Simple Things/ Lang Kenneth Haynes
Poetry
Poetry
I confess, at the outset, that I don’t know what poetry is. There are names for assorted poetic forms like sestina, haiku, ballade, list, tercet, pastoral, pantoum
and many others that can be pulled from the pages of just about any book on poetic form. Then there is free-verse which seems to throw all the conventions out
the window. But some will say that there is really no freedom without discipline. In the case of poetry this may mean that a poet’s struggle to fit ideas, memories,
feelings, regrets, agony, ecstasy, and other human experiences into a form that has a particular set of rules may, indeed, enhance the poet’s freedom at a later
time. There is more than a little credence attached to this notion. For example, it can be argued that musicians who take the time to learn scales and the wide
range of keys and subsequent sounds that an instrument is capable of producing may really be able and equipped to cut loose when it comes time to improvise
and, seemingly, let go of all manner of convention. A case in point could be the saxophone. The term chord does not usually come to mind when you think of
this instrument. Guitar is a more likely choice. But saxes can produce chords in the hands, lips, breath and seemingly effortless focus of a person who has
developed the chops to play chords on a sax. The same may be true of the visual artist who is known only for abstract paintings when a study of earlier work is
likely to reveal a more conventional and understandable style. The hidden discipline can lend power to the abstract painting.
Any way you look at it, poetry is a form of manifestation. Human beings are destined to manifest in one way or another whether we like it or not; whether we
manifest consciously or not; whether the ways in which we put our stamps on the Universe contribute to its expansion or implosion. We take the muddle of things
that contribute to us being who we are and mold and shape those things so that other human beings can begin to get their heads around who we are or, at least,
who they think we are. And in the process there are at least a couple of things that can happen: 1) We can assume that we know what the other person is
communicating and run off down the street shouting and believing that we got it. Or we can 2) acknowledge that something that was spoken, played, painted,
written or otherwise communicated resonated with something inside of us and the possible inability to communicate what that “something” was does not take
away from its relevance. But it intrigues and captivates us. Maybe that’s what poetry is: a way to give form to the formless, voice to the voiceless or solidity to the
ethereal. Maybe poetry is about creating, manifesting for ourselves and in the process of speaking to ourselves we manage to touch others. Maybe poetry is a way
to break down the notion that our pain and joy and every emotion in between are uniquely ours.
Late one evening, I found myself sitting at the back of the room at a particularly boring meeting. Maybe there was something in the water that made the
elected officials and public speakers go on and on using volumes of words to express very simple ideas. Fortunately, I was sitting next to one of my friends and co-
workers and we amused ourselves by doodling and occasionally passing notes back and forth like elementary school children. In one of my scribbled notes,
written during a particularly long speech signifying nothing, I wrote, “If you have nothing to say please say it quickly.” Maybe that’s what poetry is: a short stanza
instead of a long chapter; a word instead of a sentence; the slightest wisp of what may be true instead of bludgeoning the reader over the head with a heavy,
blunt object in an effort to convince; and a relatively uncluttered page to leave plenty of room for the reader or listener to sweeten the manifestation with their
own experiences, memories, mistakes, missed opportunities and mysterious sense of timing.
And poetry is so much more. It has the potential to erase boundaries that did not truly exist in the first place. Here’s what I’m talking about. There’s an
assumption (there’s that nasty, useless word again) that Black men, who grew up in large cities, should necessarily write about drugs, violence, despair and death.
I am not a stranger to these things, but they do not represent the totality of who I am. In October 2002, Madison Poet Laureate Fabu invited several poets to
contribute work to and recite our poetry at the Waters of Wisconsin Forum that was held at the Monona Terrace Community and Convention Center and pulled
together by the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters with support from many other individuals and organizations. Sure. Water conjures up thoughts
of flowing, pristine wilderness, lakes, rivers and streams. Water may very well stir up other thoughts and memories in the hearts and minds of others. Like turning a
faucet and having the water come out brown or smelling less than pure. It doesn’t matter. What I’m trying to say is that water is the liquid that binds all people of
all colors of all nations together. It is the stuff that blood is made of. It is the substance that no one can live without for very long. Maybe poetry represents the
ultimate paradox - the simultaneous existence of two truths. Excruciating simplicity standing shoulder-to-shoulder with apparent complexity. Truth influenced or
determined by the angle from which we view a particular phenomenon. Water is a non-issue if you have plenty of it, and the issue if your children are shriveling
up before your eyes if you live in a place where the reservoirs are dry and it hasn’t rained for over a year, or you turn the faucet and the water comes out brown or
you turn the faucet and nothing comes out at all or you don’t have a faucet to turn.
Thank you for listening. I have a better idea of what poetry is now. It touches on everything I’ve tried to say in this column. Or everything I’ve said in this
column totally misses the point. Maybe poetry is the absence of explaining and breathing in and breathing out as we let some undefined part of ourselves drift in
and out, around and between the lines. No matter what rung of the ladder of life we stand on, one thing is certain: we are in this together.
Midwest Environmental Advocates, Inc. published the following poem of mine in 2007.
The Lake in Morning
In the mist of neither night or day
Before the first yawning of the sun
The water spiders scrawl messages
On lily pads then slide them on liquid
glass
To be read by those who’ve left
Their arrogance on shore
The water will enfold you, embrace you
Like the scent of a lover from long ago
Inhale the multicolored mist
Release the beating of your pulse
To thump with syncopated rhythms
On crosscurrents and undertows
Dive into the exquisite moment
When the tide is neither out nor in
Feel the boundary of your skin dissolve
And know that we are made mostly of
water
Feel the boundary of your skin dissolve
And remember that we all live down-
stream
From one another
and many others that can be pulled from the pages of just about any book on poetic form. Then there is free-verse which seems to throw all the conventions out
the window. But some will say that there is really no freedom without discipline. In the case of poetry this may mean that a poet’s struggle to fit ideas, memories,
feelings, regrets, agony, ecstasy, and other human experiences into a form that has a particular set of rules may, indeed, enhance the poet’s freedom at a later
time. There is more than a little credence attached to this notion. For example, it can be argued that musicians who take the time to learn scales and the wide
range of keys and subsequent sounds that an instrument is capable of producing may really be able and equipped to cut loose when it comes time to improvise
and, seemingly, let go of all manner of convention. A case in point could be the saxophone. The term chord does not usually come to mind when you think of
this instrument. Guitar is a more likely choice. But saxes can produce chords in the hands, lips, breath and seemingly effortless focus of a person who has
developed the chops to play chords on a sax. The same may be true of the visual artist who is known only for abstract paintings when a study of earlier work is
likely to reveal a more conventional and understandable style. The hidden discipline can lend power to the abstract painting.
Any way you look at it, poetry is a form of manifestation. Human beings are destined to manifest in one way or another whether we like it or not; whether we
manifest consciously or not; whether the ways in which we put our stamps on the Universe contribute to its expansion or implosion. We take the muddle of things
that contribute to us being who we are and mold and shape those things so that other human beings can begin to get their heads around who we are or, at least,
who they think we are. And in the process there are at least a couple of things that can happen: 1) We can assume that we know what the other person is
communicating and run off down the street shouting and believing that we got it. Or we can 2) acknowledge that something that was spoken, played, painted,
written or otherwise communicated resonated with something inside of us and the possible inability to communicate what that “something” was does not take
away from its relevance. But it intrigues and captivates us. Maybe that’s what poetry is: a way to give form to the formless, voice to the voiceless or solidity to the
ethereal. Maybe poetry is about creating, manifesting for ourselves and in the process of speaking to ourselves we manage to touch others. Maybe poetry is a way
to break down the notion that our pain and joy and every emotion in between are uniquely ours.
Late one evening, I found myself sitting at the back of the room at a particularly boring meeting. Maybe there was something in the water that made the
elected officials and public speakers go on and on using volumes of words to express very simple ideas. Fortunately, I was sitting next to one of my friends and co-
workers and we amused ourselves by doodling and occasionally passing notes back and forth like elementary school children. In one of my scribbled notes,
written during a particularly long speech signifying nothing, I wrote, “If you have nothing to say please say it quickly.” Maybe that’s what poetry is: a short stanza
instead of a long chapter; a word instead of a sentence; the slightest wisp of what may be true instead of bludgeoning the reader over the head with a heavy,
blunt object in an effort to convince; and a relatively uncluttered page to leave plenty of room for the reader or listener to sweeten the manifestation with their
own experiences, memories, mistakes, missed opportunities and mysterious sense of timing.
And poetry is so much more. It has the potential to erase boundaries that did not truly exist in the first place. Here’s what I’m talking about. There’s an
assumption (there’s that nasty, useless word again) that Black men, who grew up in large cities, should necessarily write about drugs, violence, despair and death.
I am not a stranger to these things, but they do not represent the totality of who I am. In October 2002, Madison Poet Laureate Fabu invited several poets to
contribute work to and recite our poetry at the Waters of Wisconsin Forum that was held at the Monona Terrace Community and Convention Center and pulled
together by the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters with support from many other individuals and organizations. Sure. Water conjures up thoughts
of flowing, pristine wilderness, lakes, rivers and streams. Water may very well stir up other thoughts and memories in the hearts and minds of others. Like turning a
faucet and having the water come out brown or smelling less than pure. It doesn’t matter. What I’m trying to say is that water is the liquid that binds all people of
all colors of all nations together. It is the stuff that blood is made of. It is the substance that no one can live without for very long. Maybe poetry represents the
ultimate paradox - the simultaneous existence of two truths. Excruciating simplicity standing shoulder-to-shoulder with apparent complexity. Truth influenced or
determined by the angle from which we view a particular phenomenon. Water is a non-issue if you have plenty of it, and the issue if your children are shriveling
up before your eyes if you live in a place where the reservoirs are dry and it hasn’t rained for over a year, or you turn the faucet and the water comes out brown or
you turn the faucet and nothing comes out at all or you don’t have a faucet to turn.
Thank you for listening. I have a better idea of what poetry is now. It touches on everything I’ve tried to say in this column. Or everything I’ve said in this
column totally misses the point. Maybe poetry is the absence of explaining and breathing in and breathing out as we let some undefined part of ourselves drift in
and out, around and between the lines. No matter what rung of the ladder of life we stand on, one thing is certain: we are in this together.
Midwest Environmental Advocates, Inc. published the following poem of mine in 2007.
The Lake in Morning
In the mist of neither night or day
Before the first yawning of the sun
The water spiders scrawl messages
On lily pads then slide them on liquid
glass
To be read by those who’ve left
Their arrogance on shore
The water will enfold you, embrace you
Like the scent of a lover from long ago
Inhale the multicolored mist
Release the beating of your pulse
To thump with syncopated rhythms
On crosscurrents and undertows
Dive into the exquisite moment
When the tide is neither out nor in
Feel the boundary of your skin dissolve
And know that we are made mostly of
water
Feel the boundary of your skin dissolve
And remember that we all live down-
stream
From one another