Poetic Voice

As a child, I was lucky enough to grow up listening to David Whyte cassette tapes in my mother’s car. At the age of eleven or twelve, I had not yet come to appreciate poetry. But poetry came alive for me in Whyte’s tapes. Listening to a well-read poem is an entirely different experience than encountering it on the page. David Whyte reading poetry is like receiving a loaf of warm bread, fresh from the oven. It is life sustaining. Simple in its genius.

Achieving the most basic effect often requires the most adept skill. In this Tedx Talk, Whyte introduces us to his thorough, methodical approach to poetry, employing several poems as platforms for a discussion of what he terms the conversational nature of reality. 

First there is his charming accent. Whyte hails from Yorkshire, England, and so he has that classic British lilt, which for my American ear always signals a sense of confident erudition. But he is also a traveler and has long made his home in the Pacific Northwest, and so in his tone we sense a very down-to-earth, wool-socks-in-sandals kind of lilt. As a child, I remember being drawn in and calmed by the rhythm of his metered, melodic speech. He uses the range of his voice to strike a delicate balance between animating poetry with emphasis and variation in tone, and remaining neutral enough so that there is space for our own imaginations to work. 

Emphasis is placed not just by inflection, but also through repetition. An important line can be read two, three, or four times. Each time we hear it, another layer is peeled back, and we feel the language more profoundly. By the third or fourth time we are no longer just hearing the words—we are experiencing the meaning behind the words. 

In this talk, Whyte opens with his poem ‘Everything is Waiting for You.’ The first time he reads it, he repeats several lines, several times, as if he wants to make sure his listeners catch each piece. When he reaches the end of the poem, he repeats the last line, “Everything is waiting for you,” leaning in, repeating it again, “everything, everything, everything.” At this point you really feel it as an invitation, as if it emanates from something bigger than the poem or even poet. 

Then Whyte recites the entire poem again. You’ll feel comfortable when he starts over from the beginning: it is your chance to put together all the pieces that you caught the first time, and to catch more of the pieces you’d missed. 

Whyte’s poetic voice will—to use one of his own metaphors—make you feel like a snake, shedding your outermost skin. Little by little, he will peel away at your fragile defense, until you start to feel the steady warmth glowing at your core. 

Life at the Frontier: the Conversational Nature of Reality, David Whyte (20 min), Tedx Puget Sound

The Bard

Poetry and jazz. We tend to think of this combination as the epitome of the avant garde. But actually, it descends from the longest tradition in human communication, where the storyteller is a singer, a songster, a minstrel, a bard.   

I have always been intimidated by the poem-song, because it has the potential to go so terribly awry. But my interest was recently revived when I came across this rare gem: San Francisco poet Kenneth Rexroth, live at the Blackhawk. The year is 1958, Rexroth is a center of gravity in literary San Francisco, a reluctant mentor to the Beats, and is performing here at one of the era’s most serious jazz venues.    

I suggest starting with the poem-song, ‘I didn’t want it…’ It’s fun. You’ll find yourself both tapping your foot to the rhythm and nodding your head at certain lines in the poem. Both the spoken word and the music become catchier through their combination. How is this done?

We know precisely how it’s done, because—another reason this is such a rare gem—the poet tells us. In this text from the jacket cover of the original LP, Rexroth explains the creative process between himself and his band. The playful exchange, Rexroth explains, is the product of a strategic balance between spontaneity and good planning. 

Here we sense the flow of something which is improvised and spontaneous, and at the same time, a degree of synthesis which indicates that this performance has been well thought through. Rexroth explains: 

We certainly don’t just spontaneously blow off the tops of our heads. Most of these pieces are standard tunes, carefully rehearsed many times with the poet until we’ve got a good clear rich head arrangement. We don’t write it down, because we want to keep as much spontaneity and invention as possible, but at the same time we want plenty of substance to the music, and, of course, we want poet and band to ‘go together.’

It doesn’t necessarily have to be poetry and jazz. It could also be memoir and polka. If there’s one thing we can learn from Rexroth, it’s that we shouldn’t be afraid of the story-music combination, to have fun and get a little silly, to experiment and to invent. But we shouldn’t either relax too much, and should definitely rehearse it a few times. The responsibility is great; we’ll be carrying on the tradition of storytelling as song.  

‘I didn’t want it...’ by Kenneth Rexroth. Poetry and Jazz at the Blackhawk, 1958. [3:20] 

 This poem-song is also posted here.