Judith Skillman - Poet
About Judith Skillman
'Ars Poetica' literally refers to 'the art of poetry' (Webster's New World, 3rd Edition), and, as such, it provides a fairly simple method by which one may fathom an individual poets' philosophy of poetry, his or her motivation, ambition, background, and poetic vision. The 'ars poetica' form may be regarded as the quintessential poem, in that it distills and exemplifies essential qualities found in a poet's canon, and therefore lends transparency to an author's signature--style, voice, and choice of formal or informal verse.

One of the most anthologized 'ars poetica' poems is Marianne Moore's. From the first line, "I too dislike it,...", Moore immediately disposes of any claim to pomposity, which is one of the problems most readers have in their conceptions of poetry, generally formed from early school experiences, when as students they were forced to memorize arcane, pedantic, full-rhyme poems. Notice Moore's use of indentation, enjambment, and line breaks in this excerpt from her famous work:

Poetry

I, too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond all this
fiddle.
Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, discovers in
it, after all, a place for the genuine.
Hands that can grasp, eyes
that can dilate, hair that can rise
if it must, these things are important not because a
high-sounding interpretation can be put upon them but because they
are
useful. When they become so derivative as to become unintelligible,
the same thing may be said for all of us, that we
do not admire what
we cannot understand: the bat
holding on upside down or in quest of something to
eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless wolf under
a tree, the immovable critic twitching his skin like a horse that feels a
flea, the base-
ball fan, the statistician--
nor is it valid
to discriminate against "business documents and
school-book"; all these phenomena are important...
(from Selected Poems, Marianne Moore, 1935)

The benefit of discovering a poet's particular philosophy in his or her ars poetica poem (granted, there may be more than one, but generally one stands out), is not only that a reader can perceive a distillation, or essential 'theory of poetics' there, but one may use the poem as a basis for comparison with other poets. Neruda, for example, is quite clear that the poet's "art" is more than a mere personal endeavor; it encapsulates the "obligation" of an artist to society, and does so in the first person. His poem is not playful. While it does not include the whimsical, specific images of Moore's vision, Neruda's poem is not dismissive of poetry's necessary "derivative(s')"; which, for him, become intelligible precisely because they speak in natural voices:

The Poet's Obligation

To whoever is not listening to the sea
this Friday morning, to whoever is cooped up
in house or office, factory or woman
or street or mine or dry prison cell,
to him I come, and without speaking or looking
I arrive and open the door of his prison,
and a vibration starts up, vague and insistent,
a long rumble of thunder adds itself
to the weight of the planet and the foam,
the groaning rivers of the ocean rise,
the star vibrates quickly in its corona
and the sea beats, dies, and goes on beating.
So, drawn on by my destiny,
I ceaselessly must listen to and keep
the sea's lamenting in my consciousness,
I must feel the crash of the hard water
and gather it up in a perpetual cup
so that, wherever those in prison may be,
wherever they suffer the sentence of autumn,
I may be present with an errant wave,
I may move in and out of windows,
and hearing me, eyes may lift themselves,
asking "How can I reach the sea?"
And I will pass to them, saying nothing,
the starry echoes of the wave,
a breaking up of foam and quicksand,
a rustling of salt withdrawing from itself,
the gray cry of sea birds on the coast.
So, through me, freedom and the sea
will call in answer to the shrouded heart.

Pablo Neruda, translated by Alastair Reed

Although there are many passive attitudes in this poem, which is taken from one of the poet's own personal favorite collections, "Fully Empowered," and written during a particularly fruitful time in the writer's life, the overall sense is one of great activity and depth. The poet as vessel for the sea--"a breaking up of foam and quicksand" (l. 26 ) responds as one who may pass through normal boundaries of self, cell, prison, building, and window, much as water can flood. The person who receives the gift of 'freedom', however, is almost a communal persona--"...and, hearing me, eyes may lift themselves" (l. 22).

This oblique distancing mechanism has the effect of making the "poet's obligation" not one of egoism and personal power, but rather, a sincere marriage to natural forces. Reading other of Neruda's poems, one experiences the same subtle distancing of the writer's persona from the writer himself. It is this unique ability that contributed to Neruda's profound influence and breadth.

I have been invited to include here my own 'ars poetica' poem, and I do so somewhat reluctantly, not wanting to follow Moore and Neruda, but rather to take my place, as William Wordsworth so aptly described the landscape of poetic ego and poetry in his sonnet: "If thou indeed derive thy light from heaven...", among the minors. Here I am grateful to assume the comfortable identity of a local poet, one that 'burns,/ Like an untended watch-fire, on the ridge/ Of some dark mountain..."

That said, I would like to end this discussion with my own 'ars poetica' poem--the piece I feel best defines a personal theory as well as encompassing certain ideals. If I have been successful, this poem maintains the form of a free verse poem, is minimalist in structure, and avoids the pitfalls of didacticism. In metaphoric terms it may reveal my belief in the poem as reliquary. Poems, whatever their form, should be approached quietly and reverently, with an eye and ear open to the emotional wealth any well-wrought artistic work contains.

Tic Douloureux

The trigger is sensation.

The violin's a dirty animal.
I want you to take away the suddenness.
Pain up the side of my head.
I'll have my teeth extracted one by one.
See if it makes any difference.
Rehearse for the real.
Be either present or absent.
I'll let my fingers drum ebony.
Thinking makes it worse.
I'll take the beat inside myself
and feel it up the center of my body.
A string through my head.
Imagine a hand pierced through the center by a wire.
I won't refer to Jesus or the crucifixion.
No blood in this exercise.
Let the hand move freely up and down this wire.
I'll wipe my nose when the bow
comes toward my face.
My head itches during the Vitali.
Lightning finds a way to enter the earth.
It's a pity music rises and falls.
Hide these bolts in a rock.
Insects carve sand trails as they enter the crab's eyes.
The thing of death is the animal knows when it's happening.
Leave a relic.
Any kind of pain.
Judith Skillman, from "Storm," Blue Begonia Press, 1998