Thank You, Brenda Hillman (Damon McLaughlin)

I was listening to a lecture at the Poetry Foundation the other day when I jotted down this little Brenda Hillman tidbit: “For the lover of poetry, there is a disequilibrium between himself and the world that nothing satisfies but poetry.” For one of my posts here, I was going to write about the manic state, itself an imbalance, into which poetry can thrust me, the effects of such a state, and to discuss that state in terms of writer’s process. Then I heard Hillman and was like—that’s it, that’s what I was hoping to say. My wife, who is not a lover of poetry, agrees with Hillman’s declaration—at least for the strange case of her husband. At her gentlest, she says I’m in my head; at her most honest, she says I’m not living in reality. But I doubt that’s the case, right?

Disequilibrium…hmmm, yes. The problem is—poetry, more often the writing than the reading of it, leaves me deranged. I get writer’s high, float around in a cloud of chemical happiness for hours to days, and do my best to interact with others, namely my wife and children, who will say I do not always succeed, and to remember routine things like eating and showering—well, using soap while showering. I cannot tell you how many times I’ve taken a shower in the wrong mental place and forgotten to use soap, etc. It’s embarrassing.

So, disequilibrium, yes. It is difficult to stay balanced. Not enough poetry, I can slip off the deep end. Too much of it, an acute moment of it, I can disappear into the stars. And for all the other things I love, it’s strange to me that poetry or a lack of it routinely has these effects. It’s like—it taps into a hidden range of emotions and mentalities that are reserved solely for it, neither better nor worse than other adorations and their respective, equal states of heart and mind, but nevertheless reserved, untapped by others.

This very much came to a head at the end of July when I had the fortunate pleasure of spending a week at the Toad Hall Writers’ and Artists’ Retreat in New Hampshire. More or less for the last decade, I’ve been a poetry hermit, you must understand. I’ve had some successes in that time, have published sporadically, but mostly I excused myself from social interaction with other poets, writers, and such of the community. No man is an island, so I hear, but that’s more or less how I was living. So going to Toad Hall was an experience far different than any other I’d had, given my past practices. And it was awesome—both socially and personally, it rocked. The distractions of daily living absent, I binged, baby, and I binged hard (for the record, I did shower with soap and remember to eat, and may I say I ate very well—Maria Van Beuren’s chef at Toad Hall is fantastic).

It took a good four weeks, I’d say, for the endorphins to fully flush out of my system since the trip, but the ripple effect continues. In a way, my life has changed. Isn’t that a weird thing to have to say? My life has changed. It’s like I was given a major dose of a drug instead of the typical few daily drops I can afford, and shazam. This is what I’ve been missing? I thought to myself—not so much the retreat or the uninterrupted writing time, both of which exist relatively in the realm of non-reality, but the community, the focus, the shared commitment.

Maybe my life hasn’t changed—that is a bit melodramatic—but my perspective on it sure has. Often I think about Rilke’s you must change your life and James Wright’s I have wasted my life. I don’t want to think that…and yet who doesn’t? As often I wonder about Wright’s other ending, I have come a long way, to surrender my shadow / To the shadow of a horse. I think that’s wonderful. I hope someday I can do that.

 

Comments

[Terence Winch]

Nice post. You get at, very accurately, what many of us feel is so addictive about poetry--"it taps into a hidden range of emotions and mentalities that are reserved solely for it."

[Laura Orem]

One reason why you fit in so well at Toad Hall is that half the time, we forget the soap too, so we don't notice it on other people.

[Leslie McGrath]

It was such a pleasure to watch you unfold, Damon, and allow yourself to be immersed in the place where your poems come from. I remember the first time I spent days in the company of real writers-- I came away with a sense of having been given permission to live in the world in the way that felt best for me. And that I was not alone.

Welcome, fellow poet.

[Grace Cavalieri]

How perfect an explanation about why we do what we love. Energy is supplied when we get all the cells of the body on board to make something that didnt exist before...That's why it's divine work and why would we want to do any other kind of work.Thanks Damon.

[Damon McLaughlin]

Thanks, Terence.

[Damon McLaughlin]

Ha!

[Damon McLaughlin]

Thank you, Leslie. You said it exactly.

[Damon McLaughlin]

Thank you, Grace.

[Maria van Beuren]

Great post, Damon! I would love to read more from you. You've articulated something I never thought about before, and it really resonated. Keep writing!

[Damon McLaughlin]

Thank you, Maria. And (I can't resist) I'll be here all week ; )