Verbs-subject relationships expose a strategy of movement similar to the flows of dance. The dancer’s bodies are physical subjects, the material agency that dances. However, these bodies become abstracted. Actions, movements, and flux take over the body. While dancing, the person becomes an abstraction of movement: becoming-dance. This is not to say that the dancer’s body ceases to exist, but simply opens itself up to a viewer, becoming porous and permeable. The dancer’s body becomes movement. This is one strategy for describing affect, the way in which dance does not simply represent something, but points to something outside of subjective expression: movement.
“I move.” When you write the words “I move,” any poet worth his spit knows that the verb trumps the pronoun. That is, the “I” disappears, while “move” persists. (move where? move what? move in what way?) This is not a grammatical differentiation, it’s an aesthetic one. The verb is affective. It makes something happen. The subject, “I” is nebulous, sinking into its own abstraction after endowed with an action. The first thing that an aspiring writer learns is strong verb choice.
A poet knows two types of verbs: active and passive. For example, do not say “the sky is dull.” Say “the sky dulls. ” The verb “dulls” is active. “Is” is passive. The implications of this rudimentary rule form a basis for a poetics of movement. By saying “the sky is dull” one attempts to give more information about the subject, to point back to “the dull sky.” Active verbs point outward. They do not insist on what the sky is, but instead, focus on what the sky does. “Dulls” moves away from the subject. The verb endows the sky with a power that surpasses its identity or attributes. Passive verbs create stillness.
Verbs-subject relationships expose a strategy of movement similar to the flows of dance. The dancer’s bodies are physical subjects, the material agency that dances. However, these bodies become abstracted. Actions, movements, and flux take over the body. While dancing, the person becomes an abstraction of movement: becoming-dance. This is not to say that the dancer’s body ceases to exist, but simply opens itself up to a viewer, becoming porous and permeable. The dancer’s body becomes movement. This is one strategy for describing affect, the way in which dance does not simply represent something, but points to something outside of subjective expression: movement.
“I move.” When you write the words “I move,” any poet worth his spit knows that the verb trumps the pronoun. That is, the “I” disappears, while “move” persists. (move where? move what? move in what way?) This is not a grammatical differentiation, it’s an aesthetic one. The verb is affective. It makes something happen. The subject, “I” is nebulous, sinking into its own abstraction after endowed with an action. The first thing that an aspiring writer learns is strong verb choice.
A poet knows two types of verbs: active and passive. For example, do not say “the sky is dull.” Say “the sky dulls. ” The verb “dulls” is active. “Is” is passive. The implications of this rudimentary rule form a basis for a poetics of movement. By saying “the sky is dull” one attempts to give more information about the subject, to point back to “the dull sky.” Active verbs point outward. They do not insist on what the sky is, but instead, focus on what the sky does. “Dulls” moves away from the subject. The verb endows the sky with a power that surpasses its identity or attributes. Passive verbs create stillness.
