On “Carol Ann Duffy to mark phasing out of gas meters with a new poem”

Colley Cibber, c.1740

Meter meter? Nothing neater!
Pete demurs, aside o' Rita,
heater next their 3-piece seater,
as they teeter to delete a
tweeter fleeter than a greeter
who challenges the meter beater
bent on bashing out those feet. A
tweeter tweets it’s not the treat a
PL needs to meter meter.
    Are Reet and Peter in the right
    when they delete the tweet on sight?

Time to write: Beginning a Poem 1

You have to start somewhere: it’s a situation all poets face. But where and how? I’ve talked to many poets about how they begin to write and, it turns out, each one’s process is different. Not too unexpected, that, given that there are many forms of poetry and different ways of approaching a poem. It makes it difficult, though, to set up any general theory about the act of writing, so it’s probably wisest to start with the person whose process I know best – myself. ‘Best’ doesn’t necessarily mean thoroughly. Even the most reflective poet won’t be aware of how all parts of his or her subconscious work, or how what’s buried deep in the mind influences their output. The most I’ll be able to do is to write about the parts of the process I do know well. With luck and a little more reflection perhaps more ideas will surface.

So, what do I do? I don’t start with pen and paper. Staring at a blank sheet as panic rises and with nothing in mind would put me off writing for the rest of my life. As I implied on the blog ‘Welcome’ post, there are a plethora of ways into starting to write. For me, something has to strike my consciousness and keep my attention fixed on it for a while. It could be an experience, a media report, a mood, a narrative, a flower, a painting, a piece of old iron, a tone of voice, a slice of history, a biography. Anything, in fact, that makes an impression. I then run it and any images that have arisen through my mind to see if there’s a poem in it somewhere. I can’t force this particular issue: either the subject continues to grip me or it doesn’t. If it has and the need to write lasts, I move on to the next stage.

That, I call research time. I make notes. I research online and search through the multitude of books that inhabit this house. I mull things over in my mind. Sometimes I’ll stay with what first strikes me; other times I’ll search for a parallel theme or image that can carry the weight of the poem and evoke what I want to say. Sometimes I might have read around a theme for weeks; occasionally research takes only a few hours.  Then it’s time to make further notes, usually clipping any research into a few words or images and a distilled  note or two about the intent of the poem, but nothing of any great length at this stage. In fact, the shorter the notes, the better. Hard experience has taught me that the more time I faff about aimlessly at the research stage and the more wordage I create, the less likely it is that I’ll produce a poem.

It’s rare for me not to have ideas to develop at this point, but some people might need a kick start. This is where writing exercises can be useful and The Poetry Society has useful lists of these online.

By the time I’ve completed the research, I most often have some concept about the way the poem might go, so I leave scuffling through material and turn to mulling over notes and images in my mind’s eye, perhaps for an hour or two, sometimes for a day or so, rarely longer. I often find that if I sleep on it, the next morning a line or an image has sprung up, which is enough to begin writing seriously. I might have made a decision of the form and structure of the poem, or I might leave that until I actually begin to write. More of that in the next ‘Time to Write’ post, though.

 

Aurora Borealis

The lights are quick; they shift above
these hills, the autumn ceiling tight
about its pinning Pole, then flit,
with drifts of northern gods and time
slack in their wake, across these mute
night airs. How rays weave strange tonight,
their flow a falling echo still
of One Flame dancing trim, vibrant
and wise, the full dark down! And how
their sky-wide flare, their crowning, frees
the grace, those jewelled auras soft
to lift the flawed fields' shade! And this:
the radiance - folding   folding   folding

Last Trump

 


Tromp! Tromp! Tromp!

The feet are falling.

Soon we’ll be marching off to vote

because the dork in charge of Reps

shoved us down his rally’s steps

and yelled out that he’s rocking every boat.

“Tramp! Tramp! Tramp!”

his voice is bawling

above his heaving heavies in the brawl.

And beneath the stars and bars

he thinks he’s leaving us with scars

for standing up and working for his fall.

Trump! Trump! Trump!

The first one’s calling

out to every poison in the land;

the rest have said they’ve had enough

of the clown who roughs his tough

but ends up squawking to his hand.

Pat-Everybody’s-Cake

 


Sing ho-hum, my hearties; slip away, sins,

so, muddy-lie-middens, bureaucracy wins.

Sing hone-hum, my hearties, shade out your sins,
for, drift-a-lie down, the judiciary wins. 

Sing hokum, my hearties; don't tally your sins,
as, roll-the-lie-over, government wins. 

Sing hope-hum, my hearties; tuck up your sins,
since, fall-a-lie-silly, the media wins.

Sing hopeless, my healthless; forget about sins

because, not-a-lie-wageless, poverty wins.