Wednesday, 7 September 2011

On wooing the poem. A beginner's guide.


Yesterday, I wrote a piece called Black Mountain River. You can read it here, but you might want to wait a moment (or not.) This post isn't another piece of poetry, nor of prose fiction. It's just about the writing of Black Mountain River.

I could feel that there was a piece of writing gnawing at me. For several days, it had tried to make itself known. I'm acquainted enough with this particular dance that it doesn't dismay me over-much, but it's still an uncomfortable place to be - perhaps you know it yourself. I tried my best to make myself available without over-doing it. There were a few pleasantries exchanged and a certain amount of avoiding-eye-contact, but nothing too intimate. We tried a few steps of some easy polkas, then returned to our seats.

Black Mountain River... Where the hell does a poem with that kind of title go to sit down? At the root of the mountain, that's where. In the saddle of the sea.

I didn't know its name back then, of course. If you look at a poem full in the face too quickly, there's an evaporation, a scream, a few moments of stolen pleasure and then the Poem-Mother bearing down on your soul with her rolling pin. It's a violation, for sure. If there were Poetry Police, that's what they should be knocking on your door about. If you don't woo a poem properly, you're not welcome in this town. There's vagabonds and then there's just The Bad.

At the same time, you don't want to take it too far. You don't send the poem bunches of flowers or love letters. You stalk it, sure enough, but you don't try and ingratiate yourself with its Mother (she isn't too impressed by that kind of shit anyhow. c.f. Baba Yaga.) You nod in passing, as if you just happened to be there, but you don't follow it down the street quoting Byron or Bukowski or Beowulf, trying to win it over with your extreme cleverness. The poem is a wilder thing, with archaic manners and ancient sensibilities. If you can lift a boulder with one hand whilst playing the goat-pipes of Bulgaria, well, that may just impress the poem a little. Better still, open one hand as you pass it in the road and show one of the hazelnuts of wisdom, or a sprig of alder from Bran's shield. Say nothing. Wink. Move on. Later, let the poem chance upon you wrestling an angel or the wind or the moon. Keep it intrigued. Sooner or later, your orbits will begin to overlap. You'll see it in your favourite bar, drinking Absinthe with a clown. Or playing dare with a Minotaur. Don't get jealous. Don't get jealous. Buy drinks for the clown. Congratulate the Minotaur on its bow-tie. There are books of etiquette for such occasions (c.f. Czesław Miłosz or Pablo Neruda.) In passing, slip the poem a scrap of paper with a phone number on it. Your phone number? NO! Not your phone number, numbskull. A tattoo parlour for gazelles; a museum of impossible things; a Transylvanian undertaker; the Ritz. Anyone but you.

Sit back. Read a book. Open a magazine. Begin to watch that film you downloaded (illegally) and then forgot to watch. Make your plans for that business you never started. Relax.

Don't get uptight.
It'll find you.
Trust me.

So, I didn't know its name. All I knew was that there was writing about.
This is how I found myself sitting, yesterday afternoon, in an armchair by the fire, reading Martin Shaw's excellent book A Branch from the Lightning Tree. Astute readers will be aware that one of the central folktales explored in the book is none other than Ivashko Medvedko - Little Ivan, Bear Child. None other than the tale that Rima and myself told at Uncivilisation just a few weeks ago. I wasn't aware of this. This kind of synchronicity can be a postcard from the poem, a 'wish you were here' from the depths of the Wyrd. 

And where isn't the Depths of the Wyrd, in the end, eh?

 Then again, sometimes it isn't. Sometimes it's just chance. Sometimes it's the initiatory gods coming to take you through the eye of the needle. Sometimes it's just a psychotic breakdown. It's almost like you can't rely on anything these days... 

Only joking.

But, I was sitting reading the book and staring out of the window and not doing the countless Important Things To Be Done (some of which are actually Quite Pressing) and feeling that unique discomfort of the psyche and I'd been exploring particular wounds in myself and the creatures that live in them, gently, allowing a few days of not-doing in a busy time, letting that yin be a salve to the over-exerted yangness of it all

And there it was.

I hadn't known that it was that very thing that was trying to be written. I had thought I had something completely different to say  - which shows just how in touch with my inner world I am... But, in touch or not, I was waiting. I was attentive. Maintaining that particular alchemy of nonchalance and acute anxiety.  I had made the bed, polished my shoes, cleaned away the worst of the evidence of my general degenerate and appalling nature. The room smelled, if not of roses, then at least not of cabbage-farts and crack.

When the poem arrives at your door, begin to dance immediately. Don't hesitate; don't offer a cup of tea; don't ask how the journey was. That's for prose. Take the poem in your arms and dance to the music that only you can hear.

 This is the amazing thing:

The poem knows the steps.

Truth be told, the poem knows the whole deal far, far better than you do. But what the poem appreciates more than anything is the style of your wooing. Go for it. Really go for it.

What are you waiting for? You want to write a hundred mediocre poems like a litany of adequate love-affairs? Or would you be happy to write one incandescent monument to your life's singular expression on this great and terrible Earth?
Dance, then!

Sitting in the chair by the fire, I danced the best I could. You'll be the judge of how well I danced. Actually, no one will be the judge, because the challenge isn't about that - if there is one, it's about more subtle and vital entities and substances, such as:

Did you feel the lightning in your blood while you wrote?
Were you as honest as you could be?
Did something mysterious happen while you wrote?
Did your gods nod to you?

I didn't have my notebook to hand, nor any blank sheet of paper. I did have a pen - we're cunning enough to litter the house with working pens. Or we're very messy. Pick a narrative that works for you. What I did have was a stack of magazines. I chose one that looked as though it wasn't a collector's item or one with Rima's work in, then prayed for some white space, found it and wrote.

This is what it looked like:

That one's inside the back cover of issue 194 of PN Review. I buy it once in a blue moon when I think that perhaps it'd be rewarding on some soul or financial level to be part of The Poetry World. I'm sorry to admit that I rarely read it all and most of what I do read leaves me baffled. But I'm glad it's there, genuinely. 

This, apparently, is page 59. I chose it for the half-page of white. Sorry, Carola Luther (although it has had the unexpected side-effect of me reading and enjoying most of Travelling With Chickens (2) right now for the first time.)

This is what I mean.
When the poem arrives, just dance. Poems love dancing. How could they not? They're made of the same thing. Next time you're lost in ecstatic dancing, whether it's tango or podium or tea-dance, think of poetry. No, don't. Just dance. But remember, somewhere in that amazing being that you are, that the two are connected by a kinship as deep as waterfall and stream or a shooting star and the moon.

You will never keep the poem any more than you will keep the dance. It will flow through you and will then be gone. Ink is your only memory. No one will know how well you danced except for the old cackling woman in the corner with her basket of poets' heads and lovers' glances. If you meet the same poem in the street, it may not even know you. How wonderful! Whisper the secret name of the lapwing as you pass - if you are lucky, the poem may be intrigued enough to deign to dance with you again. Don't rely on old tricks. Be bold. And dashing. And broken, too. You know how it goes.

If you'd like to read the poem, it's here.
Why it's different from what I wrote in the covers of PN Review is another story. Fill my glass and I'll tell you how that one goes.

Lapwing by Bridget Woodford
Leaping lurcher print by Samuel Howitt (1756-1822)

Tuesday, 6 September 2011

Black Mountain River


Autumn begins.
It doesn't take much;
One tug at my feet by
Autumn's grey strangers
And I'm away
Or rather, perhaps,

As if a stream
Has appeared in front of me
Towards that great
Black Mountain
Of Winter,
Autumn sings me home.

There I am.
In the womb of Black Mountain,
I'm waiting
As patient as a
Heron or the
Hawthorn on the moor.

Spring's grey sister
Has come for me.
What began with a crocus
Ends with the broken bough,
The leaning-in towards
The quiet soul-song
Of the mist on the
Black mountainside.

I step into the water,
Leaving Summer's gold and laughter,
Like a man baptised
Into a luminous darkness.

The silver mist closes behind me;
The grey strangers accompany me;
The moon puts pennies on my eyes.

The tragedy of life is not its sadness,
But forgetting the way back home
Along Black Mountain River.

Beautiful photograph of Dartmoor by Jen Bryant