Samhi C.

Features Editor

skc5908@psu.edu

“I know what you are all thinking? Him again?” There were the opening words of Professor Tom Noyes as he introduced Professor George Looney last Thursday night at 6 P.M. in Metzgar.

Soon after his fiction collection that you read about “The Visibility of Things Long Submerged”, Professor Looney’s poetry collection “The Acrobatic Company of the Invisible” was also published. 

I will not tell you about the collection beyond saying this poetry is beautiful to the extent that it makes you laugh and cry and dwell on the realism. It will move you in a way that we often expect from literature and yet only find so often. It will affect you in the way it affected one student who began to cry, croaking out words to form a question that went unasked. 

I will also share that my favorite line in the collection so far comes from the poem “Rituals in Lingerie and Insomnia”: “So often | nothing more than intent separates what we love | and what we tolerate”. 

The rest, you can read for yourselves by getting a copy of his book which I highly recommend. 

Beyond this, I want to spend time instead sharing words of writerly and humanly wisdom that you will not be able to find documented anywhere else. 

When asked where the inspiration for his poetry came from and what his lines mean, Looney responded with a number of things, all accurate in their own regard:

1. “Some of the poems I read tonight do have elements of my actual life.” Among those elements is the largest covered bridge in America. “Actually, it’s a nice covered bridge” Looney stated. 
2. “Although, to be honest, I’m guessing… you’re trying to create the illusion of authenticity.”

The second answer is the one that intrigues me. 

Professor Looney is a self-proclaimed realist but more so than the jokes he makes about he may not even make it to retirement, proof of his realism is his admission of a practice that most writers partake in and, yet, not many admit. 

Truth be told, I once upon a time used to think that what separated the great writers from the rest is that they spent more time trying to make their work meaningful. But Looney’s words were a reminder that this is not true. In fact, many writers only know what their work means after it enters the world, moves others, mingles with the existing thoughts and emotions floating in the air between the page and the mind. 

And in fact, to admit this is the most authentic thing that a writer or any artist can do. To admit that sometimes we do things simply because we felt like it. Because sometimes that is the more powerful artistic and human move. Sometimes, even if we cannot consciously recognize the mechanisms by which we decide to use a certain word in a poem or a certain color in a painting, deciding not to overthink it is the best decision we can make, trusting in our instinct, our subconscious, and trusting that eventually someone may discover whatever truth was closest to that intent. 

To that end, I pass on some advice, not only to those who are writers, but those who are thinkers, creators, and human: “Watch out for that ‘invisible’; it’s tricky. And use it…”