distant, long ago time in her childhood –
when an apple pip was planted and which eventually became a tree that bore one
poisoned apple. There were times when
she had wished that she could chop the tree down, and send the solitary apple
falling from the branches like the giant from the beanstalk. But would she be the same person without
it? Perhaps she would not have needed
writing, and even if they had still found each other the poem would inevitably
be unrecognisable.
And
your doubt can become a good quality if you train
it. It must become knowing, it must become criticism.
Ask it, whenever it wants to spoil something for you, why something is ugly, demand proof from
it, test it, and you will find it perhaps bewildered and embarrassed, perhaps
also protesting. But don’t give in,
insist on arguments, and act in this way, attentive and persistent, every
single time, and the day will come when, instead of being a destroyer, it will
become one of your best workers – perhaps the most intelligent of all the ones
that are building your life. (Letters to A Young Poet, R. M.Rilke)
If
I didn’t write I would always be ‘asleep’ –
never knowing what it means, or is like, to be awake
Thank
you for reading,
Lara