Poetry Tips Learned Along the Way: Don't Communicate

Taken from Richard Hugo's The Triggering Town:

Hugo made a comment that made me really think. He said that when writing (poetry was in view here), "Don't Communicate."

That sounds so counter-intuitive. Shouldn't we want to communicate? Hugo is not talking about poorly written abstract work. The point he is making is that when language exists for the sole purpose of conveying information language in a real sense dies. Information takes precendence over the words themselves.

He relates this to how we listen to stories on the News. Once we've been told about the ________ (fire, traffic, weather, etc) the words themselves become unimportant. By understanding the words of the news article, by getting used to reading on a surface level we deaden the language. We get so used to limiting language to an information transfer that it can affect our own writing.

Hugo: "The relationship of the words to the subject must weaken and the relationship of the words to the writer (you) must take on strength."

When I read bad poetry. Let me emphasize further, when I read my own bad poetry. One of the reasons that it is bad is becuase I'm wasting precious words explaining things in a pedestrian non-interesting way.

You see this quite a bit with opening lines. People sometimes use the line to set the scene and convey information. If the opening feels pedestrian and stale this is probably one of the key reasons.

Tip: The words are more important than the subject conveyed. Watch out for the tendency to merely pass on information.

Here's a poem I wrote four years ago, I thought I was done until I looked back at some awful opening lines. I end up later deciding to start the poem on what was originally line three. The original opening lines are in the brackets:

Howard and the Details

"Old clothes are more friendly"

-Howard Hughes after contracting syphilis on why he burnt his expensive clothing adopting a more simple wardrobe.

"Hughes: The Private Diaries, Memos And Letters" by Richard Hack

***

[They never noticed

the details] 
Jane Russell had
four nipples.
Peas were
different sizes.
Peaches were
dirty, dirty, dirty.
Germs crawl
all over your face,

hands, touch
food with those?

Make the peaches

dirtier.

They didn’t pay attention.
Bette Davis’ bed was covered
in orchids, not gardenias.
Tiny blisters on the palms?
Syphilis! No, film editing.
Mason jars—perfect for storing
urine, and TV
dinners should always
remove that soggy-cherry thing.
Peach cobbler is better.

They didn’t know
what to do.
Fix the blouse;
it’s an engineering problem.
Line them up
use a fork for perspective.
To prevent sores
Mop with lye.
Burn the double-breasted tuxedo,
and all white dinner jackets.
Remember old clothes
are more friendly.

And if I’m going
to eat those things?

Scrub off the label!
Clean the bare metal
of the can. Be careful
with the fork; don’t touch
anything else. Did you remember
to cover your hands
with six Kleenex (not five or seven)?

They didn’t notice. They didn’t listen.
And the damn plane was birch
not spruce.

Now normally I like my first lines to be complete thoughts. The speaker of this piece though is a bit disjointed so I like the stacatto breaks. Normally I would have started with:

Jane Russell had four nipples.