Pounded by Ezra: Teaching Music like earning poetry

"Don’t imagine that the art of poetry is any simpler than the art of music, or that you can please the expert before you have spent at least as much effort on the art of verse as the average piano teacher spends on the art of music. - Ezra Pound"

RAhh, Ezra Pound; I love it when you bang into me with your concise direction and feedback. This is the latest entry in my series about being a better poet based on the writings of Ezra Pound’s “A few don’ts by an Imagiste”. You can see my two previous entries here:

Pounded by Ezra: trite, cliche, and boring; aiming at the object.

Pounded by Ezra: Write in fear; hump the image like a dog on a leg

We are writers and artists; a poet is like the painter choosing colors and strokes like we pick out words and phrases. Writing at the most fundamental basic level is to communicate. We are giving the reader information. We can measure the effectiveness of our writing by how easily the information passes and if it is accurately relayed. Confusing and obscure language will make it difficult for the reader to understand our message. It will be jumbled and chaotic or so disconnected from the reader’s reference it will be jibberish.

My previous “Pounded by Ezra” entries looked at how you can be a more effective writer by choosing your words well. I looked at how you can avoid abstractions, and how you should use the natural objects (images) to do the heavy lifting for you without superfluous adjectives or adverbs.
This entry is all about effort.

Ezra states very appropriately with a clear image we can all recognize that “poetry is [not] any simpler than the art of music.” Have you wanted to play guitar and sing like your favorite band? I used to sing along to Taylor Swift firmly believing that my voice matched her’s in perfect pitch; I didn’t. I thought in the car when I was driving my inflection and tone were just as crooningly soulful and power laden as Taylor’s own voice. The first time I picked up a guitar to strum out a few cords all I could get were the repeating clanging of my nails discordant on the strings with the buzzing cacophony of misplaced fingers over the frets.

I’m sure you’ve put your finger on the center of a fret not next to the raised metal and got that buzzing discord.

We do not expect to be virtuosos the first time we start learning G and B chords. Hell, even a year into daily practice our guitar skills would be barely public playable.

Ezra says we should have no expectation that writing poetry well is any easier than mastering an instrument.

I can use tricks like broken rhyme, image laden lines, and assonance in moderation to give the guise of quality poetry, but my lyrics are still floundering without the tight concise precision of practiced perfection.

Ezra continues, “don’t imagine […] that you can please the expert before you have spent at least as much effort on the art of verse (poetry) as the average piano teacher spends on the art of music.”
Ahhh! This speaks for itself. I’ll reiterate anyways because it is so important: our poetry will not be great to poets until we’ve earned the right with effort equal to the musician who can competently teach how to play.

Poetry is so difficult for a medium for excellence because the barrier to entry is so low. Any idiot can spew out verse like journaling and we encourage them to with votes, likes, and platitudes for the most confusing language and cliche boring trite. I’m reminded of a popular steemian that publishes poetry so obtuse and laden with words so difficult you need to look up in a dictionary every other line. The content is so confusing, obscure, unrelated and terribly incomprehensible I struggle to get through more than two stanzas before drifting into boredom. I would call it “bad poetry.” The bar for poetry is low. Any stream of consciousness careless word vomiter can disgorge their lyrics.

The true poet, according to Ezra is the person willing to devote time and effort into practicing the same notes an hour a day. The musician that memorizes a song a week for the first year and can recreate it with all the pauses and breaks with fast adequate fingering is like the poet that knows how to count feet in iambic pentameter and can wrestle language enough to stuff it into the wrappings of structure.

There is a significant difference between the bubbling journaling "poet" or the dabbling musician that memorizes songs well enough to jam with a friend and the knuckle bleeding carpel tunnel typer straining eyes over which words combine best to illustrate the point without taking away from the lyrical flow. The Poet is practiced, effort stuffed tyrant over her words.

We must earn the right and confidence to stumble past casually expelling the first words fresh out of our fingertips, and refine them with effort and deliberate practice. I’m thinking about poems that focus on assonance to get better at using it; poems that don’t rhyme to find the natural rhythm of the words themselves, poems intended like scales to practice our delivery to every always improve.

When I think of an average piano teacher I realize I cannot do the same thing; couldn’t even begin to teach someone to play after a week of lessons. How can I expect excellent poetry (which is similar in craft to playing an instrument) after writing a poem a day for a couple months?! I cannot! Nor do I expect anyone else to approach that level of master. But I don't want to waste my valuable free time reading mediocre poetry. Mediocre poetry with the effort and gumption of someone flexing their skill and straining against inadequacy is great! Readers learn through others trials, but I refuse to sink precious minutes warping my brain against obscurity because the poet refused to consider the reader or believes that intended abstraction is good writing.

I want to bleed with the writer as they struggle against shaping their perspective into the prison of language. When reading, i'm very forgiving to the honest attempt; but disdainful of the casual blather of those unwilling to reach for the art of poetry in the same way I'd dismiss a novice playing the violin. Good attempt; but we won't be inviting you to play at our party. Keep practicing. And we poets should too.

I’m not going to concerts or listening to musicians at Potbelly at noon who only do scales! We expect a certain competency from our musicians why don’t we treat poetry the same?

“Don’t imagine that the art of poetry is any simpler than the art of music.”

Poetry demands the same practice and effort that training your hands and breath to sing and play guitar. Treat it with that same respect and your readers will follow, thank you, and twist themselves around your words like a dog scratching his back in grass.

I am a charlatan masquerading as a poet. In a recent comment I truthfully likened my own poetry as a magician that knew enough to perform other masters's tricks without understanding enough to perform my own. My daily effort is spent creating; flexing the muscle of action with deliberate practice, and blundering ever forward without the revision I preach. I tell myself in the back of my elbows (behind my typing fingers in constant motion) that some day when I publish my book I'll refine and edit these poems. I should expect the same scorn and dismissal I rave about here. Yet, I've edited this very post ten times already, and return frequently to my own work sneaking in changes because I'm compelled to. Maybe it is my attempt to earn your votes, and the right to complain.

We are artists; we are poets and the effort of our craft is expressed in excellence. Let our work speak to our anguish (of caring about quality verse).

My poetic attempt to practice deliberate language:
Intent: 3 images, 2 similes, 1 metaphor, 2 words that rhyme not connected. Fewest words possible.

Pause. Pulse faster than breath should allow
reading shit-posts with 200 votes like Trump got 61 million;
pissed off vomit praised like lobster rolls and cream sauce
(once picked off the beach and boiled with onions too poor for chicken).
Pause.
Deep inhale and blow out disgust with long excessive exhale heavy with garlic my boyfriend cringes at,
as reluctant to kiss me after as he is to eat it.
Pause. Look for effort. Ask, “how would I feel?” Type: