Private Poems
Jonathan Davidson suggests one way to tilt the axis of Planet Poetry
Public adoration vs private joy
While the craze for publishing poetry shows no sign of diminishing – certainly not in the English language, over 400 years and counting – there are signs of a rather secretive cabal at work, inspired by an older tradition. I speak, of course, about this fashion for composing poems that, far from reaching out to find readers and listeners, are produced expressly for the narrowest and most limited of audiences.
Doubtless many will, at this juncture, point out that, as much poetry has always been written expressly for the poets themselves, the habit of writing for a very limited audience is alive and well. And indeed, it is. But what I am talking about is not the poem that no one else wants to read or that is never shared, but the poem composed for one single known other. And not just the writing of the poem with this aim, but the sending it to them, and for them alone.
So, such writing happens, and it is the nature of the ‘poetry racket’ (as we amateur economists call it), which is all for sharing / selling / shouting, that this type of work has largely gone unseen. However, it has set me thinking about the joys and disciplines that accrue from setting one’s sights not on the low-hanging fruit of universal approbation – awards, prizes, readings and being carried on the shoulders of the multitude – but on the altogether higher reward which is the pleasure and approval of one other person.
I should come clean and admit that I’ve spent forty infuriating years trying to achieve widespread publication and all that goes with it. But I should say also, that recently I have dabbled in what might be described as ‘micro-publishing’ or ‘narrow-casting’ or ‘private un-called-for patronage’ or ‘advance mono-reader section’ or ‘anti-quantity/hyper-quality promulgation’, (choose your favourite description). And, I have found it surprisingly difficult and therefore surprisingly rewarding.
It came upon me a year or so ago. I believe it was a Wednesday evening and the weather was inclement. I had been drafting poems and had quite a few waiting to be typed up. The prospect, on that bleak evening, of sending these off to magazines or finding a place to read them or even assembling them for a future collection suddenly struck me as utterly grim, debasing, time-consuming, tedious and almost certainly unrewarding. And I had been recommending this practice to myself and others for so many years!
The prospect of sending these off to magazines or finding a place to read them or even assembling them for a future collection suddenly struck me as utterly grim, debasing, time-consuming, tedious and almost certainly unrewarding
In a moment of desperation, I heaved the Hermes 2000 (‘the typewriter of champions, accept no substitute’) onto the desk and began to type up the poem I’d written about me and my sister playing badminton fifty years ago in the back garden of our semi-detached ancestral home. I thought I would dedicate it to her – for really, she is the only other human being currently resident on planet earth who could fully appreciate some aspects of the piece – but also, damn it all, that I would share it with her and her alone.
It took a while as the Hermes 2000’s auto-correct function, although as fine as the Swiss craftspeople of 1954 could make it, consists of cursing the typo, ripping the sheet of paper from the maw of the machine and bloody well starting again. But when it was done to my satisfaction and enveloped with the Davidson wax seal and a stamp applied and placed on the mantelpiece until such time as I should pop down to the post box, it got me to thinking about exactly what I had done.
Firstly, I had, of course, written this poem for two people, me and my sister, and that seemed enough. Secondly, I had identified the reader I wanted, one who was right for the poem. And, thirdly, I had just about guaranteed that one hundred percent of those people who I wanted to read the poem would read the poem. And they would quite possibly read it twice, and quite possibly prop it up on their mantelpiece or stick it on their fridge or add it to their personal archive for future generations to discover. I believe the marketing folk call this a very good ‘conversion rate’.
I had just about guaranteed that one hundred percent of those people who I wanted to read the poem would read the poem
The mean of spirit will now say, yeah, but you only had one reader, and you know her and she didn’t pay you and you haven’t been reviewed in any of our splendid literary journals, both hard copy and virtual, including The Friday Poem, and so no one knows about it. To which I would reply, what greater poetic challenge is there than to write a poem that someone would like and at the same time to know that there will be no ‘range of opinions’ or ‘contradictory reviews’ or even ‘general consensus’, and to know, therefore, that this poem has got to work for her, now and forever? I cannot hope that someone will like it, I can only work damned hard to make sure she likes it.
And as to the matter of payment and the related matter of distribution. Well, I have now written quite a number of poems specifically for individuals who I like and admire, and it is curious how important their response is and if it is positive (as it has been) how overjoyed I have been. It is like writing the poem a second time, but with a reader involved. I care what all readers of my poetry think about my work, but when I am writing for one person, their approval beats that of all judges and juries.
The next question to pose is what would happen if the axis on which planet poetry rotates should tilt more towards this quiet, private but intense writing (and reading) of poems? Wouldn’t that rather spoil things? Where would we be if we were not obliged to pound the treadmill of poetic production, to hawk our wares the length of the town or to stand in the drizzle of a poetic hiring fair, all in the hope of publication, of public adulation, of the general amusement of the crowd. Well, yes. I rest my case.
These will not be the only types of poems I write. And for those who care more for public adoration than for private joy, they are not right at all. And some poetry has an entirely different purpose. And we all certainly need to see and read many types of poems, even those originally written for private consumption (but perhaps that can wait until the matter becomes posthumous). I am simply reminding us, as if we needed reminding, that some poetry, while it is known to exist, should be impossible to (publicly) detect. These are private poems.
Why I wrote this piece…
As some will know, I have this nagging concern that the poetry world as it is constructed does not always serve well either poems or poets. I like to consider alternate poetry worlds and to suggest that things happen that the poetry establishment choose not to champion. I also dearly like the sound of my own voice and now I am older than I was, I don’t automatically assume that everyone else is smarter than I am (although many are). I have, after all, got Grade ‘C’ A-Level English, which surely counts for something. But, finally, I should thank my pal David Harmer, for reading an early drafting and his very good suggestions for changes, all of which I made.
Jonathan Davidson is a poet, writer and literature activist. He lives in the Midlands but works internationally. His poetry has been widely published and he has also written memoir and criticism. His radio dramas and adaptations have been broadcast by BBC Radios 3 and 4. Much of his work is focussed on how writing – especially poetry – is experienced by readers and listeners. His latest poetry collection is Downland – Paintings by Anna Dillon & Poems by Jonathan Davidson (Two Rivers Press, 2024). Jonathan Davidson’s website is here.
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Hi Jonathan, I truly like this idea of micro poetry writing, and this re-focus of what poetry might be for. Bravo! And your typewriter sounds like a memorable creature!
Great read. My poetry often lands on the page through some kind of expulsive catharsis, I don’t give too much thought as to how it lands with others — perhaps this is part of the craft I should develop!