Citing My Muses: Kim Addonizio and The Poet’s Companion (& Others)

If you’re looking for a poetry guide book, this is still the best one on the market. 

Kim Addonizio is, at her core, an artist. A poet, novelist, harmonica player, performer; and the list doesn’t stop there. But as someone who is trying to find her way in the poetry world, and is using Addonizio as my beacon of light, I’m here to talk about her poetry and her books on writing it. There is a part of me that is a little hesitant to do a full review however, as I have not read nearly enough Kim Addonizion poems to solidify my opinion, and my goal is to be completely honest. But I will update this blog as I read more from her. 

I discovered her on Pinterest, as one does, and upon seeing her poem To The Woman Crying Uncontrollably In The Next Stall, I bought three of her books: 

If you ever woke in your dress at 4 a.m. ever closed your legs to a man you loved opened them for one you didn't moved against

a pillow in the dark stood miserably on a beach seaweed clinging to your ankles paid

good money for a bad haircut backed away

from a mirror that wanted to kill you bled

into the back seat for lack of a tampon

If you swam across a river under rain sang

using a dildo for a microphone stayed up

to watch the moon eat the sun entire

ripped out the stitches in your heart because why not if you think nothing &

no one can / listen I love you joy is coming”

As soon as you open up one of her books, her voice comes pouring out – and it’s remarkably refreshing. There’s no denying that her work is hers. I also appreciate her approach to poetry: it should be accessible, and you should enjoy writing it, but that doesn’t mean hard work doesn’t go into doing it right. The three books I will be focusing on today are: 

• The Poet’s Companion

• Ordinary Genius

• Mortal Trash

The Poet’s Companion

Though this poetry writing guide was co-written with her colleague Dorianne Laux, you can still hear Addonizio’s signature tone shine through. As this book was written in the 90’s, there is some largely outdated info at the end about how to get your work published – but the rest of the book is largely accessible and an incredibly comprehensive guide for the working poet. I reference it nearly every time I sit down to write. 

What is The Poet’s Companion About? 

The Poet’s Companion is a guide not only to writing poetry, but to enjoy the writing of poetry. It’s split into four different sections: subjects for writing, the poet’s craft, the writing life, and 20 minute exercises, followed by four appendices that talk about resources for writers. Broken down, here is what each section details: 

• Subjects for Writing: this section introduces different poetry topics you can write about (such as death, family, erotica, etc.) and then tells you how to write them most successfully. Through personal anecdotes, exemple poems, and a list of writing exercises per each topic, you’ll never run out of things to write about. 

• The Poet’s Craft: this is where they get into the nitty-gritty; they go over imagery, simile and metaphor, voice and style, experimentation, meter, rhyme, form, repetition, rhythm, blues, grammar, the art of revision, and provide some outlines for a few specific poetry genres. 

• The Writing Life: this section is more the mindset side of writing poetry; they discuss self-doubt, writer’s block, writing in the electronic age (which is slightly outdated now), and getting published (which is also slightly outdated now – but still valuable). 

• Twenty Minute Writing Exercises: precisely what you think they are…20 minute writing exercises. It provides a lot of poetry examples, which makes the exercises easy. 

Is The Poet’s Companion Actually Worth Reading? 

I couldn’t recommend it more. Kim Addonizio has a way of breaking concepts down into such digestible pieces. I had never seriously considered writing poetry for several reasons: I didn’t know the technical aspects and learning it all seemed too overwhelming, I haven’t read most of the classic poets and don’t know if I want to, I didn’t want to look like an idiot, etc. 

But she uses primarily contemporary poems as examples in this book, and she acknowledges that most people didn’t have a very enthusiastic introduction to writing poetry (thank you, 10th grade English). She also notes that you will write some really bad poetry for a while; it’s a rite of passage. But she gives you the tools to improve, and doesn’t judge you in your awkward phase (unlike the 10th grade). 

But what’s more important to me than the easy comprehension and the sheer amount of tools, is her specific type of encouragement. Yes, you will write bad poetry, but knowing that does not justify not revising your work, not sharing it with the world, and not working to improve. Her philosophies surrounding poetry are what makes this book different from others. One belief that stood out to me is her belief about poets vs. poetry writers – poetry writers use poetry as self expression, while poets cannot express themselves if they do not write. 

Ordinary Genius 

In my opinion, if you’re already read The Poet’s Companion, you can probably skip Ordinary Genius altogether as I found some overlap in information. That being said, it depends what your goals are; this book is a different type of guide from its predecessor in that it focuses more on writing inspiration and encouragement as well as how to sustain the writing life. 

What is Ordinary Genius About? 

This book is split into four parts, similarly to her previous: 

• Entering Poetry: this section is a mental introduction to poetry writing where she provides you tips for getting started and getting into the right mindset

• Inner and Outer Worlds: this section specifically focuses on topics like sex, humor, the body, addictions, race, class, and privilege and how to write them

• The Poem’s Progress: here, you learn actual poetry writing tips and get a comprehensive overview to how the poetry writing process works (or should work)

• Toward Mastery: this section takes your knowledge a step further by delving into revisions, performance, music & meter, and specific poetry genres

Because I read her two guides back to back, it may have been overkill for me. But many other readers cite this book as being a treasure trove of incredible quotes from poets, a collection of thought-provoking writing prompts, and a perfect guide for folks who may already have a solid poetry-writing foundation, but need something to get their juices flowing. It also features several of Addonizio’s own poems, including many readers’ favorites. 

Mortal Trash

While I’ve read a sprinkling of Kim Addonizio’s poems separately, as she has so many good ones, the only collection I own and have read in full so far is Mortal Trash. The collection is mainly free-verse poems, which I thoroughly enjoy, and she also has a section of 20 sonnets, which I found to be fairly inventive for the most part. 

My struggle when it comes to reading poetry is that it’s a deeply personal art form, and I am a deeply sensitive person; so when I read poetry, it affects me greatly. I may read a collection one day and think I hate it, but if I were to read it again another day it might be the best thing I’ve ever read.

Mortal Trash didn’t quite do it for me. That’s not to say that Addonizio isn’t a genius; what I love so dearly about her work is her word-play, strong voice, and her ability to connect seemingly unconnected things into a poem. While her style is always edgy, I simply found this collection sad; many of her topics had to do with the bitterness of aging and mediocre sex, and it got to a point where I didn’t feel like anything was even being said. Similarly, I found most of the sonnets to be kind of gimmicky, and most of the poems to be unnecessarily adjective-heavy. 

But the beauty of poetry is that I know this book wasn’t written for me; it’s the winner of the 2017 Paterson Poetry Prize, which means plenty of other people got a kick out of it. Perhaps, when I read this again, it will resonate differently…I do occasionally worry that her work is so brilliant that it simply goes over my head. However, I do still recommend giving it a read – I would love to discuss other perspectives from people who connect with this collection more. 

My Three Favorite Poems from Mortal Trash

The Givens

Someone will bump into you and not apologize, someone will wear

the wrong dress to the party, another lurch drunk into the table

of cheeses and pastries at the memorial service, someone will tell you

she's sorry it's out of her hands as though everything isn't already.

One day the toilet will mysteriously detach its little chain

from its rubber thingie and refuse to flush, in the throes

of whatever existential crisis toilets experience after so much human

waste, so many tampons it wasn't supposed to swallow, so many pills

washed down because someone in a fit of sobriety tossed them in, though later

regretted it but too late, they're gone, someone kneeling to empty

a meal, a bottle of wine, too many mango-cucumber-vodka cocktails made

from a recipe by Martha Stewart. Someone will have seen Martha Stewart

in a restaurant, surrounded by admirers; criminals

will order quail, world leaders will stab their forks into small countries

to hold them still for their serrated knives. Ben Franklin said

nothing is certain in this world but death and taxes but he was wrong

about the taxes but then again, right about the impermanency

of the Constitution. No one will come to your door to give you a stack

of bills imprinted with Ben Franklin's face, but a Jehovah's Witness

will find you one day to tell you there is no Hell and that the souls

of the wicked will be annihilated. Someone will love you but not enough,

someone else send gift-wrapped pheromones to your vomeronasal organ,

which will promptly destroy them like bugs in a zapper. These are but a few

of the many givens, and it's tempting to boil them down to just two

like Franklin did but I prefer Duchamp's "Etants Donnes," —1. The Waterfall,

2. The Illuminating Gas, water and light, as it was when God began

to pronounce those words in his marble bathroom but given how it's all

gone since then he probably should have skipped the part where clay

sits up and rubs its eyes, looking for something to fuck or kill.

The rain, the lightning. The river town, the fireworks off the dock.

Someone will run through a lawn sprinkler, someone else open a hydrant.

Someone will pull you from the fire, someone else wrap you in flames.

Lost in Translation

Here in Italy I wish someone would explain

A few things like why the dream about whores

From Algeria and what are those Etruscan markings

On the coffins, and how does it feel to be the hundredth 

Shorn sheep being herded in a big reverse

Question mark across some Umbrian dirt

By a guy in camo pants? It’s hard to understand 

The woman standing in my room holding towels–

She might be explaining a religious ritual 

Or how to flush the toilet which maybe amounts

To the same thing if you think of God

As the creator of the toilet and humans

As what comes out of angels after a meal

Of scorpions and light. I wonder why the babies

And cherubim in those Renaissance paintings

Resemble someone’s drunk old uncle

And why all the keychain Pinocchios remind me

Of my friend at nine, her stunned look

as we were dropped off at overnight camp. Why

Did Dad hide in the clouds, why did Mom lie

About where babies come from? I’m confused

About travel, how the meanings blur

And intersect like tourists and their shadows

As the evening goes quietly insane, mourning

The indifferent sunflowers. Indifference

Is the opposite of how Mary gazed upon

Her infant son or how I feel 

About the sudden rain swirling into the piazza

In front of the Temple of Minerva like 

Just-poured wine, or maybe like plain water

In a urinal. I wish I understood

This ruined world but then again

Why not just be a cobblestone shining

Under a sandal, iron griffin creaking from

A hotel awning? The whore were three

And spoke bafflingly in Russian

But all night, whatever they said, 

They said it to me. 

Eulogy

My mother was a day moon,

my father a missing shoe.

I was born with a stake

in my heart, slowly

it worked its way out

but the last of it remains,

black needle

on the X-ray. I saw God

in a cumulus cloud.

Angels gathered on my library card.

My dog's name was Misty.

I was helpless as a roasted pig

at a wedding. I couldn't tell

my toaster from my ice tray.

My brain had two settings,

puree and liquefy. I grew up

according to legend,

but only a little. Now

I have turned to stone.

Now you can touch me

everywhere.