According to Poetry Foundation, an ekphrastic poem is a “vivid description of a scene or, more commonly, a work of art. Through the imaginative act of narrating and reflecting on the ‘action’ of a painting or sculpture, the poet may amplify and expand its meaning.” One particularly famous ekphrastic poem is “Ode on a Grecian Urn” by John Keats. For those of you more modernly-inclined (and less ye- and thou-inclined), some other ekphrastic poems include Anne Carson’s “Hopper: Confessions,” Leslie Adrienne Miller’s “Photograph of People Dancing in France,” Martha Ronk’s “Why Knowing Is,” and Michael Dumanis’s “Joseph Cornell, With Box,” all of which were written (or at least published) in the last fifteen years.
Ever since I began writing poetry, I always took my inspiration from others’ written works. I would read Louise Glück’s “Widows” and “Yellow Dahlia,” only to draw on similar themes and write a poem relating widows and sisters. I had never bothered to look to artwork for poetic inspiration. After all, paintings were inspiration for my painting, sculptures for sculpting, poems for poeting (err, writing poetry). The verbs (generally) matched the nouns, so the sources of inspiration naturally matched the final artwork medium, right? Wrong!—at least in Alberto Rios’s opinion.
I first heard Rios speak at a Changing Hands event. After some very engaging readings, he answered audience members’ questions. One question came up regarding Rios’s source of inspiration (a cliché, though always interesting question). As interested as I was in his answer, I must admit I was expecting the similarly-cliché answer of just reading “everything I could get my hands on,” but I was pleasantly (really, naively shocked!) at what he said. He said, and I quote—struggle to remember—that you shouldn’t use poetry as inspiration, because all that does is repeat what other poets have already said. Instead, you should use artwork. As entertaining as he was onstage, my ears definitely perked up at that.
In one interview I found later, Rios describes a time when his uncle read him a poem and that the memory was “not the words of the poem, but the moment, and simply that it was a poem, different from anything else I had ever heard.” In another interview, Rios says that “Words are, by default, limiters…[they] are starting points—not ending points. They start a discussion, but do not wrap it up. If anything, at their best, [words] send us out into the confusion of things unknown. At their weakest, they tell us what we as human beings already know.” So, if words are a starting point, why should I start in the middle of the conversation by drawing from others’ words? Why not start my own conversation (granted it would be after a piece of artwork)?
Of course, as another expression goes, saying is easier than doing, something I only confirmed when I actually tried to write an ekphrastic poem. The difficulty, at first, lay in finding something about which I actually wanted to write. Should I use a painting or a photograph? Something carved or something molded? With so many choices, it was easy to ignore the artwork and continue on my merry, word-ful way.
After months of avoiding my conundrum, there finally came the moment when I could no longer ignore ekphrastic poetry—my professor required our next poem to be of an ekphrastic nature. Luckily, she made finding artwork a little easier—class field trip to the local art museum! When I first searched for my inspirational piece, I focused on the paintings, drawing inspiration from the titles and descriptions, rather than the artwork itself—not what I was here for.
Ever since I began writing poetry, I always took my inspiration from others’ written works. I would read Louise Glück’s “Widows” and “Yellow Dahlia,” only to draw on similar themes and write a poem relating widows and sisters. I had never bothered to look to artwork for poetic inspiration. After all, paintings were inspiration for my painting, sculptures for sculpting, poems for poeting (err, writing poetry). The verbs (generally) matched the nouns, so the sources of inspiration naturally matched the final artwork medium, right? Wrong!—at least in Alberto Rios’s opinion.
I first heard Rios speak at a Changing Hands event. After some very engaging readings, he answered audience members’ questions. One question came up regarding Rios’s source of inspiration (a cliché, though always interesting question). As interested as I was in his answer, I must admit I was expecting the similarly-cliché answer of just reading “everything I could get my hands on,” but I was pleasantly (really, naively shocked!) at what he said. He said, and I quote—struggle to remember—that you shouldn’t use poetry as inspiration, because all that does is repeat what other poets have already said. Instead, you should use artwork. As entertaining as he was onstage, my ears definitely perked up at that.
In one interview I found later, Rios describes a time when his uncle read him a poem and that the memory was “not the words of the poem, but the moment, and simply that it was a poem, different from anything else I had ever heard.” In another interview, Rios says that “Words are, by default, limiters…[they] are starting points—not ending points. They start a discussion, but do not wrap it up. If anything, at their best, [words] send us out into the confusion of things unknown. At their weakest, they tell us what we as human beings already know.” So, if words are a starting point, why should I start in the middle of the conversation by drawing from others’ words? Why not start my own conversation (granted it would be after a piece of artwork)?
Of course, as another expression goes, saying is easier than doing, something I only confirmed when I actually tried to write an ekphrastic poem. The difficulty, at first, lay in finding something about which I actually wanted to write. Should I use a painting or a photograph? Something carved or something molded? With so many choices, it was easy to ignore the artwork and continue on my merry, word-ful way.
After months of avoiding my conundrum, there finally came the moment when I could no longer ignore ekphrastic poetry—my professor required our next poem to be of an ekphrastic nature. Luckily, she made finding artwork a little easier—class field trip to the local art museum! When I first searched for my inspirational piece, I focused on the paintings, drawing inspiration from the titles and descriptions, rather than the artwork itself—not what I was here for.
I wandered the museum, not lingering on any one work for more than a minute (art museums were more my mom’s thing). However, I finally stumbled across an unlabeled statue—there wasn’t any plaque indicating title, medium, artist—nothing! I was alone with the experience of the sculpture. Although still difficult, it helped me think of new words and new ways to think about poetry. It forced me to draw inspiration from my own thoughts and vocabulary, rather than the word bank of another writer. I ended up writing about how the wind punctured the flesh of the female figure and how invasive it was to stare at her bare form. I titled my poem “Woman” (I’m still in-training on writing good titles, if you can’t tell). Although it wasn’t the best poem in the class, I still think I did pretty decently considering how long I had put off the exercise.
Before the class trip, my professor had said that every poet should write at least one ekphrastic poem. As hard as this poem was for me, I found it to be an enlightening experience. It got me out of my poetic comfort zone, because I could no longer use the typical nature descriptions and vocabulary other poets offered—I had to rely on my own words, an experience all poets should try, especially if they are in a poetic rut.
Before the class trip, my professor had said that every poet should write at least one ekphrastic poem. As hard as this poem was for me, I found it to be an enlightening experience. It got me out of my poetic comfort zone, because I could no longer use the typical nature descriptions and vocabulary other poets offered—I had to rely on my own words, an experience all poets should try, especially if they are in a poetic rut.