poems and not poems

I used to fancy myself a poet. I was in high school at the time and, spurred on by the words of my then idol Jim Morrison (i know, i know), I penned cryptic, dark, scattered poetry meant to be read by no one but myself. I was afraid to every show anyone my oddly metered words, for fear they would at best ridicule them or, at worst, not understand them. There were few things worse to my teenage self than being misunderstood, and to have that done over poetry would wound me.

I stopped writing poetry my senior year to concentrate on stories. In a college creative writing class, my professor read one of my short stories to the class, and had the students take turns analyzing and critiquing my words. They got it all wrong, of course, because analyzation rarely gets it right, and their critiques stung. I quit the class and stopped writing for a long time. I wasn’t cut out for criticism that wasn’t in any way constructive. I wasn’t ready to have my ideas wrung dry and left to hang.

Instead of writing my own words, I devoured the works of others, sometimes reading two or three books in a week. I read fiction, non-fiction, short stories, essays, magazine articles. I took each author’s style into consideration for future reference, for when I’d eventually start writing again. And I started reading song lyrics. They mostly came with albums and cassettes back then, and I pored over the works of my favorite artists, reading along with each song as if they were all short stories of their own. Which, in essence, they were.

What they were not were poetry. So many people view song lyrics as poems, but I see them as something separate, a different entity entirely. They’re metered stories, they’re anecdotes, they’re cries for help and a thirst to be heard. I can’t fully explain why I separate the two, but I read poetry and lyrics as if they come from two different worlds.

Yesterday, David Berman died. I had been a new fan of his. I discovered him when he released his Purple Mountains record just last month. I quickly became enamored of his voice and his words, and I dove into the catalog of his previous band, Silver Jews. I read everything I could about him, I admired his drawings and read what poetry of his I could find online. I looked up his song lyrics and followed along as I listened. He was a lyricist and a poet. Those two things are different to me, as different as hearing and reading, and he excelled at each of them.

With lyrics, I tend to sing along and get carried away in the music. If I feel something, it is because the combination of music and words entwine in that wonderful way they do, and that combination can make my heart soar, my stomach drop, my flesh turn to goosebumps. Poetry makes me feel, but on a more intellectual rather than emotional level. That Berman was able to do both is astounding.

I’m hesitant to analyze anyone else’s words, probably because I was emotionally traumatized by having my own words ripped open and discussed in front of me. I try to take everything at face value and just enjoy what is a collection of words set down in a pattern. Maybe I don’t want to look too far into someone else’s pain and suffering; maybe I don’t want to conflate it with my own. I spent a good portion of the last month studying the words of David Berman, trying to get to know him through his poems and lyrics and interviews. And just when I felt like I was getting a grip on who he was, on how he existed as a person, he was gone.

I listened to a lot of Silver Jews and Purple Mountain last night. I read some of his poems. I felt an immense sadness, the kind that usually leads me to writing rambling soliloquies such as this one. I had the sudden urge to brush off my poetry chops and try writing something deep and meaningful again, but I knew I would only be trying to imitate. Instead, I let his words wash over me, and they provided a sort of comfort in a sad moment. I let the urge go. I am neither poet nor lyricist. I am just a mourner searching for words.