The Restorative Nature of Poetry

In my last post, I discussed Williams’ suggestion in The Embodiment of Knowledge that “Nature’s final command is: Do not waste.” Upon reading this chapter, entitled “Waste and Use,” I began to realize that part of Williams’ aim might have been to focus on the restorative nature of poetry. Not only can a well-written poem bring restoration to one’s soul—either through reading it or writing it—but it can also bring restoration to the items or concepts that become the subject of the poem.

For Williams, there is no doubt that writing poetry was an escape and a place of restoration after a long day of practicing medicine. He describes in much of his prose such restoration. For Williams, writing was a way to release all the conversations, sights, and other musings that were rolling around in his head after a long day treating patients. He speaks of the need for this ritual cleansing before he could go to bed. In another entry in The Embodiment of Knowledge, Williams talks about a writer who “writes, attempting to strike straight to the core of his inner self, by words…which have been used time without end by other men for the same purpose, words worn smooth, greasy with the thumbing and fingering of others. For him they must be fresh too, fresh as anything he knows—as fresh as morning light, repeated every day the year around” (105). Here, as in the final chapter, readers see the idea of not allowing anything to waste—even something for which there doesn’t appear to be further use.

Let’s turn to a piece of his poetry to see how this works.

In “The Loving Dexterity,” readers are able to see Williams restore beauty to something “broken,” yet still capable of being enjoyed if and when action is taken to perform restoration. The word “dexterity” in the title alone can take on multiple meanings. In one way, the dexterity can refer to the woman’s action in the poem:

Primary importance is placed on “The flower / fallen.” Readers are introduced in the first line to something broken, fallen. As she looks at it “where it lay/ a pink petal / intact,” readers also see it and are able to realize through Williams’ diction that the beauty of the flower—perfectly pink, the blossom intact—still has the capability of being appreciated. The next line is one important word: “deftly.” This word implies dexterity, but also a skillful cleverness that allows her to see past a broken, fallen flower. She “deftly/placed it/ on its stem/again.” Here, the word “again” insinuates that she has successfully restored the beauty of the flower by repositioning it where it once was. In some ways, she has performed surgery—a skill requiring finite dexterity—on the broken flower.

In another way, Williams performs with dexterity as a poet—making this title work on a second level. As a doctor, Williams must have had some appreciation for the skills of surgery. At its core, the practice of medicine is all about the restorative. It is this same dexterity of thinking and of working with “words worn smooth, greasy with the thumbing and fingering of others” that allows Williams to succeed as a poet. Even the structure of the poem seems to scatter fragments of complete ideas around, until at the end, the flower is restored into a single phrase in a single stanza—“on/its stem/again.” The organization of stanzas wherein the last line of one stanza actually belongs to the complete thought of the next stanza—as in “she saw it / where/it lay”—forces readers to perform their own surgery of sorts (as I did in the above picture) to determine which parts (separated stanzas) actually belong together. In this way, readers are able to feel the restorative power of the woman’s action.

In all, the lesson to learn from Williams is that poetry has the capability to restore the reader, the subject, and words themselves.

Wow this is fun. Wow. This is fun. Wow This is. Fun. wow this is. fun. fun. fun. fun.

In his final chapter in The Embodiment of Knowledge, Williams opens by telling readers that “Nature’s final command is: Do not waste.” If ever I have personally seen this demonstrated, it was when I went to the Jaap Blonk exhibit at MOCA a few weeks ago. In case you are unfamiliar with Jaap Blonk, he is a “sound artist.” When Professor Lunberry first told us this, I imagined some sort of DJ spinning electronic music at a rave. What I found in Blonk was much different. I was mesmerized at the ways in which Blonk uses syllables and sounds that are familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. He recycled a phrase in so many various tones and inflections that the familiar sounded unfamiliar, and his stringing together of non-sensical syllables—when repeated in particular patterns—became suddenly familiar.

For example, his “As I Was Saying” recycles variations of the phrase, “What I says to him, I says, What I says to him I says, well, what I says to him…” and so forth until the words—which are so familiar—are recycled into phrases that actually have no meaning. This can be quite disconcerting, if not downright infuriating. (My dog sits staring at the chaos of noise that surrounds the background as I type this out, listening to this particular Blonk clip again). What I find interesting about this particular piece is its similarity to what Williams does with his second stanza in “To a Poor Old Woman”:

They taste good to her

They taste good

to her. They taste

good to her

Shifting the way readers see and/or hear a particular phrase—through sheer repetition and repositioning of the words—calls to readers and listeners in a way that begs for attention. It truly creates newness from a phrase that might otherwise be stale or completely overlooked. In doing this, it is sure that no words go to waste.

Another of the most memorable Blonk acts at MOCA was the “cheek synthesizer.” He began by explaining that we all have one, but we may have forgotten how to use it in adulthood. What is this synthesizer? It’s the use of your hands, cheeks, and forced breaths to produce sounds mimicking flatulence. So, basically, Blonk transforms into that fat kid in your elementary class who sat in the back, palms to mouth—hand under armpit—making pooting sounds. (Who’d have thought I’d say “poot” in a scholarly work? Thanks, Blonk). How does this man get paid to do this, right? It’s actually, when you think of it, fairly incredible. He has taken a simple knowledge of sound and bodily influence that we all know from childhood and not let it go to waste—just as Williams suggests: “Life is to confine our energy and for us to expand our view” (186). Who says this view can’t expand back into something so simplistic from childhood? Does expansion always necessarily indicate forward motion? Must our expanded view take on the weight of the world?

I think Williams would say no. Look at this poem from Spring and All:

So much depends

upon

a red wheel

barrow

glazed with rain

water

beside the white

chickens

It is interesting how this poem opens. A red wheelbarrow? “So much depends upon” that? Perhaps this poem is illustrating Williams’ point that it is so crucial for us to be able to expand our view—even if this view simply includes things we might have otherwise overlooked. After all, isn’t that what expanding our view is all about: finding the overlooked, the unseen?

In the end, I think Jaap Blonk’s work showed ingenuity in recreating sounds I already knew into art with which I was completely unfamiliar. In doing this, he certainly expanded my own views.

To hear Blonk, please click on the titles of his works--which will link you directly to his website.