Sometimes an idea grows in my mind and takes off at a tangent in directions not controlled by me. I pick up words and chew them over. I feel and touch and shape and mould them. I mix and savour, dissect and discard them. I find words hiding in forgotten places, unusual words now out of tune. I sift and search and sulk and mope. I gaze into space, chew pencils, can’t eat. At last a poem, like a pot thrown by a potter, tenderly coaxed and nurtured, moulded with love and care, takes life and shape and sings with melody. Easy isn’t it?
Yes just as difficult. I paint portraits in acrylic, pastel and watercolour. Not oil so far but I am doing a course in Drawing and Painting which includes oil painting. Even worse than that; I paint poems. So far I have painted, A billowing cosmic confusion Of russets, violets and blues Meandering colours of rainbows Sating the ocean with hues Also Still hangs the moon like a lantern And stars abseil in the sky While fish skimming by in the moonlight Are constantly yearning to fly This one has beaten me so far. A frisson of gossamer spindrift Like dust devils dancing on waves Wafts salt laden whispers of sirens Seductively oozing from caves I can't manage the, frisson of gossamer spindrift, any ideas?
my work mostly writes itself... i seem to be here just to do a bit of adjusting and polishing after the fact... my writing mind's like one of those newfangled public washroom sinks where you don't even have to turn a tap, but just wave your hand under the faucet, for the water to start... i just let it turn itself on and out flow the words... all i have to do is 'catch' them...
Yes! I think that most true poets have that sense of the words coming through them, and not necessarily from them. I certainly feel that way. I usually start with an image or a metaphor and the words just come through me from there. Afterwards I see if it makes sense. If it doesn't, i discard or tweak. If it does, I sharpen. Most times I'll write a stanza or two, then sharpen the rest as I write it--harnessing the flow of words from their source instead of letting them hit the page first.
It used to be easy. Words came naturally. I didn't even need a starting idea. But now . . . Now my poems are forced. I want to write so much, but the words aren't there anymore. Slowly, I am becoming my own puppet. I have no control and yet I am the one manuevering my life in such a bleak direction.
