On Being A Public Poet, Especially Occasional

Public poets elevate life, and YOU should be a PUBLIC poet

I’ll just lay it out here at the beginning. I think you should be a public poet because it will make you a happier poet. Also, it will bless the world.

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One of the poets who most charms me is Anne Bradstreet, who is often described as an occasional poet. The term is sometimes misunderstood, so that even pseudo-scholarly articles will argue that she wasn’t occasional at all, but was really quite prolific and wrote all the time.

As you likely know, an occasional poet is not a poet who writes infrequently, but a poet who writes for special events and ceremonies, that is, for occasions. Of course, if they are indeed poets whose poems are desired by friends and lovers and the general public, they must also write quotidian poems. Poems don’t just spring full-grown from the caput dei, now do they? In that sense, Bradstreet was an often poet and an occasional poet, all at once. Remarkable.

Shall we make that title catch on? “Hi, I’m Joffre, and I’m an often poet.”

I digress.

Bradstreet was part of a universal human tradition that took a particular form in 17th and 18th century New England.

In Phillip Richards’ 2008 review of John C. Shields’ monograph on 18th century New England poet Phillis Wheatley, which was entitled Poetics of Liberation: Backgrounds and Contexts¹, Richards summarized Shields’ view of Wheatley’s public poetry thus:

At the core of her public verse, he plausibly asserts, lie literary forms, conventions, and postures that Wheatley might have inherited from a remembered West African past. Wheatley's role as a poet in New England society possibly reflected the African tradition of female poetic advocacy in interethnic engagements… Although Shields does not explore Wheatley's role as an occasional poet, this public communal role may represent the largest continuity between her African and Anglo-European past. The New England tradition of occasional poetry corresponded to West African poems of celebration and praise, an example of the ritual function of art in premodern societies.

I have briefly pointed out elsewhere that reading aloud and together was the norm until very recently. By and large, during Bradstreet’s and Wheatley’s lives poets, including those in New England, wrote to be read aloud. Writing for occasions, writing to be declaimed, to be read to a public rather than private audience, was different. Some poems were perfect for the drawing room, or the coffee shop, the garden, or the bedroom; others were for the auditorium, or the town square, or the church sanctuary.

Read Aloud Well

And this is a universal phenomenon. The special striving-for-perfect arrangement of word is something that all cultures have manifested. The world is spoken, and is comprehended only in speech; how could it be otherwise when people get together to change their world? Poetry must mark great occasions, whether in west Africa or Boston, it matters not. I’m getting married: the world is new. Mom is dead: the world will never be the same.

I was privileged to be part of a small online meeting of Substack poets recently. During that meeting James Hart of

Penny Wagers

told us that part of his attraction to writing poetry as a young man was noticing that, even though poetry is no longer woven into common life, it still has a place of honor at great occasions: weddings, graduations, funerals. For Hart, it was remarkable how much poetry still marked when it mattered, despite its disuse and misuse in general terms. A few of us had had the experience of writing poems for special events, and had been struck by the same observation on the power of poetry.

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Fifteen years ago I was an occasional poet in the wrong-headed sense of the term, that of the defenses of Anne Bradstreet that no one had asked for. I mean, I would occasionally write poetry, and even then, only when something sublime smacked me on the forehead, or when some life frustration boiled over. And such are many of you, to paraphrase the apostle.

I had written a lot of poetry in my teens and early twenties. In the late 90s I’d founded a zine, through which I published myself and a few other local poets for a run of a few issues. I’d show up at open mics, and even hosted a poetry event or two at my student union.

In the early 2000s I gave college a second crack (I hadn’t enjoyed my first crack) and moved to northern Idaho to attend New Saint Andrews College. I only managed one year before a new baby and the cares of this world took my wife and I back to Florida, but it was a great year. Not for nothing, five years ago we moved back to Idaho and my oldest is now a student at New Saint Andrews.

Two things happened poetically that would end up being significant later on, when I’d decayed into the sort of poet who only wrote when life shouted at him, the poet of fifteen years ago to whom I am now beginning to circle back.

First, at New Saint Andrews there was a lively and widely held respect for the old things and for old poets, which had up until then been a just-me thing; previously, the poets I knew did not honor the ancient, and those who honored the ancient had no interest in poetry. This respect for things that were older than yesterday led to much poetic fruit, but one of them was a new respect for form.

Second, in N. D. Wilson’s Rhetoric class we were made not only to speak often in public, but to declaim poetry, and then…mirabile visu! we were made to declaim our own poetic compositions.

My thinking about the public nature of poetry and the nature of public poetry began to solidify.

But then life began to roll and there were diapers and chickens and mortgages to take care of. The pen more or less dried up until about fifteen years ago. Not utterly, mind you. I just…kind of stopped thinking of myself as a poet.

Then along came Thanksfest, an outdoor Thanksgiving festival some Christian brothers decided to throw, with many many guests, barrels of beer, and games galore.

If memory serves, we didn’t go to the first Thanksfest. This was because I hardly celebrated Thanksgiving. Lest you be too shocked, recall that I grew up without Thanksgiving. Even when we moved to the States, my dad would only observe it if my American mother (who had grown up in Peru) would allow the festivities to be a en famille cookout with steaks. This was more or less my approach to Thanksgiving as well, especially since, as a family, we were trying to up our celebratory game with the ecclesiastical calendar, with Christmas and Easter. That excuse aside, the nut of the matter is that I was a grump about Thanksgiving; still can be, sometimes.

Then my friends asked if I would write a poem to be presented at the next Thanksfest. Of course I said yes, and this led to the composition of two poems, The God of Pumpkin Pie and Thanks For Ever, which I still get emails and comments about today, often from strangers. It delights me to know that a few families scattered around the United States make my poems a part of their Thanksgiving liturgy, with little kids yelling beer and pumpkin pie, my boys at the epistrophe.

Lest it slip by unnoticed, let me point out that I was converted by own poetry into a lover of Thanksgiving, poetry which I would never have written if left to my own devices.

The performance of these two poems, for just two festivals (we then moved, if I recall the timing), brought about a sea change in my identity as a poet.

Before, people knew I wrote poetry. This was why I’d been asked to write for Thanksfest. After, I began to develop a public identity as a poet. This was not something I fostered, not at first. It simply began to emerge.

The act of writing poetry for an occasion had made of me a public poet. I’d always (kind of) thought of myself as a poet; now all my friends thought of me as one, and said so out loud, in public. Things were now such that if I had denied being a poet, my friends might have argued against me.

Everything had changed. I suddenly became more prolific in my writing.

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A year or two ago my second collection of poetry was published, this time by Canon Press, a publisher of some national prominence and not at all a traditional poetry publisher. Canon has a loyal readership, and many of their frequent customers will buy a book, or consider buying it, simply because it’s Canon. They also have their own app, including audio books, and mine was posted. I was pleased as punch about this, because suddenly I was talking to all sorts of people, not just poets, about my poetry. Many of them had only heard the audio, but had still been motivated to write me.

Canon is prominent locally (they have roots as a church ministry, and old connections to a local Christian school, besides the aforementioned New Saint Andrews) as well, so that others locals had read Made in the Image and had things to say.

I was becoming a sort of poetry guru in my community, and in my broader circles online. In a recent podcast interview I did there was joking about me being the poet laureate of the Christian denomination I’m a part of.

I mention all this because it caused in me a sort of reevaluation of my own identity, especially as a writer and poet. Secondarily it’s a testimony of the power of art in local community (very different from usually happens, which is art community locally; I’m talking local community artistically), but primarily it’s the identity thing.

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During that time Mark Reagan, a composer friend of mine who had written some music to accompany some of Jason Farley’s poetry, was hosting a performance of the pieces with some visiting musicians, and asked if I would present something about the music and rhythm of poetry beforehand. I read some Gerard Manley Hopkins and made some remarks, but the thing that sticks with me from that evening is the excitement and consternation caused by one comment I’d made. What did I say?

Remember, this is during the time when, if poetry were at all thought of in my church/social circles, my name would come up.

When I introduced myself, I described myself as a local poet. “I’m Joffre Swait, I’m a local poet…”

This was a big topic of conversation after the event. Glasses of beer and cups of wine and canapés in hand, the question was asked and answers were discussed: what makes you describe yourself as a poet? Why not a teacher who writes poems? More than once the conversation bounced toward the fear (even cringe, maybe?) of calling oneself a poet and having it be taken seriously. Given the crowd, most or all of them had written at least a few poems over their lives (you are surrounded by secret poets right now).

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“Susan, I’d like you to meet Bob. Bob’s going to read us some of his poetry tonight!”

“Oh, wonderful! You’re the poet!”

Anyone who has spent any time around poets will recognize the standard response they have when introduced as such, or when the fact that they write poetry is mentioned, or, horror of horrors, if someone in response says during introductions, “oh, you’re a poet!”

First, there is a wince.

Then, the head bobs sideways.

Finally, the poet looks down and says “Well…”. The suggestion is that the poet would deny the accusation, if he could. And yet, he yearns to be thought of, and to think of himself as, the poet.

I’m talking about grown men and women here, boys and girls. That wince, that head bob…they’re a curse. Let’s rummage around here, see if we can find the opposite of a curse, which is a gift.

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I’ve talked to a lot of poets (and people who write poetry but won’t say they’re poets) over the years, and anecdotally but overwhelmingly, the majority of them say they began to read and write poetry when they were children.

The whole poeta nascitur non fit thing.

I don’t actually agree with the phrase attributed to Horace…except when I do. There’s at least a germ on truth in it. A poet is born, not made.

I suppose I’m resistant to a certain interpretation of it, one which I think is the default understanding of most people, which is that all the skill comes from talent, and what is more, does so easily and naturally. I hate this idea with all my heart. As a teacher, as an athlete, as a sports coach, as the husband of a painter and visual artist and art teacher, I hate the idea. There is not art without craft; art is craft.

As a basketball player, I hated when non-athletes would exclaim about how easy the game must be for me. They’d look at my 6’9” frame and describe how I just had to hold up my arms and go “boop” to score. I mean, I hated that nonsense. Didn’t they realize there were other 6’9” dudes trying to stop me from going boop? And that lots of them were stronger than me, or more athletic, or more skilled?

And yet, I must admit that my height was an enormous boon in playing the game, as were other physical gifts. The craft I developed came on top of that. I naturally had better hands than many, so that studying the craft of ballhandling created more advantage for me than it would have for others, especially when combined with other natural talents or gifts…like being tall.

Never forget, though, the tall guy who’s not a hooper. Who, in fact, hates being asked about basketball, either because he never played, or because he sucked at it.

Poeta nascitur non fit. True, in a sense. Whether its in the DNA or not, the love of words is present in their infancy. Books are read to them. Music played. They find delight in poetic things before they know what poetry is. A poet is born.

And yet…not. The one who delights in words is the tall guy. You still have to learn to hoop.

If you learn to hoop, you get to say you’re a hooper. People will say “That’s Bob. He’s a basketball player.” And they don’t say it because you’re tall, or because you play in the driveway. They say it because they see you down at the park, because you’re on the team, because your varsity picture was in the newspaper.

They say it because it’s public. Bob is a public basketball player. On occasion, he is called upon to hoop at public events, and the whole town comes. And so, in the collusion of Bob’s work and the public’s acknowledgment, poeta fit non nascitur.

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If you write poetry, I encourage you to think in terms of audience. Not in terms of glory or fame, at least not anything great. Local fame; fame among friends. If poetry is a gift, you should give it.

We moderns/post-moderns have been raised to think of expression as self-expression. I encourage you to not think of a poem as being expressed once you finally have it down on the page. Think of your poems as expressed only once they’ve been read by someone, or better yet, read by you to someone.

There is a special satisfaction that comes from being respected by your peers and colleagues. As an athlete, the respect of fellow athletes was something I valued greatly. Still, the games I played would not have been what they were, would not have had such value to the athletes, if they had not been valued by larger community. I never played in front of a big crowd, but I can tell you how satisfying it is to make a couple of hundred people cheer and gasp. It’s not great glory, but it is glory. And it’s motivating and inspiring. It fuels.

If you write poetry, go public. And I don’t mean press “send” on your Substack. I don’t mean read it to your other writer friends. I mean read your poem to grandma, to your wife, to the couple you and your wife hang out with. Write a poem about that couple and read it to them the next time you and the wife have them over. Then become an occasional poet. Don’t wait for an invitation. Offer to write a poem at the next wedding you’re invited to, the next baptism, the next graduation. If poetry is a gift, you should give it.

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You know the story of The Little Drummer Boy.

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Acknowledge that God gave you this gift, this desire, to do poetry. Like every gift of God, it is abundant and overflows and is given back to him. And like all things God gives you and that you give back to him, your friends and family share in that bounty.

SHARE, POET!

From Deuteronomy 14:

Thou shalt truly tithe all the increase of thy seed, that the field bringeth forth year by year.

And thou shalt eat before the Lord thy God, in the place which he shall choose to place his name there, the tithe of thy corn, of thy wine, and of thine oil, and the firstlings of thy herds and of thy flocks…whatsoever thy soul lusteth after, for oxen, or for sheep, or for wine, or for strong drink, or for whatsoever thy soul desireth: and thou shalt eat there before the Lord thy God, and thou shalt rejoice, thou, and thine household…

At the end of three years thou shalt bring forth all the tithe of thine increase the same year, and shalt lay it up within thy gates:

And the Levite, (because he hath no part nor inheritance with thee,) and the stranger, and the fatherless, and the widow, which are within thy gates, shall come, and shall eat and be satisfied; that the Lord thy God may bless thee in all the work of thine hand which thou doest.

Eat this word, am I right?

Sometimes, your poems are just a hot dog lunch for the kids. Sometimes, your poems are a quick convenience store snack. Sometimes your poems are a nice dinner out with the spouse.

But sometimes…O SOMETIMES! your poems are a banquet, to which everyone you know is invited. It’s your best friend’s wedding and you are the cook, and everyone’s heart is made glad, because your words were the best wine and the fattest meat. Your children are proud, and you take deep satisfaction in knowing that your gift is a blessing.

Like I said at the beginning, I think you should be a public poet because it will make you a happier poet, and because it will bless the world.

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You can support my work by subscribing to this Substack, or to The Knight of Sad Semblance: a New Quixote. You can also pre-buy my translation of the Quixote.

1. “Liberation” is mentioned because Wheatley had been kidnapped by chattel slavers from West Africa as a child. She was manumitted by her owners, the Wheatley family, in Boston in 1773, at around age 20.