Moonlight Musings

The Role of the Poet in the Community

Do many people in your community think of you as a poet? The butcher, the baker...? I'm guessing not, and the same applies to me. I think more people saw me that way when I lived in Melbourne 20-30 years ago and was actively involved in performance, publishing, teaching, reviewing, etc. But even then, few of my immediate neighbours, or the shop assistants I saw frequently, or the parents of my kids' school friends would have had an inkling. 

That's partly because there is not much interest in poetry in the wider community. And I think it's also because most of us don't self-aggrandise but are quite shy about putting ourselves forward. When I first started getting published, my then husband, Bill Nissen, would introduce me proudly to new acquaintances with, "Rosemary's a poet". They never knew what to say, and neither did I. I and they felt embarrassed. But then, as my work gained more and more acceptance, and I became more used to the fact, I guess my energy changed as I became comfortable enough with the fact to own the label. That confidence must have shown through; anyway, all parties stopped being embarrassed and just accepted it. That is, when I accepted it about myself, so did others. 

Good luck to those who focus on being published in "prestigious" literary magazines – I have been one, and succeeding comes with some advantages. It can certainly play a part in being taken seriously by the poetry-reading community and oneself.

Another way, as we here all know, is to blog. That has us know each other's work really well, and each other through our work. It can spark real friendships and even true love, both of which Sherry documented for us recently in her farewell to "The Unknown Gnome". But it is still a finite circle, albeit a large, international one.

I always think the first impulse in making any kind of art is self-expression, and that this is closely followed by the second, which is to communicate. I have overcome my shyness about the whole thing (as if it were some shameful endeavour!) sufficiently to sometimes share poetry unsolicited when it seems relevant. For example, a friend's gift of a carefully-chosen bookmark inspired a poem in response, which I used as a "thank-you letter". 

When another friend moved house and I was unable to attend the house-warming, I sent a house blessing in the form of a poem.

I also recall my Dad (who never thought of trying to get his verses published via "literary" outlets) composing poems for family members' birthdays – the big milestones, such as my Grandpa's 80th. He would read the poem out on the occasion, just before the blowing out of the candles on the cake. These poems were always treasured by the recipients, and much appreciated too by the rest of the family, who could relate personally to what was said.

I belong to a circle called The Goddesses of Shining Light: women from a wide range of religious and spiritual affiliations, who choose to identify with the Divine Feminine and shine our light in various ways (both practical and energetic) to our community and the world. Being Goddess-centred in my personal spiritual life too, I sometimes write poems with that theme, and at times it has seemed appropriate to share them with the group. 

At first I had to silence the internal voice that said, "Who do you think you are? You're going to look conceited" – and all of that stuff, with which I'm sure we're all familiar. It was reassuring when some of the Goddesses remarked that my words were beautiful, and even more so when I was asked to read one of my poems during a particular ritual.

When my friend Yasoda was dying last week, I wrote a poem reminiscing about her life (and her dying) but didn't make it public until after she had left us. Then, I hesitated to post it to her facebook page, which her children were using to communicate with her friends about her death and memorial service. I was afraid it might cause them even more upset, telling it like it was about her decline. 

But other friends were posting tributes to her on that page, so finally I did too. I reasoned that her children had been present at some of the times I wrote about, and that the poem says as many positive as sad things about her. 

The celebrant conducting the memorial service (a mutual friend) contacted me to say that Yasoda's children would love it if I'd agree to read my poem at the service (and would I mind altering it to omit one personal detail). I was only too happy to agree to both requests, and ended up with an improved poem. 

I'm used to performing. Behind the mic, I lose all shyness and turn into an old ham! But this day (yesterday as I write) I felt quite weepy beforehand. An old friend sitting next to me put her arm around me and nestled me in, to rest my head on her shoulder. I was grateful to relax into her comfort. 

Several people shared their reminiscences of Yasoda; some musicians played and sang; we all joined in for some of her favourite songs. There must have been about 100 people there, many of whom I knew. She was greatly loved in a number of overlapping sections of our rural and small-town community. 

When I got up to read, all the years of training came to the fore and I was able to keep my voice strong, with the right intonations to bring out the meaning. When I'd finished, the celebrant picked up easily on my theme of Yasoda's generosity of spirit, and wove it into her own remarks and what others too had said. Meanwhile I quietly handed a signed and dated copy of the poem to each of Yasoda's children. They hadn't expected that, but all silently nodded their thanks. Later, after the service, people told me how much my words had moved them, and remarked on how well I'd presented the poem.

The picture from the back of the order of service

It came to me then that this is a supreme role for a poet, beyond the thrill of publication and acclaim – to be of service to one's community in ways such as this, and a witness to the lives around us. I can imagine that this was how it was in the far past. Perhaps the village poets were the commentators on local, tribal events. Perhaps they bore public witness to major turning points in people's lives.

Well, I'm not planning to hire myself out or anything! It's not about me. It's about the power of poetry to contribute to those around us. I see that I have something to offer, and that when I am moved to offer it I need not hold back. It may not always be what people feel a need for, but there is no reason to assume beforehand that it would be out of place.

I'm not the only poet in the town or the region, or even amongst the Goddesses. I'm not the only one to be inspired by particular occasions and to share the resulting words. But I had been seeing this as purely a personal matter. I finally perceive it as also being one of our roles in our communities – a way of giving service.

It's as the spirit moves one, of course. I don't mean to suggest that we have anything like a duty. I think any sense of obligation must be death to art! But when we're inspired, there are ways we can take it further and communicate, even when we don't always know how it will be received, and may never know. 

I might even contemplate the possibility of sending poems as Letters to the Editor of the local newspaper now and then! 

I wonder if some of you also do other things with your poetry besides posting it to your blogs and/or submitting it to literary publications?