While the conventions of the physical or digital book tend to establish a relatively standardized physical relationship among poems (e.g., poems are titled, each poem begins on a new page, font type and size remain relatively consistent, perhaps there are sections), relationships among one poem and others in a manuscript are not merely a result such material design conventions. Though not perfectly analogous, I propose that the proxemics of poetry is a way to understand how poems function together in the material and conceptual space that is a book. Proxemics, then, is a way to understand relationships among physical–social human bodies in the material world. As the space fills, everyone turns to face the doors, trying to avoid eye contact and maintain an accepted social distance of arm’s length, both for their own comfort and as a courtesy to others. If someone is alone, that person is likely to stand near the middle, and if a second person gets on, the first tends to move to a corner. Consider the relatively standardized behavior of people in the confined space of an elevator in the United States. Public distance, on the other hand, is what we experience in the lecture hall or the park. Intimate distance, for instance, is generally reserved for romantic or sexual partnerships, parent-child relationships, and medical examinations.
Proxemics is the study of how humans use our bodies in physical space in ways that produce behavior, including verbal and nonverbal social interaction. When we talk about our personal space as human beings, we are talking about proxemics. I’m interested in principles that underpin a poetry collection’s organization and thereby orchestrate the experience of the book as a book as well as the experience of each poem as part of a book. Maybe a rose is a rose is a rose, but a rose among roses or among tulips and orchids is both a rose and part of a bouquet or garden.
Tidiness isn’t where we’re going with poetry, but the very materiality of a book-even in a digital format-is not a haphazard mess either. While individual poems have meaning, a book is a composition formed by a large group of poems. Then, Alleyne points to experimental psychologist Johan Wagemans, who goes further: “‘Usually, perception is after meaning, but when you start playing with images in a way like this, it’s clear that it’s not about meaning, it’s about the special relationship between things and how they form a group or a composition.’”4 Now, we’re really onto something for poetry. I enjoy looking at flowers or tasting wine, appreciate the experience, and even feel such experiences enrich my life, but I don’t have expertise in the realms of flowers or wine.Īlleyne’s article goes on to suggest, “Though the individual components depicted are familiar, the new content requires that the viewer look for more than just literal meaning in the image.”3 Poets too are going for more than literal meanings. Which books are vases bursting with lush blooms, and which books are “hyper-organized” arrangements? What’s the range in between, and why does this matter-or seem to matter? Blincoe offers one way of thinking that’s akin to a poet’s: “ ‘It’s just another way of looking at things that other people aren’t willing to put in the time for.’”2 A way of looking that other people don’t take time to do might be considered expertise. In an article by culture writer Allyssia Alleyne titled “This Is Your Brain on Tidiness: The Psychology of ‘Organization Porn,’” photographer and Instagrammer Emily Blincoe says, “‘You could take a photo of a bouquet of flowers or you could spend five hours clipping the tops and arranging them by gradient.’”1 And as goofy as that may sound, that distinction in flower-arranging, it seems to me, has everything to do with how poetry books are organized. The Writer's Chronicle - February 2023 In Working Order, or Proxemics & the Poetry Book
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