09-09-2013, 05:14 PM
Hi Keith…hope you’re sitting comfortably! (sorry this is a long paragraph)
Initial thought process : I wanted to re-explore the process of the surreal poetry exercise, which in itself had eventually yielded “On the block” which was about the writing process generally…and behind this thought was some inspiration from other poems I had been reading – about snow. This one in particular “Through fields of virgin snow I roam…” by Sergey Alexandrovich Yesenin.
And in particular the first two lines:- Through fields of virgin snow I roam,
Fresh lilies bursting in my heart.
…made me think about the process of writing. (My thoughts being the virgin field of snow was the cold and hostile paper…beautiful in its own right, but soiled once I have defiled it with my marks; and the white lilies, again were beautiful creative thoughts, but with my heart they just get to burst and die because they are trapped there)….so off I trotted back to my poem feeling suitably inspired. (Oh dear! )
So stanza by stanza
Walking in snow shoes. I hate my title. At the time it reflected my total lack of satisfaction with what I had written. (Ie clumsy and lacking in many ways to my mind). But now I don’t like the title because, as Milo would say it feels “faux poetic” and I think it does not add any understanding or depth to the poem.
I feel the imperfections; A direct lift from my previous poem. Wanted the poems to be linked as a pair. In this case I wanted the sense of touch (finger touch) to be brought out.
each a unique ‘Snow-flake’, wanted to be a double link with the image of snow and of wood fibre made into paper. Want the beauty of this to begin to be seen through the image.
of gram weighted troughs and ridge tops running my fingers over the paper with a blind man’s perspective. (Slowly and with care for details) Every least little ripple or lump has meaning and speaks words of individually.
on pristine, carbon dated sheets. Beauty, born from the ages. Linked to the trees.
My tired thoughts seek to settle and roost wanted a jarring effect in these lines. The effect of the joy of fresh fallen snow that someone rushes out to see and enjoy and yet the very act of this defiles the snow. Settle and roost was an unexpected thought that wrote itself which I liked.
like a cloud of sun-downing starlings. …so allowed it to flow on into the next line…And yet there is a form of beauty, it is just set amongst noise and chaos.
Had a huge pause whilst writing here because the poem had taken over…decided the poem was more competent than I …but then changed my mind and this rest of the poem is the result of me trying wrestle control back…but decided at the end that this was what the poem was about so decided to go with the result as it fitted with the surreal origins to my mind.
…so…This next stanza I am winning, but I think the result is ugly. Next stanza, I give up and the poem takes over again. (I like the affect better but what happened to my poem?) Only in stanza 4 do I finally get comfortable with the process and feel I am not fighting with my poem. This was why I posted it for mentoring. I often read the comment “don’t let the poem take over” “you control the poem not the other way round” But had never experienced this before. It was definitely a surreal experience arguing with my own poem!
Each bare branched idea Representing a line of poetry. The rawness and stripped down process before any art is applied. A winter branch,
clings, half formed to the tip Like a last leaf before the darkness of winter has stripped everything away. I cling to any creative thoughts but they seem fragile and as likely to blow away in the wind or crumble to dust.
of a bonsai tree. Whilst slips of chaos, The wrestling continues… bonsai tree = line lifted directly from other poem – my pencil. (also made from trees - that tell lies). Seeking to project an image of confused and formless thoughts.
drip cooling molten dross off the end of the pencil, back to defiling the snow field
on the un-tilled fields of pressed perfection; the blank paper…many of them. The sterile and daunting empty page before you.
splintering the compressed calm of my mind. I am trying to be in a beautiful place, so that I can make beautiful images and instead the poem is causing a lot of anger issues.
Startled concepts leap sky-borne. The flightiness of the creative process. I think I have it and then it is out of reach.
In sightless swirling flocks The way that the shape of thoughts is made in the mind from out of no-where and they seem to grow and take form, unconnected and unprompted by whatever you are doing at the time. The unconscious mind.
they flee the blotched approach; the frustration of trying to hard to be a poet, the more you try the worse it gets. You cannot force the write it has to come naturally.
fledglings on a maiden flight but just as you are ready to give up it begins to take shape before your eyes and without any effort on your part.
that quickly merge and coalesce. Birthed
in rivers of delight, the image forms and grows. The joy of writing and the creative process in general.
Swooping low to kiss a virgin field of snow, an image of lightness of touch and beauty. The simplicity and rush of finding your muse and embracing your first love. (of writing)
the fluid thought compacts
into a single, graphite coloured flow. Being in the zone
Twice, the creative wave reaches a climax
and falls as if dead upon an un-read page. The editing proesss.
The final decent is decisive and smooth. The final edit
The imperfections are covered and soothed. The poem was right! The image of starlings coming in for an evening roost is a far more interesting one as a metaphor for the creative process. (The paper and pencil are just tools).
So the poem is just a draft I have made no attempt to look at metre or structure. As I said when first posted I wanted to explore the mentoring process. I have a question in my mind about this idea of how a poem is formed after writing this one.
Initial thought process : I wanted to re-explore the process of the surreal poetry exercise, which in itself had eventually yielded “On the block” which was about the writing process generally…and behind this thought was some inspiration from other poems I had been reading – about snow. This one in particular “Through fields of virgin snow I roam…” by Sergey Alexandrovich Yesenin.
And in particular the first two lines:- Through fields of virgin snow I roam,
Fresh lilies bursting in my heart.
…made me think about the process of writing. (My thoughts being the virgin field of snow was the cold and hostile paper…beautiful in its own right, but soiled once I have defiled it with my marks; and the white lilies, again were beautiful creative thoughts, but with my heart they just get to burst and die because they are trapped there)….so off I trotted back to my poem feeling suitably inspired. (Oh dear! )
So stanza by stanza
Walking in snow shoes. I hate my title. At the time it reflected my total lack of satisfaction with what I had written. (Ie clumsy and lacking in many ways to my mind). But now I don’t like the title because, as Milo would say it feels “faux poetic” and I think it does not add any understanding or depth to the poem.
I feel the imperfections; A direct lift from my previous poem. Wanted the poems to be linked as a pair. In this case I wanted the sense of touch (finger touch) to be brought out.
each a unique ‘Snow-flake’, wanted to be a double link with the image of snow and of wood fibre made into paper. Want the beauty of this to begin to be seen through the image.
of gram weighted troughs and ridge tops running my fingers over the paper with a blind man’s perspective. (Slowly and with care for details) Every least little ripple or lump has meaning and speaks words of individually.
on pristine, carbon dated sheets. Beauty, born from the ages. Linked to the trees.
My tired thoughts seek to settle and roost wanted a jarring effect in these lines. The effect of the joy of fresh fallen snow that someone rushes out to see and enjoy and yet the very act of this defiles the snow. Settle and roost was an unexpected thought that wrote itself which I liked.
like a cloud of sun-downing starlings. …so allowed it to flow on into the next line…And yet there is a form of beauty, it is just set amongst noise and chaos.
Had a huge pause whilst writing here because the poem had taken over…decided the poem was more competent than I …but then changed my mind and this rest of the poem is the result of me trying wrestle control back…but decided at the end that this was what the poem was about so decided to go with the result as it fitted with the surreal origins to my mind.
…so…This next stanza I am winning, but I think the result is ugly. Next stanza, I give up and the poem takes over again. (I like the affect better but what happened to my poem?) Only in stanza 4 do I finally get comfortable with the process and feel I am not fighting with my poem. This was why I posted it for mentoring. I often read the comment “don’t let the poem take over” “you control the poem not the other way round” But had never experienced this before. It was definitely a surreal experience arguing with my own poem!
Each bare branched idea Representing a line of poetry. The rawness and stripped down process before any art is applied. A winter branch,
clings, half formed to the tip Like a last leaf before the darkness of winter has stripped everything away. I cling to any creative thoughts but they seem fragile and as likely to blow away in the wind or crumble to dust.
of a bonsai tree. Whilst slips of chaos, The wrestling continues… bonsai tree = line lifted directly from other poem – my pencil. (also made from trees - that tell lies). Seeking to project an image of confused and formless thoughts.
drip cooling molten dross off the end of the pencil, back to defiling the snow field
on the un-tilled fields of pressed perfection; the blank paper…many of them. The sterile and daunting empty page before you.
splintering the compressed calm of my mind. I am trying to be in a beautiful place, so that I can make beautiful images and instead the poem is causing a lot of anger issues.
Startled concepts leap sky-borne. The flightiness of the creative process. I think I have it and then it is out of reach.
In sightless swirling flocks The way that the shape of thoughts is made in the mind from out of no-where and they seem to grow and take form, unconnected and unprompted by whatever you are doing at the time. The unconscious mind.
they flee the blotched approach; the frustration of trying to hard to be a poet, the more you try the worse it gets. You cannot force the write it has to come naturally.
fledglings on a maiden flight but just as you are ready to give up it begins to take shape before your eyes and without any effort on your part.
that quickly merge and coalesce. Birthed
in rivers of delight, the image forms and grows. The joy of writing and the creative process in general.
Swooping low to kiss a virgin field of snow, an image of lightness of touch and beauty. The simplicity and rush of finding your muse and embracing your first love. (of writing)
the fluid thought compacts
into a single, graphite coloured flow. Being in the zone
Twice, the creative wave reaches a climax
and falls as if dead upon an un-read page. The editing proesss.
The final decent is decisive and smooth. The final edit
The imperfections are covered and soothed. The poem was right! The image of starlings coming in for an evening roost is a far more interesting one as a metaphor for the creative process. (The paper and pencil are just tools).
So the poem is just a draft I have made no attempt to look at metre or structure. As I said when first posted I wanted to explore the mentoring process. I have a question in my mind about this idea of how a poem is formed after writing this one.