Curiosity Part 1

Of course you need to be curious to research; it’s a no-brainer and simple, right?

So, you have a question.

Let’s take mine: How does poetry allow trauma to speak? 

Then you need to figure out how to answer the question. There are options. I could gather quantitative/qualitative data (surveys, interviews, case studies) and examine the question from that point of view. Most likely this would involve finding poets who have experienced trauma and asking them what their experience of writing about trauma was like and garnering insights from what they say.

Or I could be the poet and experience the writing for myself.

This is Practice-led Research: the practice of a particular art form (that there is demonstrated a proficiency in) to explore a curiosity in the pursuit of new knowledge. There needs to be a certain level of proficiency otherwise all attention is given to becoming proficient and no attention is available for being curious and so the new knowledge is missed.

And because I am curious, I pay attention to what happens. I learn to exist in the tension between the flow of the poetry and noticing what is happen when the poetry is flowing. This often involves reflecting after something occurs.

Let me give you an example: 

I began my project writing bulk amounts of poetry. There was a lot of “noise” in the writing, similar to that in raw data (raw data is what my first-draft poetry technically is). The initial writing contained no filters. I simply wrote a poem in my notebook—I like the feeling of the pen and paper—and then typed it up (in the evening while hanging out with the family watching telly). Then, each month, I printed the raw material and put it aside. I regularly wrote, per month, a thousand to two thousand words of poetry; mostly slush.

After resting the raw data, I’d go back and read it, identifying phrases, stanzas and pieces worth working on more. I’d put the poems together as best as I was able, editing over and over until I felt there was no other way I could improve the piece. Then, in a monthly submission to my Supervisor, we would talk about the work. 

At the same time, I was noticing my emotions. Did I feel overwhelmed or shocked by what initially appeared in my notebook? How did my emotions change as I edited the work? How did my feelings change again once I had submitted the work? How did I respond to and cope with the feedback?

Sounds very “touchy, feely”. It could be considered in that light but let me ask you this: 

What is the first thing that tells you something is different in your world?

Your feelings. Your intuition talks to you in the language it knows best, the language of emotion. Emotions are complex and so are questions, even simple ones.

How does poetry allow trauma to speak?

The simple answer is: through the form of the poetry. Done. 

But it isn’t “done”. 

What really happens? Why can I say something in a poem and still struggle to “tell” it out loud? Why does the poem mean one thing when I am writing and then another when I am editing it and then another when it is published? Why do people turn to poetry in times of crisis? Why does poetry bring comfort? Does it bring comfort to me? Why? How?

There is it: my curiosity running wild again.

And here am I: madly chasing after it.