Recently I’ve become a voyeur; a ghostlike onlooker to a turbulent relationship which happened fifty years ago. Before you start backing away, I should explain: I’ve been reading the works of Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath alongside the sensitive Plath biography Bitter Fame by Anne Stevenson. I recognise themes in the poems which echo their life experiences and I can hear the thoughts, fears and hopes of the pair more clearly as I ‘get to know them’.
I understand, as an ‘apprentice poet’, how difficult it can be to separate yourself from your work*, especially the way I am writing at the moment. The fuel for my poetry dissertation is coming from my past experiences and this is where my poetic secrecy and embarrassment creeps in. Whenever a close friend or family member is reminded that I write poetry they usually ask to read some. They know me so well so why should there be this side to me that is completely foreign?
It’s a tough question to answer but I know it’s one that many of my poetic colleagues struggle with too. I’m happy to share my poems with tutors and workshop groups, I’m even happy to read to a room of strangers so why can’t I bare my poetic soul to those nearest to me?
My dissertation collection has helped me to understand why there’s this personal barrier and so has Sylvia Plath. My dissertation supervisor often refers to Plath as a ‘permission giver’ and when I read that, following her suicide, Plath’s mother pointed out several aspects of Plath’s poems which were not true to life, I understood my concerns. Like Plath I borrow other’s experiences, putting myself in their shoes, I convolute to make things more dramatic, I shift time and place to suit the poem’s needs. This is where my worries come from. It’s generally understood that poetry is incredibly personal and my apprehension is that when those that know me well come to read my work they’ll misunderstand or point out the inconsistencies to life.
I now feel that I ought to attach a disclaimer to any poetry I send round explaining my poetic license but then again, perhaps I should be brave and let the outside world into my own, inside world. Perhaps, one day I’ll share a poem or two on here…
*Although I am very aware that not all poets work this way. I can only speak of my own experience.
Words, words, words by Frankie Jones is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
"Words, words, words." 