Countess
01-08-2008, 03:09 AM
So, what is your poetic style? When you sit down to write, what literary/linguistic tools do you bring to the table? Personally, I am merely a slave to this inner sense that dictates exactly what, when, where and in what order the words will appear, and it is satisfied with nothing less than its own will. It is relentless and demanding - an inner poetic sadist whose main object is to dance with me. It ALWAYS wants to dance, whether it is waltzing or crib walking, or fox trotting - it doesn’t matter, so long as it carried up in sweeping gestures or broken down in synchronized strides.
Sometimes I sit down and think “Perhaps I will try this imagist thing out. I am not going to think about rhythm and flow; I am just going to use images to convey the sentiment.”
“So what kind of images you gonna use?” it says.
“Oh, I was thinking about nature.”
“Nature? It’s been done already - for about 200 years now. Sun, Moon, Stars, Mountain, Ocean, Rock, Lake, Trees, Bees, Fleas, Dogs, Cats, Canaries and Porcupines - there’s nothing that hasn’t been used since Wordsworth’s Lyrical Ballads.”
“Well, okay,” I say. “Then I’ll go the modernist route and use man-made artifices and city life.”
“Side streets and stop lights are the hallmarks of The Beat Generation. Do you really think you can outdo Ginsberg and Kerouac?”
“Well, no.”
“Try again.”
“Well…” I say.
“Why don’t you write what you think and feel, and let the rhythm move you?”
“Nobody cares what I think and feel. Everyone is outward oriented these days. They want to touch, to see, to hear, to smell. They don’t want to look inside my gaping chest cavity to check out my internal organs.”
“Go ahead, then. Write. Write without me.”
I stare at the paper. “I…”
“You can’t write without me, can you? Let me tell you why: whatever talent you have belongs to me. You don’t own me; I own you. I’ll tell you when it’s time to write, what to write, how to write, and I’ll let you know where to start, when to end, and exactly what to say. You are merely an instrument - I need your hands to take down dictation, but I am the evil genius here, not you, understand?”
“Yes master.”
“Good. Now, today we’re going to talk about that fine specimen Aaron. Quick tempo, and once we start, we’re riding it till the end - no breaks, pauses or rest stops. “
THAT is why it is so hard for me to take out or change something in a poem. I hear what this sadistic creature whispered in my ear, and I’ve written it down. Removing or changing something ruins the dance (unless it is replaced with something else with the same emphasis; that will satisfy the being.) Otherwise it’s like I’ve left a step out of the Waltz, and in doing so I’m completely off beat, and 2 steps behind where I should be or ahead of myself. The creature HATES it when I'm out of step. It gets all kinds of frustrated.
Does this make sense or am I a total whack job?
Sometimes I sit down and think “Perhaps I will try this imagist thing out. I am not going to think about rhythm and flow; I am just going to use images to convey the sentiment.”
“So what kind of images you gonna use?” it says.
“Oh, I was thinking about nature.”
“Nature? It’s been done already - for about 200 years now. Sun, Moon, Stars, Mountain, Ocean, Rock, Lake, Trees, Bees, Fleas, Dogs, Cats, Canaries and Porcupines - there’s nothing that hasn’t been used since Wordsworth’s Lyrical Ballads.”
“Well, okay,” I say. “Then I’ll go the modernist route and use man-made artifices and city life.”
“Side streets and stop lights are the hallmarks of The Beat Generation. Do you really think you can outdo Ginsberg and Kerouac?”
“Well, no.”
“Try again.”
“Well…” I say.
“Why don’t you write what you think and feel, and let the rhythm move you?”
“Nobody cares what I think and feel. Everyone is outward oriented these days. They want to touch, to see, to hear, to smell. They don’t want to look inside my gaping chest cavity to check out my internal organs.”
“Go ahead, then. Write. Write without me.”
I stare at the paper. “I…”
“You can’t write without me, can you? Let me tell you why: whatever talent you have belongs to me. You don’t own me; I own you. I’ll tell you when it’s time to write, what to write, how to write, and I’ll let you know where to start, when to end, and exactly what to say. You are merely an instrument - I need your hands to take down dictation, but I am the evil genius here, not you, understand?”
“Yes master.”
“Good. Now, today we’re going to talk about that fine specimen Aaron. Quick tempo, and once we start, we’re riding it till the end - no breaks, pauses or rest stops. “
THAT is why it is so hard for me to take out or change something in a poem. I hear what this sadistic creature whispered in my ear, and I’ve written it down. Removing or changing something ruins the dance (unless it is replaced with something else with the same emphasis; that will satisfy the being.) Otherwise it’s like I’ve left a step out of the Waltz, and in doing so I’m completely off beat, and 2 steps behind where I should be or ahead of myself. The creature HATES it when I'm out of step. It gets all kinds of frustrated.
Does this make sense or am I a total whack job?