Poetic Creativity

Re-Writing or Writing? 2

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As one of my friends mentioned recently, writing is indeed a lonely profession. However, it is essential to define what we mean by writing, for that one word covers so many different things from shopping and laundry lists to twitter, tweets, e-mails, and blogs to journals, poetry, prose poems, flash fiction, short stories, novels, to skits, plays, ads, film scripts etc etc … clearly the one word WRITING covers a vast area of understanding and its associations vary in each of these forms. While some of parts of the creative process used in writing is lonely work, some parts are clearly social, hence social media, and demand a different thought process, and a different response and a set of different needs for a response. A writer, for example, does not (and should not) expect instant gratification from the preliminary version of a laundry list, a sonnet, or a short story, whereas one might expect (and hope for) a quick response from an e-mail sent to a friend in a sequence of e-mail exchanges.

In the same way that writing has so many different connotations, so does the act of revising. Some acts of writing need revision, others don’t. Social media is fraught with danger because it is all too often instant thought written down and fired off, sometimes in the heat of the moment. With no live facial expression to guide and no tonal variations to shape the recipient’s response,  there is much room for misunderstanding as writer and reader may well (and often do) attach different meanings to what appear, on the surface, to be the same words.

“Shooting from the lip”– this neat phrase illuminates the perils of the politician on the high wire of the televised interview. There have been many such instant responses, words shot out on the spur of the moment, instantly regretted, and endlessly debated, described, retracted, revised, doctored and spin, span, spun. Fortunately for most writers, their words are rarely exposed to the publicity spotlight that picks out each possible meaning and rarely is the everyday writer banished to the fiery flame.

My motto, for many years, rather than shooting from the lip, has been “think before you ink.” This means thinking out the possible ramifications of any combinations of words before putting them down on paper. Once the words are written, “think before you ink” takes on the meaning of a review and a double think before clicking the send button and allowing the selected combination to wing its way towards the intended and unsuspecting reader. Long ago, Horace (65 – 8 BCE) wrote that nescit vox missa reverti / a word once spoken can never be recalled. We ignore his warning at our peril: for his words still hold true. For me, the necessity of thinking about that word, before it is spoken, before it is written, before it is sent, is paramount.

This brings me to my central idea: if we are serious, deep-thinking, creative writers, rather than instant action, social media, quick response specialists, then thought and revision are necessary parts of our writing skills. Unfortunately, revision also presents the writer with another set of problems. T. S. Eliot has expressed the problem of choosing the right word in the right place better than anyone. He writes

Words strain,
crack and sometimes break, under the burden,
under the tension, slip, slide, perish,
decay with imprecision, will not stay in place,
will not stay still.

And that is only one among many of the writer’s problems: which word to choose and what exactly is the right word in the right place. The examination and re-examination of the words we use is an exercise in itself. If we write rhyming poetry do we stick with the easy rhyme, the first one that comes into our head? Do we shuffle and cut the rhyme scheme, change the order of the sentences, search and re-search for le mot juste, the one that adds meaning and rhythm as well as rhyme? I would like to think that we do, but I know that all too often we take the easy way out. I know I do. And the words themselves are like shifting sands, drifting, moving around, changing their potentialites, not standing still.

And what if we decide to revise? Are we, as revisers, the same poets who penned the initial thought? In other words, do we feel the same way now as we did when we initially put pen to paper? By extension, what do we gain when we revise and what do we lose? I would answer those questions first by referring back to Heraclitus who, according to Plutarch, wrote that it is not possible to step into the same river twice, nor can one come into contact twice with the same person for people and states of mind may well change between meeting and meeting, and people are rarely ever quite the same. For Heraclitus, as the waters flow, so the river changes, and it is never the same river, even though you think it is. For T. S. Eliot, on the other hand,

… every attempt
is a wholly new start, and a different kind of failure
because one has only learned to get the better of words
for the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which
one is no longer disposed to say it.

Clearly, then, revision is fraught with peril and this is why some people prefer to preserve their thoughts in the original state of inspiration and never revise them. To revise or not to revise: the choice is yours. In my case, revision is always a part of the writing process. In that sense, I think of myself not just as a writer, but also as a re-writer. In that second guise, I revisit my work regularly, re-reading, re-thinking, and, where I deem it necessary, re-writing as well.

Re-Writing or Writing?

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I think of myself as a writer, but when push comes to really thinking about it, I am indeed a person who re-writes and re-vises continuously. In order to do this, it is necessary to read and re-read. If a word, or even a comma, in a poem troubles me, then it is a sign that something is wrong, somewhere. Whenever I am faced by this sensation that “something is wrong”, then I re-read, re-think, re-plan, re-vise, re-visit and re-write.

I try to re-work and re-think by asking myself (a) what is missing and (b) what can I add and (c) how am I linking things and (d) am I over-complicating and (e) what is the burning heart of the matter and (f) what am I really trying to say and (g) have I managed to actually say it. If the answer to any of these questions raises even more questions, then it’s back to the drawing board. No: a re-writer’s life is not an easy one.

I usually keep my early variants to poems (and other prose works) in chronological order and I find it useful to go back to that first precious moment of inspiration. Did I stay true to it? Did it change? How? Was the change for the better or for the worse? Occasionally, re-writing takes the original spirit right of the piece. It is sometimes very, very hard to re-write that inspiration back in, without re-turning to the original. If I am in difficulty, I will re-write from a different point of view: another person speaking, perhaps, or in prose, or as a stream of consciousness. This exercise, and that should probably be written in the plural, will either present me with a viable alternative or confirm me in (a) my original wording or (b) a new form of wording. Another simple (relatively speaking) exercise is to check for structure, theme, metaphor, and wording: are they all neatly tied together and well-linked?

This happened to me today with Obsidian’s Edge 14 & 15. Neither of my many attempts at taking Dainzú and placing it into words on a page felt right. Something was missing. But what? I couldn’t put my finger on what was going wrong. I spoke with Jiminy, my friendly Cricket Conscience, and he asked me several questions that I couldn’t answer. Luckily, I was able to choose the TV Show option phone a friend, so I did.

My friend too was troubled by these poems and said that I hadn’t managed to produce anything that seemed to express my better poetic self as he knew it. We talked out several possibilities. “Perhaps you need a lizard,” he said. “It’s a dry, dusty landscape. It can sit on a wall. But don’t worry: you’ll think of something.”

When I put the phone down, I went back to work. Sure, I was struggling with OE 15, but when I checked back to OE 14, I saw that I had been struggling with that too, but without realizing it. What to do? First, I tried writing about the lizard; then I tried adding water and lack of water; then I re-wrote from the point of view of the old lady in the poem. This certainly felt better. Then I shifted images from OE 15 back into OE 14. Then I re-wrote OE 14 from the point of view of the old woman. The poem started to feel better.

The secret, I think, is for me to relax, to be myself, to let the poem flow into me, and then to let it flow out again. I must remember not to force my writing, but to let it flow, and to continue writing as I want to write while paying attention to the small details of which I am becoming more and more aware every day. We are all creative — or we wouldn’t be here, reading this: we must let that creativity flow.

Friends are essential. Writing groups are useful. But the real secret is to develop and polish our own creativity. We must also learn to develop our own voices and to have confidence in those creative sparks that dwell within us. It is only by entering and re-entering that personal creative space that we can write and re-write in the way we really want. And we must have courage: the courage to tear down the wall and free that which is within and let it roam, un-fenced and at will. Like the cattle, like the dogs, like the wind-blown dust my old lady will see and feel, sandpaper on her skin, in the next version of her poem.

 

 

Comments: A Beginner’s Guide

Comments: A Beginner’s Guide

(for Al, again;
written tongue in cheek
as a follow-up to
Winning not Whining —
to be read cum grano salis)

When a poet enters a poetry competition, comments are sometimes offered as part of the fee for entering. These may be made by the judge(s) or by a pre-selection committee. The pre-selection committee, in large poetry competitions, will sometimes filter the many entries, sending a filtered short list through to the judges.

Filtering Committee

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Basic rules of commenting (1):

Say nothing negative. Always find something positive to say. Whatever you do, do not turn the competitors away from future competitions. The organizers need the money the hopeful entrants provide.

Rhyme:

When faced with an entry that rhymes, the judge is encouraged to encourage the entrant to think of alternate forms of writing. Comments like: “Have you considered writing this poem in free verse?” or “This might work as a prose poem. Have you tried that format?” are considered better than “Your verse sucks”or “Your rhyming words make no sense except as rhyme words. Couldn’t you find anything else?” Equally abrupt and dismissive is “Read more rhyming poetry: your almost non-existent rhyme scheme needs national assistance.”

Free verse:

When faced with an entry in free verse, stick to the alternate approach “Have you considered making the poem rhyme?” or “This might work better as a prose poem.” Such comments are considered more acceptable and polished than “Stick to essay writing” or “Read more free verse: you need to understand where to put words in appropriate places on the page.” or “Blank spaces must have meaning.”

Judge Mark I

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Individual words:

As soon as an unacceptable word is found, and in some cases the sooner the better, the entry may be rejected. Examples: Adverbs ending in -ly “Stephen King advises against the use of adverbs ending in -ly.” or less used words like upon or amongst   or “Upon / amongst — so out of fashion: use your computer’s Thesaurus for contemporary expressions.” The commentator is advised against using chic continental expressions like very passé or très outmoded as they create a sense of absolute inferiority in the competitor. Latin and things like that should, ipso facto, never be countenanced as they may upset the competitor’s  status quo.

Meaning:

If the judges cannot understand a word of what is before them, then phrases like very cryptic style or highly personal language are preferable to “Total nonsense.” or “Absolute Jabberwocky.” or “Never heard of Fowler?” or “This needs Footnotes.”

Punctuation:

The rules here are simple. If there’s punctuation, then suggest dropping it. If there is no punctuation, suggest adding it. Same thing with capital letters.

Judge Mark II

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Length of submission:

Short poems can be dismissed with a comment like “You have some potential here: the poem could be lengthened in order to develop that potential.”

Long poems can be dismissed with comments like “The judge(s) find this a little bit wordy. You should consider shortening it.” Avoid attempted wit along the lines of “Nice: have you tried writing rhyming telegrams” or “This could (avoid should) be reduced to a rhyming couplet.”

Basic rules of commenting (2):

Find something positive to say and remember, sincerity has nothing to do with it; in fact, forget sincerity, unless you wish to end your comments with a phrase like “in sincerity”.  If the judges are really at a loss for something positive to say, then a warm general comment will always be welcome. For example: “I love your use of the definite article.” “You have a wonderful way with small words.” or “All your commas are in the right places.” Such positivity will probably keep the competitor competing and the entrance money rolling in.

Striations in the Heart

(for my friend John S.
who breeds salamanders
in his garden pond)

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There are striations in my heart, so deep, a lizard could lie there, unseen, and wait for tomorrow’s sun. Timeless, the worm at the apple’s core waiting for its world to end. Seculae seculorum: the centuries rushing headlong. Matins: wide-eyed this owl hooting in the face of day. Somewhere, I remember a table spread for two. Breakfast. An open door. “Where are you going, dear?” Something bright has fled the world. The sun unfurls shadows. The blood whirls stars around the body. “It has gone.” she said. “The magic. I no longer tremble at your touch.” The silver birch wades at dawn’s bright edge. Somewhere, tight lips, a blaze of anger, a challenge spat in the wind’s taut face. High-pitched the rabbit’s grief in its silver snare. The midnight moon deep in a trance. If only I could kick away this death’s head, this sow’s bladder, this full moon drifting high in a cloudless sky.

This is the prose version, from Fundy Lines (2002). The prose version was based on an extract from a longer poem that first appeared in Though Lovers Be Lost (2000). I am always fascinated by the ways in which prose and poetry differ in their structure on the page. In particular, I am fascinated by how what seems to be the same, or a similar idea, changes according to format and context. Lagartija (below) is an extract from a longer poem. This became the prose version quoted above.

Lagartija

There are striations
in my heart, so deep,
a lizard could lie there,
unseen, and wait
for tomorrow’s sun.

A knot of
sorrow in daylight’s throat;
the heart a great stone
cast in placid water,
each ripple
knitted to its mate.

Timeless,
the worm at the apple’s core
waiting for its world to end.

Seculae seculorum:
the centuries
rushing headlong.

Matins:
wide-eyed
this owl hooting
in the face of day.

Somewhere,
I remember
a table spread for two.
Breakfast.
An open door.
“Where are you going, dear?”

Something bright has fled the world.
The sun unfurls shadows.
The blood whirls stars
around the body.

“It has gone.” she said. “The magic.
I no longer tremble at your touch.”

You can drown now
in this liquid
silence.

Or you can rage against this slow snow
whitening the dark space
where yesterday
you placed your friend.

The silver birch wades
at dawn’s bright edge.

Somewhere,
sunshine will break
a delphinium
into blossom.

Tight lips.
A blaze of anger.
A challenge spat
in the wind’s face.

High-pitched
the rabbit’s grief
in its silver snare.
The midnight moon
deep in a trance.

If only I could kick away
this death’s head,
this sow’s bladder.

Full moon
drifting
high in a cloudless sky.

 

Here is the original poem. It is the third in sequence from Though Lovers Be Lost. I find that each version has a life of its own and all are slightly different. Beauty does indeed lie in the eye of the beholder: poetry too.

Building on Sand

1
Everywhere the afternoon
gropes steadily to night.
Some people have lit fires;
others read by candlelight.

Geese litter the river bank,
drifts of snow their whiteness,
stained with freshet mud;
or is it the black
of midnight’s swift advance?

They walk on thin ice
at civilization’s edge.
Around them,
the universe’s clock
ticks slowly down.

2
Who forced that scream
through the needle’s eye?

Gathering night,
the moon on the sea bed
magnified by water.

Inverted,
the big dipper,
hanging its question
from the sky’s dark eye lid.

Ghosts of departed
constellations
walk the night.

Pale stars scythed
by moonlight
bob phosphorescent
flowers on the flood.

3
The flesh that bonds;
the bones that walk;
the shoulders and waist
on which I hang
my clothes.

Now they stand alone
beneath the moon
and listen at the water’s edge
to the whispering trees.

They have caught the words
of snowflakes
strung at midnight
between the stars.

Moonlight is a liquor
running raw within them.

4
There are striations
in my heart, so deep,
a lizard could lie there,
unseen, and wait
for tomorrow’s sun.

A knot of
sorrow in daylight’s throat;
the heart a great stone
cast in placid water,
each ripple
knitted to its mate.

Timeless,
the worm at the apple’s core
waiting for its world to end.

Seculae seculorum:
the centuries
rushing headlong.

5
Matins:
wide-eyed
this owl hooting
in the face of day.

Somewhere,
I remember
a table spread for two.
Breakfast.
An open door.
“Where are you going, dear?”

Something bright has fled the world.
The sun unfurls shadows.
The blood whirls stars
around the body.

“It has gone.” she said. “The magic.
I no longer tremble at your touch.”

6
You can drown now
in this liquid
silence.

Or you can rage against this slow snow
whitening the dark space
where yesterday
you placed your friend.

The silver birch wades
at dawn’s bright edge.

Somewhere,
sunshine will break
a delphinium
into blossom.

7
Tight lips.
A blaze of anger.
A challenge spat
in the wind’s face.

High-pitched
the rabbit’s grief
in its silver snare.
The midnight moon
deep in a trance.

If only I could kick away
this death’s head,
this sow’s bladder.

Full moon
drifting
high in a cloudless sky.

8
After heavy rain
the house shrinks.
Its mandibles close.

A crocodile peace
descends from the jaws of heaven.

I no longer fit my skin.
Iguana spots itch.
Walls encircle me,
hemming me in.

The I Ching sloughs my name:
each lottery ticket,
a bullet.

None with my number.

9
Late last night I thought
I had grasped the mystery:
but when I awoke
I clasped only shadows and sand.