Perfect vs. Broken

Crafting "Perfect" Poems

Some say that all perfect households are the same whereas all broken households are fragmented differently.

Bringing this concept to the realm of poetry, could we argue that all properly functioning poems are the same whereas all dysfunctional poems fall short in a variety of ways?

I have my doubts about this framework but the bigger picture I have in mind is that some poems “just work” almost inexplicably. In certain instances, it seems like there isn’t a misplaced word. You might find yourself thinking: This is so perfect, how could it have been done any differently?

Think of a poem like Maggie Smith’s “Good Bones” which seems like it probably should have already existed even before it was written. I suspect we feel this way about many poems that feel vital and, perhaps, viral.

Some poems as well as other artworks, and inventions, might come right out of the zeitgeist. Not precisely, though, there is this sense that if one person did not create the work or object then another would have. Is this so? Does the muse carve creative roads in a manner not unlike the velocity of cultural and structural paradigmatic shifts?

Well, anyhow, back to the premise of poems that are working vs. those that are not working…

There are a million and one reasons why a poem might not be working. And, more specifically, why the poem might not work for a particular reader. Importantly, poems that work for one reader may fail to impress another. As variations on the old saying goes— attempts to please everyone will result in pleasing no one at all. There are very few universally loved poems just as there are very few universally loved pieces of artwork.

Curve ball. Do most readers want poems that truly feel perfect?

I’m not so sure.

Nor am I about to make a kintsugi argument… not quite.

My thinking is that poems that poems that are a little wonky in certain respects add a kind of humanity. (“to err is human” right?)

Especially in an age of AI slop, readers may gravitate even more so towards work that feels a bit raw.

I used to have this “bad habit” that, well, is not entirely gone. The bad habit is an attraction to first drafts. I like[d] the way poems come out the first time. There’s a kind of realness and authenticity. I find this often especially true of poems in the Neo-Confessional mode.

Of course, there are also, usually, lots of problems with early drafts. Typos aside, the first draft of a poem is usually for the author (or a highly personalized audience/readership) and (typically for the best) not targeted for a general/public audience. This usually means that the poem contains some self-indulgent gestures.

Without getting bogged down in all the ways an initial draft can go awry, I’ll note that common problems include lack of access points for the reader, low stakes, inadequate reader takeaways, blurry images, inattention to sonics, overreliance on cliches, failure to make use of a range of our senses, structural oversights insofar as narrative scaffolding (even in lyric verse), inconsistent voice/tone/cadence throughout… the list goes on, of course.

It’s often pointed out that simply reading a poem aloud to yourself (or reading it aloud in your head) will point out many of the flaws to you. You can hear the problems. It takes practice to improve your ability to do this well (training your own ear to what you like which, in turn, reminds us that this task remains at least partly subjective) but don’t let that stop you from making it an integral part of your revision process.

Common advice is to write long and then razor down a poem. I tend to agree. Often easier to carve away than to add after a full draft has been set down.

Long poems have an added onus. Readers are more likely to sign on to read a short poem. If the short poem doesn’t land with the reader, at least the reader didn’t waste much time.

As a general rule, don’t waste the reader’s time. There are many famous quotes about how writing short is an act of generosity (for the reader). It’s easier to write long, to go on, then to whittle down the language into a rewarding little present for readers.

Once again back to the premise of poems that are working vs. those that are not working…

Do you seek perfection in poems? Poems we might say are objectively good?

Do you prefer poems that have quirks that will not satisfy all readers?

What have I overlooked?

What needs further elaboration/clarification?