Anatomy
of a
Poet
By Carolyn Romano
On the Universes We Contain:
A Meditation with Annie Dillard
The body of literature,
(with its limits and edges)
exists outside some people
and inside others.
These the universes we all
contain, literature
being one. Some of us
bleed poetry, perfectly
natural when you’ve always had
adverbs jostling your red blood
cells. You say art must
enter the body and it usually does,
through rents and tears that
happen when you collide with life
at higher speeds. Writers live at
the speed of stillness. No
collision goes unnoticed
~~~
You say we can’t use
paint (or words or music)
to fasten down the world
and maybe we can’t. And maybe
we are more in the business of
setting free than
fastening down
anyway.
But maybe this is
what gives us gravity.
Artists keep the edges
from curling in like parchment.
~~~
Part of the brain
changes physical shape
Which is why
I am this way.
~~~
Cell by cell
we rearrange
to become a more
lovely architecture.
Molecule by molecule
we become aware of
relationships that
support life.
Atom by atom
we remind ourselves what
we are made of.
That is all.
That is the work we do
as writers.
I. Hands
My fingers make loops and angles,
shaky and aching with the
tension of too many words. He said
there is elegance in the turn of my wrist
and the twist of my phrase. I gave
too much time to the notes I wrote
in the book he sent
and my penmanship isn’t
nearly as pretty as his,
made worse (of course) by trying
too hard.
II. Feet
I traced enormous love letters
through the city and
along the sea
in the faint font
of footsteps. Love letters
to you, and me,
and God, and the lovely
(un)sacred city. Surely
great distances have nothing
on grace.
On Exposing the Composition:
A Meditation with bell hooks
even flesh falls away
slips off like clothing
exposing a different composition
lets the architecture
of beautiful bones
speak for itself
even flesh falls away
when you stand outside
the gates of heaven and
describe what you see from
the threshold
even flesh falls away
where passion walks
where ecstasy speaks
where the footsteps of
poets stretch out
in all directions,
then cease to exist
you are looking
at the sky
~~~
Transgress! they said and I
took off my meager garments
and appendages,
Folded them neatly.
Left them in the corner.
Transgress! they said and I
stepped into the glass shoes
and the purple night.
Took up the shining sword.
Rode into battle.
Transgress! they said and I
smiled a shimmering smile
between the pages of the novel
at the edge of conversation
with my back to the room.
Transgress! they said and I
did.
III. Eyes
I found out very young
that I am nearly blind in one eye.
The right one.
So I learned to bat left-handed,
clumsy at first
in my cross dominance.
As words came into clarity,
numbers dissolved.
I found out very young
that I am nearly blind in math.
Arithmetic blurred and
collapsed into sparks of frustration.
Dyscalculia they said.
I have always lived
a lopsided reality.
Had to compensate
for fundamental imbalance.
Fractions were a nightmare.
Eventually, the poetry of algebraic
sentences taught me how
to bat left handed.
I still carry a calculator.
Never been a matter
of lazy.
IV. Lips
If I write you a poem,
the words will linger on my lips,
slip into spaces near your heart
and near your mind,
kiss you more deeply than
mere mortals do. It isn’t
so much about skin. Touch
is bigger.
On Taking Apart Anatomy:
A Meditation with Alberto Manguel
I am a translator,
shifting accents,
syntax and diction
to better understand
the language of my heart.
The ideal reader is (also) the translator
taking apart and breaking
each line, so their heart
(also) understands.
~~~
The ideal poet is
not a taxidermist
does not arrange
language so it
looks alive
does not invest
in empty forms
does not believe
a well-constructed lie
even if they built it with
their own words.
dissect the text
(know it is living)
peel back the skin
(know it is feeling)
slice to the marrow
(know it is waiting)
follow each artery
(know it is bleeding)
This is the contract between
writer and reader.
The writer gives life,
and the reader receives,
only to set on its feet a whole
new sentient being
V. Knees
Lately my young knees
have been bothering me
because my young hips
are tight and refuse
to be bothered with
flexibility because
my young hands
are full of things to do
while sitting down
and sitting still and
my young mind is tired
of these kinds of things.
My young heart
wants dancing things
wants running things
wants singing thing
and winging things
and waiting things
and bringing things
and is tired of all these sitting things.
Words are all about music and motion.
My young knees have been
reminding me,
bothering me,
because they know
about poetry.
VI. Hips
I have a big butt.
I have ever since I grew into my hips.
And I never wanted to, well,
draw attention to it.
So I walked kind of tight and
I danced kind of tight
but it never felt good or right.
Never felt like loving
all the shapes I inhabit.
One night I realized:
My shame is merely
mislaid blame.
So I turned up the music in my living room
and let go.
I let my hips snake little circles
and then sway, sashay, even shimmy.
Suddenly I could breathe.
My shoulders came out of hibernation to flirt.
My knees unlocked, and my arms swung and
my hair bounced and shimmered and
got messy.
Later I felt good. Sexy. Sweaty. Unashamed.
How I want to feel after writing.
Like giving myself permission
to love all the shapes
I inhabit.
On Steadiness and Solubility:
A Meditation with Joanna Want
At night I am a poet
playing dodgeball with
old injuries and seeking
solace in reflected light.
This quiet discomfort
makes space for strange
sentences and a stubborn
sort of steadiness. As I sneak
toward the dawn, my
ballpoint pen seems
satisfied. I switch off
the lamp and adjust
to the first faded glimmer
of dawn.
~~~
The people who write books
Are real people
They get sleepy.
They lose balance
and direction.
They eat too much cake.
And I have proof, you know,
because I am one.
Most days.
Some spring mornings
I have been known
to dissolve
into the light.
Writers help other people
also dissolve.
VII. Heart
It always comes back to this:
Beside my breastbone, tucked
below collarbone ridges and the
delicate muscles that keep
this skull aloft.
It always comes back to this:
Tireless muscle of softness
and strength and stillness
and steel.
It always comes back to this:
Point of origin, temple of God,
resting place, universe,
chalice and
spring.
So I settle in, spill this essence
across the page, simmer, bleed,
pulse. Repeat.
On Unmerited Grace:
Echoing Annie Dillard
Last night I fell
to pieces, only
briefly blazing and
angry with weeks
and weeks of
not-letting-go but
getting past and
getting through happens
slowly and also
in pieces.
Last night I fell
through pieces of
softest, starlit snow
that softened my fall and
slowly settled beneath
me. I could not see the
stars for clouds but
learned to float
in opal drifts.
And light became my
resting place.
Poet’s Note
When I was considering how to write a personal literacy narrative, I approached
literacy more as intimacy than as a skill set. And yet, even when I thought of my various
skills in literacy, I moved to poetry and from there to intimacy and what, may I ask, is
more intimate that the stories that we carry within our bodies? Somehow, particularly in
recent years, inspiration, artistry, and exquisite experience always come back to a physical
reality in order to transcend it. This is why I chose to write the poems that were waiting
in my muscle and bone. The path that brought me to poetry started in my childhood, but
I am not brave enough to write about that yet. However, I can talk about the path that
brought me to the moment in which I began to refer to myself as “poet” and from there
claimed this love affair with language as my own. I carry this story around with me, in my
hands and feet, eyes and lips, knees and hips and heart. This is the anatomy of a poet.
Twined around this exploration is another that began as secondary, but became
equally important to me as I wrestled with it. I searched for quotations from several
writers that brought the physical body into the experience of being a writer. When I
found some juicy language, I dug into it, wrote from and with it, and started to uncover
more elements of this strange and lovely anatomy. This back and forth, between the
intangible regions of language and the visceral experience of the body, brought more
sharply into focus the story I was trying to tell. The dialogue with other writers enriched
my own process immeasurably. In the end I discovered that a very specific theme
emerged organically from this process: the physical and metaphorical anatomy of the
poet and the role of grace in artistry.
Embodied Quotations
“The body of literature, with its limits and edges, exists outside some people and inside
others. Only after the writer lets literature shape her can she perhaps shape literature. In
working-class France, when an apprentice got hurt, or when he got tired, the experiences
workers said, “It is the trade entering his body.” The art must enter the body, too. A
painter cannot use paint like glue or screws to fasten down the world. The tubes of paint
are like fingers; they work only if, inside the painter, the neural pathways are wide and
clear to the brain. Cell by cell, molecule by molecule, atom by atom, part of the brain
changes physical shape to accommodate and fit paint.” ~Annie Dillard, The Writing Life
(pg. 69)
“Writing is my passion. It is a way to experience the ecstatic. The root understanding of
the word ecstasy—“to stand outside”—comes to me in those moments when I am
immersed so deeply in the act of thinking and writing that everything else, even flesh,
falls away.” ~bell hooks, Remembered Rapture (pg. 35)
“Words invite us to transgress—to move beyond the world of the ordinary. If that were
not so the world of the book would have no meaning.” ~bell hooks, Remembered Rapture
(pg. 152)
“The ideal reader is the translator, able to dissect the text, peel back the skin, slice down
to the marrow, follow each artery and each vein, and then set on its feet a whole new
sentient being. The ideal reader is not a taxidermist.” ~ Alberto Manguel, A Reader on
Reading (pg. 151)
“But at night I am a poet
And a girl in need of a story, and friend” ~Joanna Want, 13 Ways Words Wrote Me
“The people who write books
Are real people
And I have proof” ~Joanna Want, 13 Ways Words Wrote Me
“At its best, the sensation of writing is that of unmerited grace. It is handed to you, but
only if you look for it. You search, you break your heart, your back, your brain, and
then—and only then—it is handed to you. From the corner of your eye you see motion.”
~Annie Dillard, The Writing Life (pg. 75)
Works Cited
Dillard, Annie. The Writing Life. New York: Harper & Row, 1989. Print.
hooks, bell. Remembered Rapture: The Writer at Work. New York: Henry Holt, 1999. Print.
Manguel, Alberto. "Notes Toward the Definition of The Ideal Reader." A Reader on
Reading. New Haven: Yale UP, 2010. 151-54. Print.
Want, Joanna. “13 Ways Words Wrote Me.” Digital Archive of Literacy Narratives, 2011.
Web.