This is especially true of poetry, where length seems to dilute rather than enhance. Poetry seems to benefit from a special intensity, best maintained by not wittering on. Here's what Lao-Tzu had to say:
Spare words: nature's way.
Violent winds do not blow all morning.
Sudden rain cannot pour all day.
What causes these things?
Heaven and Earth.
If Heaven and Earth do not blow and pour for long,
How much less should humans?
The above is a quote from the excellent translation of Tao Te Ching by Stephen Aldiss and Stanley Lombardo, published by Hackett, ISBN 0-87220-232-1
Monday, 14 January 2013
Sunday, 13 January 2013
Severe Weather Warning
The
Met boys can't stop crying wolf,
They
feel they must fill us with dread.
Were
weather bad as they predict
We
all should very soon be dead.
“A
horrid storm!” their fearful cry,
“The
danger builds in Norway's sky.”
“Minus
fourteen!” the headline screams,
“It's
forecast we are going to freeze,
The
snow will rise above our heads!”
But
all is not quite as it seems.
When
their pants they've ceased to shit
They
then are likely to admit:
“It
looks like it might snow - a bit.”
Saturday, 12 January 2013
A TV Yank Experience
They
wriggle, they writhe
They
flash their thighs
To
try to make us hot inside.
They
kick, they jump, they strut their stuff,
The
drooling crowd can't get enough.
They
twirl their pom-poms in the air
To
erotic music's brassy blare.
They
take it to the utter max
Short
of performing the actual act.
Who
cares about the football players?
They're
just a bunch of steroidal meatballs.
Sunday, 30 December 2012
On Writing Poetry
The process of writing this stuff is a bit of a black art. Sometimes it just comes into your head, from deep in the subconscious. Usually you recognise the topic as one you have thought about for years. Suddenly it takes poetic form.
At other times, it is a more conscious effort, or a combination of the two.
Usually, the bulk of one of my poems just appears, in a few minutes. Then it is tweaked, to correct rhythm, etc. This process usually takes an hour or so. Sometimes, it is longer. 'Uphill Drive to Copt Oak' was fiddled with for nearly a fortnight. Looking back, it is an ambitious poem, so this is not that surprising. The final version is longer than the original, and has a different title. I think it is vastly improved. The process of actually working at a poem was new to me.
I have recently been reading online about the technique of poetry. It has been quite illuminating. I hope to improve as a result. I have also been reading the work of established poets. I am impressed by Robert Frost.
The sound of poetry is very important, and I have learned to read them aloud. I do not think poems can be translated from one language to another.
There is a tension between meaning on the one hand, and sound or form on the other, in poetry. This is absolutely central. This is especially true when a tightly defined form is chosen, such as the Shakespearean sonnet. It is not surprising that few read these today, and I doubt anyone composes them. A tight formal structure leaves little room for manoeuvre to express heartfelt ideas and feelings. The modern way is to adopt a free style, which uses the elements of poetic form rather liberally, without compromising the expression of meaning too much. This is a real improvement in my opinion. Nonetheless, I experience this tension in almost everything I write.
It is rare when meaning and rhythm and rhyme and alliteration all fall beautifully together. When it happens, it is a Eureka moment.
Sometimes poems come to me in bed in the morning. These seem to be different in nature to those written at other times, more from the subconscious, less an artefact. I call them 'morning rhymes'. Ingerland is one, and Getting High another. Most of them do not appear on here. I am reluctant to tamper with them too much at later times, for fear of spoiling their spontaneity.
At other times, it is a more conscious effort, or a combination of the two.
Usually, the bulk of one of my poems just appears, in a few minutes. Then it is tweaked, to correct rhythm, etc. This process usually takes an hour or so. Sometimes, it is longer. 'Uphill Drive to Copt Oak' was fiddled with for nearly a fortnight. Looking back, it is an ambitious poem, so this is not that surprising. The final version is longer than the original, and has a different title. I think it is vastly improved. The process of actually working at a poem was new to me.
I have recently been reading online about the technique of poetry. It has been quite illuminating. I hope to improve as a result. I have also been reading the work of established poets. I am impressed by Robert Frost.
The sound of poetry is very important, and I have learned to read them aloud. I do not think poems can be translated from one language to another.
There is a tension between meaning on the one hand, and sound or form on the other, in poetry. This is absolutely central. This is especially true when a tightly defined form is chosen, such as the Shakespearean sonnet. It is not surprising that few read these today, and I doubt anyone composes them. A tight formal structure leaves little room for manoeuvre to express heartfelt ideas and feelings. The modern way is to adopt a free style, which uses the elements of poetic form rather liberally, without compromising the expression of meaning too much. This is a real improvement in my opinion. Nonetheless, I experience this tension in almost everything I write.
It is rare when meaning and rhythm and rhyme and alliteration all fall beautifully together. When it happens, it is a Eureka moment.
Sometimes poems come to me in bed in the morning. These seem to be different in nature to those written at other times, more from the subconscious, less an artefact. I call them 'morning rhymes'. Ingerland is one, and Getting High another. Most of them do not appear on here. I am reluctant to tamper with them too much at later times, for fear of spoiling their spontaneity.
Crisis in Syria
How
else than by a heavy hand
Can
be ruled a divided land?
Here
in milder spaces we
Are
ignorant of other places.
We
spout a lot of stupid crap,
Echoing
media's moron rap
About
a set of fool's ideals.
Meanwhile
a kind of covert power
Over
our lives maintains its lour.
In the real reality
In the real reality
We
have no more democracy
Than
those who live across the sea.
Our
greasy leaders rake the cash,
And
rule us by our own sad choice.
Friday, 28 December 2012
Birdsong at Midwinter
What
is Christmas without snow?
I
miss Jack Frostes icy show.
Cold
come, kill off norovirus
Before
it sickens all of us.
On
Christmas night I heard birdsong:
I
think the climate has gone wrong.
Who
needs a Mayan 'pocalypse
When
weather's turned as weird as this?
The
rich folk in denial are,
Can't
stand to be without the car.
Oil
barons pay for scientist's lies;
The
wealthy speak and truth soon dies.
In
childhood I played in the snow,
But
now it seems so long ago.
The
world seemed much more innocent then,
As it just
does when you are ten.
Norovirus is the name of the bug which causes epidemic winter vomiting, which was in full flow at the time of writing. Things have changed a bit since I wrote this. It is as if the Almighty is slowly working his way through a backlog of requests for Christmas snow, without noticing the expiry dates.
Norovirus is the name of the bug which causes epidemic winter vomiting, which was in full flow at the time of writing. Things have changed a bit since I wrote this. It is as if the Almighty is slowly working his way through a backlog of requests for Christmas snow, without noticing the expiry dates.
Tuesday, 25 December 2012
Some seasonal haiku
Bushes
are blooming
In
December it rings strange -
must
be climate change
Fukushima
leaks
We
will eat no more sushi -
radiation
fear!
No
snow at Christmas
It
is wet rather than cold
though
my mind is chilled
Walking
the pavement
Rent-boy
is staring at me
with
intent eyes
Where did this lot come from? 1 and 3 are obvious, today.
2 must be the connection to Japan, and shows what I think about in connection with the place. I've never eaten sushi, but I think sushi restaurants have disappeared, and it's a while since I saw those little trays in the supermarket.
The last puzzled me, till I remembered recently skimming a book about the history of the Leicester Highfields in a bookshop. It was full of recollections of the past, including 'sentimental reminiscences' about prostitutes. It stated that male prostitution wasn't mentioned by the people, and this long-forgotten experience of being stared at by one of them flashed into my mind, where apparently it has lurked since. They are very rude people. The only other men who stare like that are suspicious coppers and punch-up artists.
The other trigger was reading someone say that haiku shouldn't just be about nature, that that idea was causing stagnation of the form in Japan, so they have started writing urban haiku.
Not sure these are great haiku, but they say that doesn't matter! Well, some say that.
The Highfields book is available locally, and was compiled by HART, a local community association. Its other unmentionable is the City Council doss-house in Upper Tichborne St, of which there is a picture, with no accompanying text. You can read about the antics of its denizens in my poem 'Drunkards of the Dosshouse'. http://stephen-wylie.blogspot.co.uk/2012/07/drunkards-of-dosshouse.html
The Highfields book is available locally, and was compiled by HART, a local community association. Its other unmentionable is the City Council doss-house in Upper Tichborne St, of which there is a picture, with no accompanying text. You can read about the antics of its denizens in my poem 'Drunkards of the Dosshouse'. http://stephen-wylie.blogspot.co.uk/2012/07/drunkards-of-dosshouse.html
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