There's a big reason I don't blog often. It's called The Centrifugal Eye. Creating it takes almost all my waking time. Sometimes dreaming time. You might think that makes me unsocial, but I spend several hours everyday communicating with writers and other editors. That's a lot more sociable than many writers get to be. The average poet writes in isolation. Not all belong to writers' groups. Many don't travel. Quite a few do not have reading venues to bounce off audiences. Still, poets reach out to others through their writing.
I've actually had a blog idea scribbled out in half-illegible notes sitting on my desk for more than a month, but couldn't make time to realize it for internet consumption. But because I had to log in here to comment on someone else's blog to note a publication credit, I reasoned that this is the moment . . .
Let's see, how to make sense from month-old scratchings? It seems to begin with the reflection that a poet is like a clown. How's that? No, I'm not suggesting you connect the images of Bozo with the slapstick humor of a limericist (limerickerist?!). See, years ago, I moonlighted as a facepainting clown. The first thing I had to do when I picked up this gig with the entertainment company was to create an identity. Make my own costume. Design my own make-up. I even created an unique voice for my clownish alter ego. See where I'm going yet?
Clowns need to make instant impressions in order to be effective. They have signature looks. It might be a wacky purple hairdo, a wide green smile, a flamboyantly-striped costume, or ridiculous props, such as a giant crayon or inflatable, orange, dinosaur flotation belt. Whatever the signature, it's recognizable in a crowd of . . . well, not just clowns, but anywhere.
So how is a poet like a clown?, you ask, still disbelieving of this attempt at analogy.
Let's start with the mask. Clowns are people behind masks and face make-up. That seems like a no-brainer statement, but what you learn pretty quickly as a clown is that children (and adults, too, surprise!) have a hard time comprehending there's a regular person behind the resplendent persona. Although sometimes frightening for the observer, this confusion has its benefits, for both clowns and poets.
When I first donned full clown make-up and costume, I felt slightly shy about making a fool of myself. But when I shored up my courage and made a wisecrack at my first victims, I mean, unwitting audience, I felt liberated. One man stepped up close to me afterwards and tried to peer behind my visage. That's when I realized he could see only who I wanted him to see.
Writers often take advantage of this, too, in their own way — there's a built-in layer of physical silence between them and their writing, which in turn is a costume of sorts, created to present an identity, a voice.
A working clown very often has a "bag of tricks." This bag, or deep pocket, or briefcase might be stuffed with magic-trick paraphernalia, stretchy balloons, whizzers, gag props, paint supplies and toy prizes. A working poet has a "bag of tricks," too, but rather than gimmicks, it's filled with crafting tools: reference books, poetic forms, verse techniques, mentors and "vocal" methods.
I mentioned I created a special voice for my clown persona. I did, and it was a high-pitched, helium-style kid's voice, and I practiced so much I could keep in character for hours at a time. Both children and adults marveled over the voice, and always asked if it was my real voice. And in true clown fashion, I almost always answered, "Yes." After their guffaws, I would qualify: "It's my real clown voice." Other times, I would whip my favorite handcrafted prop from my green paisley "suitcase o' tricks" and answer, "well, I'll let you in on a secret — I use Clown Voice Spray." With great flourish I would squirt this spray into my wide open, orange-lipped mouth, smack those lips and utter a few squeaky mi-mi-mi-meeeees. All eyes would grow wide, and gales of laughter would roll into the air. And then some willing-to-believe kid would ask to try it. So I would squirt a little in her mouth . . . and well, no, it seldom worked for these kids, because, well, they weren't clowns, see? But every once in awhile, a kid would get it, and belt out an equally impressive and squeaky mi-mi-mi . . .
Are you getting, yet, how all this relates to poets? Maybe it's like the Clown Voice Spray. Maybe you have to already have a poet's voice to sound like a poet. Want to get your own?
First, start by assembling a learned bag of tricks. Keep practicing. Create an identity. Develop signatures. Be bold — even though you think people can see you when you write, they really only see either what you present to them, or what they want to see.
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