On April 28th, I began teaching a course through the Mt. Airy Learning Tree, called Poetry as Memoir. When I started, I was sure that I knew what I meant by “Poetry as Memoir” — but the question usually comes up at least once each week, so I continue to reflect and refine my definition.
I’m particularly satisfied with Wikipedia’s definition of “memoir,” particularly this bit (which may or may not be attributable to Gore Vidal, I can’t tell from the way the entry is arranged):
It is more about what can be gleaned from a section of one’s life than about the outcome of the life as a whole.
The quote makes me wonder: what actually constitutes a “section” of one’s life? How large or small of timeframe might that be? Poetry, at least much of the best poetry, is about gleaning from moments and simple details. And the old cliche is right: Life is but a series of moments. So, I suppose I see each poem as the opportunity to write a mini memoir. The most exciting part, for me, is that these mini memoirs get to defy physics. Once you’ve written enough of them, you can string the poems together to tell a larger story, only that story need not abide by the laws of the space-time continuum. This is where the gleaning comes in. The meanings of our lives, or situations within our lives, are often less dependent upon the chronological circumstances and more upon the way our memories rearrange and juxtapose long after the experiences have ended.
How many times have you been absolutely sure that the last time you saw so and so was at such and such restaurant, only to eventually realize that’s impossible? Such and such place wasn’t built yet, or it burnt down the year before, or you’ve never actually been to such and such but the color on their sign reminds you of the shirt that so and so was wearing the last time you saw him, although you can’t quite remember where exactly that was. Probably, where you were at the time doesn’t matter. It’s what you said. It’s what so and so was wearing or doing. Whatever it was, its important enough to be triggered every time you pass by such and such restaurant. The gleaning comes from that connection. Maybe you would never think of so and so otherwise. Or maybe something else would be the trigger. In all likelihood, whatever it is would have more to do with your subconcious than anything going on the actual world of facts.
That’s why I like to think about poetry in the context of memoir — because poetry is not bound by the world of facts, even if we’re using poetry to tell personal stories. Personal stories don’t necessarily have to be factually verifiable — at least not in our world. This doesn’t mean, however, that the stories don’t have to be true. But there’s a big difference between “actual” truth and “emotional” truth. Was James Frey actually in jail for year, or however long he claimed? (I never read A Million Little Pieces, although I feel like I did.) No, but it may have felt like it to him.  That’s an extreme example of emotional truth (although I’m pretty convinced that James Frey knows is just a big fat liar who thought nothing about emotional truth). Either way, emotional truth isn’t really acceptable in the world of prose — especially in anything like a biography or memoir that claims a foothold on reality. But in poetry – ah! – we deal almost strictly in emotional truth. Was the car blue or orange, it doesn’t matter. If you’re comparing your mother’s innonence to that of the virgin Mary, then the car was blue. Period. End of sentence. Poetry understands that details and specifics are the cornerstones of the most engaging writing, but that those details have some sort of proof to back them up? Poetry doesn’t care about that. Poetry wants the best details to help us understand what it all means.
It’s late and I’m rambling. More to come later.
Yay!: 1, 6, bonus
Swooniest: Michael Stipe… I’ve spent the better part of the last few hours scouring the internet for the What’s the Frequency Kenneth video, or at least a good still of Stipey, in mid hip swivel wearing that little star t-shirt… this is the best I could come up with. Oh, swoon!
