First Books
by and published in Edition Three of Pomegranate
The difficulty in writing about putting together a first book of poems is that anyone who has reached that stage – the stage where you’ve finished, or think you’ve finished, thirty or more really strong poems – has probably also reached and surpassed the stage at which instructive articles have anything useful to add.
You’ve left the observational writing exercises behind. You’ve developed flexible and intuitive ways of working. You’ve published some poems in magazines, maybe anthologies. After years of humbling yourself, you probably now question as much as follow the advice you receive, even from better poets than you, in pursuit of your own vision. You might have a good idea of what that vision entails. You feel accomplished, doubtful and lonely.
And this is exactly how it should be. Anyone professing to offer general advice on the basis of their own experience of assembling a manuscript is fudging a bit. No two poets are trying to do the same thing: each process is intensely personal, idiosyncratic, and project-specific. In fact, I would go so far as to say the only real lesson I learned, and could suggest to anyone else, is that you find out from yourself how it’s done. This means, perhaps above all things, cultivating the loneliness I mentioned before.
We are told time and again to listen to advice, to seek out communities of writers and editors, to submit our poems and intentions to their scrutiny and patiently follow the changes they make. This is a necessary part of the training: all artists have mentors and critics. We have to learn to speak to an audience, not just ourselves. And the fact that most of us resist, in the beginning, this concession to our readers, only adds to its necessity. But eventually that resistance dissipates, and we become used to hearing several voices in our heads, used to – and even dependent upon – the input of others.
Coleridge wrote in Biographia Literaria that ‘Every reform, however necessary, will by weak minds be carried to an excess, which will itself need reforming.’ Even if ‘weak minds’ is a bit harsh (and he was indicting his younger self as much as anyone else), the point still stands: writing is continual challenge and adjustment. So, having learned to be obedient, at what point does that obedience end? When do you reform your reformation?
If you are intent on producing a first book that is absolutely yours, then the answer has to be now; and the first step is to turn down the volume on those voices. Poetry – like any single-practitioner art – is a lonely thing to do. If you don’t accept the loneliness, you will never make something unique. Only you know what you are trying to achieve: your opinion is the one that really matters. This is not carte blanche to throw down any old thing and insist on its greatness. It’s an opportunity to test your own resources, and find out whether you have the technique and the judgement to execute your work on your own terms.
In the spirit of contrariness that characterises most writing about writing, I’d like to end by suggesting three ways of – not putting your first book together – but of hearing yourself, once you’ve gained some distance from the noise.
1. Once upon a time, ‘I like it’ was not a valid defence of a poem when everyone in the room was rolling their eyes at you. Perhaps, now you have internalised all the rules, it might be worth crediting your taste again: if you like something despite your better judgement, your better judgement could be wrong. It’s amazing how many poems get knocked back at the draft stage, which, once worked upon, published and made official, would be given all the attention their peculiarities deserve. Let your weirdness have a chance.
2. The time in which you are assembling the collection is when you will become most keenly aware of its recurring themes, the ideas and words that hold it all together, or force it apart. Be open, at this point, to seeing your work in new ways, and finding new clusters and constellations of poems that speak to one another. Be open to what it is telling you. It may be something other than what you intended it to be. Once you are conscious of the poems’ preoccupations, you can shape the book with a clearer sense of purpose.
3. At the same time as you become aware of the poems’ concerns, you will become aware of their relative merits and weaknesses. Now be ruthless. You know, if you’re completely honest, what needs more work, and you know what’s irredeemable. Make the cuts. It will be agonizing, but you aren’t losing those poems forever. They’ll still be on your hard-drive somewhere. And what’s the alternative? This book will be the first impression you make on the world. Once that impression is made, you can no more unmake it than you can smooth the creases out of crumpled silver foil.
Frances Leviston
Frances Leviston won an Eric Gregory award in 2006. Her first collection of poetry, “Public Dream”, is published by Picador and was nominated for the T.S. Eliot prize in 2007.)