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.

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

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.

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.

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

Regularity is Required

How in life to order bring?

Clarity of thought to gain?

Still meditation is the thing,

To wash my mind clear of its pain.

Steady practice is what's needed,

Siren calls must not be heeded.

Twice a day to quiet the mind,

Is the way to freedom find.

It's so hard to tame the spirit,

Restless roaming of my focus,

What I need to keep me at it,

Keep in mind contentment's locus.

On a related theme: 

http://stephen-wylie.blogspot.co.uk/2012/10/the-holy-spirit.html

http://stephen-wylie.blogspot.co.uk/2012/10/the-weight-of-world.html

Season of Goodwill

A cautionary tale concerning the dangers of overdoing the seasonal tippling. The narrative voice is from the female point of view. Any resemblance to a popular song is purely coincidental.

Last Christmas, I gave you my heart,

You tried to impress, by lighting a fart.

Then you threw up in the sink

And put it all down to high jinks.

Then when, you swore at my mum

You'd the nerve to maintain, it was in fun.

When she said you were rash,

You just jeered at her moustache.

When you tripped over the cat,

You just blamed him, for being fat.

I said, you were an arse,

The whole thing was just a farce.

Last Christmas, I gave you my heart,

You tried to impress, by lighting a fart.

This year, I may turn queer,

Unless I find someone better.

See also: 

http://stephen-wylie.blogspot.co.uk/2012/12/christmas-shopping.html

Christmas Shopping

And so this is Christmas, the traffic is jammed.

Last minute shopping, the roads are just crammed.

Ambulances flash past in a blue glare,

As desperate shoppers succumb to despair.

Time is against them, they step on the gas;

In such a hurry, they may have a crash.

The fumes are increasing, as is the road rage.

Frustration is building, it feels like we're caged.

The season of goodwill just isn't much fun,

And the curse of it is, it's only begun.

Based on my experience of trying to get home tonight (Dec 19th), which involves driving across the City Centre. God knows what tomorrow will be like. 

P.S. it was worse.