Journey of a Poem: Part 2

At the beginning of October, I share the first draft of a poem which, in all fairness, was more of a rant. In the meantime, I’ve shared it with my beloved poetry mentor in Provence, Karen McDermott, and also read it out at my local writing group, so I’ve had some feedback and made some changes.

editing2

One major area of reader concern was that I need to make it clearer from the outset that there are two people involved in the poem: a couple quarrelling. The other suggestion was to include more ‘out’ words, like outshine, outrun, outdo. I took both of those onboard.

I also decided that one whole stanza, the one with the invalid in bed expecting to be waited upon hand and foot, didn’t work very well (although it was what triggered the furious poem initially). So that came out and I reworked some of the other ideas, extending them into stanzas of their own.  The passwords and apps in the first stanza became much more about a certain type of masculinity which uses technology as a weapon and rolls his eyes when women are not interested in constantly playing with gadgets. The scientific depth became more of a weapon of derision in its own ‘mansplaining’ stanza. The Facebook foxiness and offshore squirreling references became more obviously financial with the introduction of a game of Monopoly.

monopoly

So here’s the second/third draft. The fourth stanza is deliberately longer than the others, which are all composed of four lines. It’s the break in patterns which makes things interesting. As Laura Kasischke said during her masterclass: ‘If I were in the hands of a poet who obviously has no idea where line breaks occur, just chops up a piece of prose into shorter lines, then a break in pattern is random, but if it’s a poet you can trust then you can see it’s deliberate and it adds to the meaning.’ That longer stanza marks how endless the Christmas season can seem when you are trapped in the house with someone lacking empathy and determined to always be in the right.

Outwit with passwords
you outgun me
fat on apps, encrypted accounts,
grin at attempts to follow your technology

Outrun me in the gym
keep yourself trim
belly sucked in and crow superior
while flab won’t cease to haunt me

Facebook foxiness masks
offshore squirreling
in a Monopoly game where
you outdo my every move

Holiday season and you outfrown
my anxious hiccups
drowning out conversational gambits
with incontrovertible evidence
well-placed asides
oh that scientific depth

Outmother me, won’t you,
all laughter and mad tickling
masking the many hours of boredom
which you refused to partake

Soon you will outsource me
but still keep allure of long-distance parenting
Swiss chocolate vs. squished pies
drowned in bitter custard.

piecustard

I’ve not added much punctuation to the original, but am wondering if it might be more effective to have a large first letter for each stanza, especially if it’s all O, like in an illuminated medieval manuscript. Or is that too artificial? I’d have to change stanzas 3 and 4 to start with O, but can leave the last one as is, for more of a contrast and resolution.

Now for the most difficult thing: the title. I vaguely thought of ‘Outnumbered’, or ‘Outfoxed’, but other possibilities include ‘Outlier’ or ‘On the Way Out’ or ‘Getting Out’. But I am not sure that insisting on the repetition of ‘out’ in the title isn’t overkill. What do you think?

Old Pal Poetry and Capricious Prose

When I thought about the different effect that prose and poetry have on me, and how I feel about writing both, it surprised me to discover that I used the pronouns ‘she’ for prose and ‘he’ for poetry. At this moment in real life, I seek out female companionship, which I find more nurturing, but in writing I seem to find a home in poetry when I am unable to write prose.  I wonder what Jung would make of that?

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Prose taunts and haunts me – she blows hot and cold. Sometimes I love her to bits, sometimes I feel close to strangling her. I can never approach  her unprepared. She requires, nay, she demands a lot of love and attention; I often don’t have the time to give her all that she deserves. Then she neglects me, slams the door in my face, throws a tantrum. I spend weeks, even months, trying to woo her back, but there is no sign of life from her capricious majesty.

She is also the mistress of comparisons. She has no qualms about telling me that her other suitors are better, tidier, more organised, more romantic, more dashing, more, more, more…

I have tried to flirt with her younger sister, Short Story, or her niece, Flash Fiction, but it’s Prose the Novel whom I love best. She knows it, I know it. No amount of success with the others would ever make up for the loss of her.

Poetry is my refuge when Prose refuses to cooperate.

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When I cannot find the words, Poetry takes over like an old chum. Knows me best, understands the unspoken, the wildest metaphors and similes. I say a carrot is like a star and Poetry smiles in his gentle, light-filled way and only ever replies: ‘Why not?’

Poetry is the one who soothes my nightmares, unknots the wrinkles on my face and in my mind. He encourages me to discover myself, and if I don’t come back with answers… well, so what? He’ll still be there for me.

Autumn Haikus

Although I have a business webinar to run later on today, my thoughts are very much focused on a selection of poems I will be submitting for a competition. So here are some poems which will not make the grade, but which suit the season.

From Wikimedia
From Wikimedia

Burnt-ochre leaves run

alongside my car. Warm hug

after sleepless nights.

 

Ghost-white snails clinging

at the end of hot summer:

let go of grass blade

 

Distant bark of dogs

embrace sun darting through leaves

then pop of shooting!

 

wp_20161023_08_57_40_proOlives hanging shy

colourless maidens bustling

in their silver gowns.

 

Leaves in frost casing.

Darting in the undergrowth –

hoary platitudes.

From inspirationgreen.com
From inspirationgreen.com

 

 

Poetry Immersion in Geneva

What a delight it was to be back in Geneva this past weekend and plunge into the refreshing, healing power of poetry!

Lac Leman on a typical November day...
Lac Leman on a typical November day…

I attended a poetry workshop and masterclass organised by the Geneva Writers’ Group, with guest instructor Laura Kasischke. I’d read and admired Laura’s poetry and novels and was very keen to hear her in person. The workshop was everything I had hoped for and more and you can see some of my initial impressions of it on the GWG blog.

Prose can not quite do it justice, so instead I will attempt a confetti of poetic impressions, like petals gathered from the quotations, ideas and timed writing exercises we listened to over the course of these two days.

Laura Kasischke at Payot Rive.
Laura Kasischke at Payot Rive.

You can’t create compassion with compassion, or emotion with emotion
where is the body, where are your senses?
I have no way to express this in words
so I just sit down with a pen and try to find the words
it’s the very essence of being
but it has to use the language of shared experience

The recipe for writing a poem?
It’s simple.
Nothing to do with subject matter.
It comes from somewhere else, as if your mind
and pen is seized by someone
the poem was coming to him
although he had yet to hear the words
he knew it was already written

wp_20161120_12_55_16_proSharp edges she slices to
control the slopes
feel the reassuring bite
and crunch of bones and dreams beneath her

poetic and creative insights come not haphazardly
but only in those areas in which we are intensively
committed
on which we concentrate our waking, conscious experience

wp_20161120_16_55_21_proa writer who means to outlive the useful rages
and despairs of youth
must somehow learn to endure
the desert of writer’s block

Nothing was in the mind that was not first in the senses.
When our mind is actively thinking about one thing,
we can be writing about something far more interesting
unawares
I throw a lot of stuff away
better start from scratch then spend too many years
on a mediocre poem

wp_20161122_12_51_49_proThere’s plenty more where that came from

The time-maker, the eye-maker, the voice-maker, the maker
of stars, of space, of comic surprises
bent together
over the future

I’d rather be a restaurant that is not to everyone’s liking
than the lowest common denominator
of McDonald’s.

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Poem about understanding other cultures

Or real curiosity and sympathy and trying to listen to other cultures, subcultures, minorities, humans who have different opinions to us. I still remember with a shudder the businessman I met at a networking meeting in 2009 or so, who said: ‘What’s the need for any cross-cultural awareness training? We all travel nowadays!’

Romanian tradition to welcome your guests with bread and salt. From doxologia.ro
Romanian tradition to welcome your guests with bread and salt. From doxologia.ro

Let Me Help

Your hands pick up, put down, in gestures trained,

your lip curls where a dimple was once placed.

You ignore the salt, the braided bread my family

hands out on a platter.

You wash down their fulsome questions with

my uncles’s plum brandy,

solemnly incline your head, so we can

appreciate your importance

your Western ways.

Let me help you move that suitcase

out of my life

but not too far

not next door

with their political leanings

and teeth of alabaster.

5 Days in Provence: A Working Holiday

Karen and Jack’s house in Provence may be a little corner of paradise, but I wasn’t just going to laze around in a night-gown and listen to harp music all day. I had tremendous plans going there: I was going to finish my novel and send it to my mentor for structural edits. But that was based on the flawed assumption I made back in early June that I would have spent a total of 5 weeks on the novel by now. Needless to say, that did not happen between July and October. I wrote precisely zero words since mid-June.

View from the window of my room
View from the window of my room

Having all the time in the world and inspiring landscape galore was not immediately productive, however. I wrote about 1500 words and rewrote a full outline of the novel, filling up any plot holes, but no more than that. Now, I could choose to focus on what I did not achieve, but for once I will focus on the positive.

Lulled to sleep in the evening and woken up in the morning by poetry (Karen has a whole room full of poetry books – 4 bookcases full!), it’s to be expected that I succumbed to my old passion. I read 13 books of poetry during those five days, so it was like bathing in sunlight. Of course, you know what it’s like with poetry collections,  you don’t read them cover to cover,  you find the poems that really resonate with you.

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Here are some which I would love to share with you, all by women poets (although I also read William Stafford and Peter Meinke, I spontaneously picked up women this time):

Let’s start a conversation. Ask me where I’m from.

Where is home, really home. Where my parents were born.

What to do if I sound more like you than you do.

Every word an exhalation, a driving out. (Vahni Capildeo)

I keep finding you in ways I didn’t know I noticed, or knew.
Every road, every sea,
every beach by every sea,
keeps lining up with what you loved.
Here’s a line of silent palm trees.
It’s as if you answered the phone.
(Naomi Shihab Nye)

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I caution you as I was never cautioned:

you will never let go, you will never be satiated.

You will be damaged and scarred, you will continue to hunger.

Your body will age, you will continue to need.

You will want the earth, then more of the earth –

Sublime, indifferent, it is present, it will not respond.

It is encompassing, it will not minister.

Meaning, it will feed you, it will ravish you,

it will not keep you alive. (Louise Gluck)

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I, like a river,
Have been turned aside by this harsh age.
I am a substitute. My life has flowed
Into another channel
And I do not recognise my shores.
O, how many fine sights I have missed,
How many curtains have risen without me
And fallen too…
And how many poems I have not written
Whose secret chorus swirls around my head
And possibly one day
Will stifle me… (Anna Akhmatova)

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This poem is dangerous; it should not be left

Within the reach of children, or even of adults

Who might swallow it whole, with possibly

Undesirable side-effects. If you come across

An unattended, unidentified poem

In a public place, do not attempt to tackle it

Yourself. Send it (preferably in a sealed container)

To the nearest centre of learning, where it will be rendered

Harmless by experts. Even the simplest poem

May destroy your immunity to human emotions.

All poems must carry a Government warning. Words

Can seriously affect your heart. (Elma Mitchell)

The result of this electrolyte bath of poetry? I wrote 25 new poems of my own. All requiring a lot of work still, but more than I’ve written in the 6 months January-June 2016. I will make sure I always have at least one book of poetry on the go at any moment in time.

October Reading and Plans for November

I’ve just returned from a few weeks of travelling and working, but have also basked in some restful and productive moments. More about that anon, in my next few posts this coming week. [With lots of pictures. Here’s just one to whet your appetite…]

On my way to the south of France, a perfect day for a drive...
On my way to the south of France, a perfect day for a drive…

But for now, let’s see what my reading has been like in this tumultuous and busy month of October. At first, things didn’t go well, and very little reading got done. As for reviewing – foggedaboutit!  But it ended in a warm glow of poetry. And I’ve reached my Goodreads annual target of 140 books, with 2 more months to go, so I will almost certainly get to over 150 now.

Reading for Reviews

  1. Gilly Macmillan: The Perfect Girl – Keen to read this, as I enjoyed the debut novel by this author Burnt Paper Sky. Sadly, this one did not quite live up to the promise of the first one – and my review has still not been written for CFL.
  2. Jeffrey Siger: Santorini Caesars – review to follow on CFL

Reading for Projects/Challenges

Anna Katharina Hahn:  Kürzere Tage (Shorter Days) and Robert Seethaler: Der Trafikant (The Tobacconist) for German Lit Month in November. Was not impressed by one and loved the other, but which is which? You’ll have to wait and see…

Andrea Camilleri: The Age of Doubt – am rereading Camilleri (and reading those books in the series which I missed the first time round) for a feature article on his Montalbano series

Reading for Fun

  1. Henrietta Rose-Innes: Nineveh
  2. Anthony Horowitz: Magpie Murders
  3. Zygmunt Miloszewski: Rage (transl. Antonia Lloyd-Jones)
  4. Sarah Moss: Signs for Lost Children

I hope to write a longer review for Signs for Lost Children and perhaps a shared post for Rage and Magpie Murders. But then, I am still behind on Romain Gary, so my promises are not that reliable at the moment. As for AD Miller: Snowdrops – DNF – cannot bear to read anymore about Western male fantasies about manipulative but sexy Russian women.

Poetry

I was lucky enough to spend five days in the house of a poet and artist, and was bathed in beautiful words and images.

I wrote a couple of poems at this table. Well, wouldn't you?
I wrote a couple of poems at this table. Well, wouldn’t you?

The two volumes below I travelled with myself, but there were plenty of other poetry books there, so I will devote a separate post (or two or three) to that.

  1. Tiphanie Yanique: Wife
  2. Vahni Capildeo: Measures of Expatriation

So 11 books (not counting the additional poetry) and a reasonably balanced month: 4 foreign language books, 2 poetry, 5 crime, 5 by men and 6 by women.

Plans for November include:

  • actually writing some reviews
  • German Literature Month with Caroline and Lizzy – I hope to read at least one more book by Clemens J.  Setz
  • preparing for a master class with Laura Kasischke by reading more of her poetry and her novel Suspicious River
  • keeping up the poetry reading habit, because it works wonders for my peace of mind and my creativity
  • book reviews for Crime Fiction Lover will include: A Suitable Lie by Michael Malone; Rob Sinclair’s Dark Fragments and my favourite annual feature of ‘5 women authors to watch’ for New Talent November
  • reducing even a tiny amount of my greedy reading pile on Netgalley