I Am Not

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                          I Am Not

amused, my Muse. You’re always having a go
at me – when you’re around, which isn’t awf’lly
often, y’know. My plot’s for you to sow,
but you won’t sew your shift, let alone put lively
seed to soil. Putting in the boot
is more your scene than gently greening dreams
of damsels, dragons and other such dufferish toot
some plunging poets expect. You’re out on your beams
if you can’t shake up at least a vision or three
linked in layers appropriate for my age:
even your rags are dropping in tatters, my crone-y
friend. More, your splatter is rank on my page,
    so off you trot, you untucked, dribbling phoney;
    I’m sour enough without your spluttering rage.

Creativity or criticism?

 
Two of my friends were recently  bewailing the fact that they'd come to poetry writing late in their academic careers. One of the questions that came up was about a creative/critical divide and I wondered how much of associative v. logical thinking is wired into us, innate or nutured. I can only give an example from my own life.

I think I was born with (and probably inherited from my dad) a naturally associative mind, which was why I loved poetry and stories, music and art so much as a child - I was writing 'poetry,' stories and making music when I was under 10. When I got to 'A' levels (and I hated the embryonic Eng. lit.crit./lit. theory part of those - I wanted to do it, not read about it) I realized I hadn't got much of a logical mind, needed in the real world, which was why I turned consciously to political and sociological theory. I then ended up teaching those, killing much of an arts-based creative life in the process for the next 20-odd years - the only one I really kept up in private and for myself was poetry writing, all others being diverted into home-making.

Then, in my late 30s/early 40s, depressed and sickened by the realities of educational and national politics, I reverted to my earlier interests, retrained in an entirely different field and left academic life. I've never regretted the shift back to the arts, nor have I regretted forcing myself through an academic, critical/logical life; both are of value now, but it was a tough way to learn - through experience.

I found out in later life that I have five major creative areas/drives/talents; towards the practice of the arts, towards politics/political theory, towards service to people, towards teaching and towards practicality. The trick has been to learn how to keep them in balance and not cut off a limb, as it were. I'm certainly much happier and more content now than I was in my early life.

Most people manage to balance the creative/critical impulses, I'd imagine, or settle for one or the other without regrets. It does bring up the issue of 'deep structures' in the mind/brain, though, much as I dislike pure structuralist theory. But questions remain about why we have them, if we do. Are they natural carriers for talents? Why do we have talents? How far back in childhood are they triggered? Are we born with a propensity for them to emerge, or are they already there - nature and nurture?

My own feeling now is that we are born with an urge to creativity and curiosity, however they display themselves in later life.

Not Amused

Poet:

I’m sure all poets get extremely sick
of other poets’ struggles with their rhymes,
but let me learn. I’d like mine to be slick;
at present they get punished for my crimes.
I‘ve looked at Spenser’s poems. He wrote well,
but mine? A joke! Where did he learn his craft?
I contemplated curtals - couldn’t spell
its name. And as for Petrarch! No! I laughed.
My writing’s jinxed. No thoughts, I’m in a fix.
Hmmm, do I write this poem, do I not?
Can’t stand it when my mind starts playing tricks
and ends up asking, “Is this all you’ve got?”
  Today, my muse is blazing mad at me.
  “This sonnet’s off,” she hissed - and so is she.

Muse:

You want a muse? Then you need harder work
than banging out a form in whining time,
dropping names to show you read. Don’t shirk
a cut of choppy syntax forcing a rhyme.
The theme, yourself, most poets will dismiss;
confessionals have been done beyond a turn
and bore. It’s wise to give the style a miss:
you’re no Plath. There’s more for you to learn:
inspiration, association define
a poet’s worth. You’ll find them where your mind
is free, so dream and muse, let insight shine
beyond the daily dross: gold’s yours to find.
  A true phrase speaks to every muse in town,
  but less is trash in a cheap and flashy gown.