Buddha tells the story of a raja who had six blind men
gathered together to examine the elephant.
"When the blind men had felt the elephant, the raja went
to each of them and said to each, 'Well, blind man, have you
seen the elephant? Tell me, what sort of thing is an elephant?'
They assert the elephant is like a pot (head), winnowing
basket (ear), ploughshare (tusk), plough (trunk), granary
(body), pillar (foot), mortar (back), pestle (tail), or
brush (tip of the tail).
The men come to blows, which delights the raja.
The raja says:
O how they cling and wrangle, some who claim
For preacher and monk the honored name!
For, quarreling, each to his view they cling.
Such folk see ONLY ONE SIDE OF A THING.~~~~~~~~~~~
And so it is with workshopping. A poem is something whose
dimensions, meaning, and scope are known only to the author.
Personally, I could no sooner bake a cake that had every finger
dipped into the batter while everyone is tasting and determining
flavor and measuring ingredients, as write a poem based upon
collective opinion. I've always held to the belief that poems that
have been workshopped may indeed be very good, but they lack
the soul of the original, to become zombie poems- shuffling
along, marking their meter- but never quite alive.
They are walking to many different directives, having lost
themselves to academic concerns and make-overs, until they are
something else-- the end result of group project.
To my mind, such poems are re-creations.
They are foster children, having lived in many homes with a variety
of parents-- their identity shaped by committee. Such poetry loses
its soul for the sake of approval. Those who write in a workshopping
enviroment long enough, will often produce poems on their own
that still have the stilted stricture of the group, the inner
censor operating even without the group's participation.
There is a 'tone' that is recognizable-- a carefulness that is like
watching someone trying to walk with braces. The natural rhythm
stilted by constraints learned over the years by listening to
critics, and obediently readjusting those things for which
the writer probably hears a big red 'NO!' shrieking in
their brain. I believe this transfers to the reader, who
will subconsciously pick up on the tension inherent
in redoing and redoing and redoing.
I believe that beauty is hardly ever careful.
When making mandalas from sand, Zen monks will purposely leave
a flaw, wisely knowing that nothing in creation is without it.
I think that is true of writing as well.
A poet can allow the blindmen to define the elephant,
grappling with syntax and line length and word choice-- or the
poet can just allow the beast to be-- lumbering, large-- beautiful
in its stumbling, because
the elephant doesn't examine itself for flaws...
the giant walks.
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