transformation

year of the poem?

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Well, it was to be the ‘year of the poem’, n’est-ce pas?  Poem philosophy, poem habits, poem diary, poem-editing course…  How has that worked out?  you might wonder.

Interesting…

What worked out is perhaps more than I could have possibly imagined.  An adventure beckoned.  I followed.  I grew.

Now, it is true that very little poetry was involved.  A tiny snippet.  But if you have ever looked closely, you will know that extraplorer is about discovering more beauty through writing.

So it turns out that this year may be more a ‘year of the poem’ than any poem-a-day year could ever be.  Something deeper than poetry happened in the adventure of my writers residency in a beautiful country.  I grew and grew and grew and found myself believing that I might be, possibly, maybe, no am, a real artist.

Over the summer, all the logic switches of my self-perception have been dismantled.  Here are a few as an example.  Test: Was I real artist?  Switches: Could I paint?  yes/no.  No.  Had anyone paid me? yes/no. No.  Was my writing recognised by anyone in particular?  yes/no. No.  Did anyone ever ask me to write them something (or paint, or draw, or dance)? yes/no.  No.

In the logic switches that governed my self-perception (I had not realised quite how many there were), I failed every test.

Over the summer, those logic switches were revealed as impostors.

Test: Was I a real artist?

Could I paint? yes/no.  Well, really, is this relevant?  I have something I want to communicate, I have a means to communicate it (writing).  I create canvases in people’s minds.  I am learning to do it better.  I don’t think it’s really all about the paint.

Had anyone paid me? yes/no.  Hmmm, well, of course being paid would be nice, very nice, but really, is this going to be the be all and end all of the decision, that someone has suddenly for who-knows-what reasons, decided to pay me?  I write all the time, I photograph, dance and play the piano.  I make beautiful transformations with people.  Are you really going to pin me down to the question has anyone paid?  People pay for drugs, cheap plastic tat in Poundland.  I don’t think I’m going to be aligning my identity with money anymore.

Was my writing recognised by anyone in particular?  yes/no.  Who do you mean by ‘in particular’?  This looks suspiciously where anyone who does love my writing gets put in the category ‘no-one in particular’ and some imaginary unknown people get put in the category ‘in particular’.  Who is this person who sets the rules for ‘in particular’?  What are they up to? What are their credentials?  Is it the same people who put on lacklustre and dispiriting exhibitions of arch postmodern commentary pseudo-paintings and we’re-all-doomed ‘installations’ purporting to represent the interactions between human beings and the environment?   Until this ‘in particular’-setting critic makes themselves better known, no more airtime for the ‘in particular’ category.

Did anyone ever ask me to write them something (etc)? yes/no.  Well, actually yes, a whole academic book.  Or at least they accepted it.  But that is beside the point, because who cares if I was asked.  Now it strikes me that this ‘anyone’ has an implicit lurking ‘in particular’.  It occurs me that ‘anyone’ is not just anyone, but someone.  In fact, yes, my nephews and nieces ask me to tell them stories all the time, my clients ask me to write them a training.  I’m asked to write talks and references.  Not what you had in mind?  Who cares!  I write all the time and I will write more!

So yes, I write poems, maybe I am a poet.  If I would like to be, I am; if I’m not ready, I’m not.  I write books, I am an author (this one is a fact already).  I take photos, I am becoming a photographer.  Who knows who I am, who I might be, who I might be becoming.  I am a mystery and I will do whatever I like.

The year of the poem has taken new directions.
As well it might.

 

 

year of the poem – action

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Hot on the heels of the revelation that the year of the poem arrived of its own accord (‘thoughts‘) was the impetus to take immediate action.

So I did:

* I researched a poetry course
* I asked for poetry course tutor recommendations
* I rang up the poetry centre
* I booked a poetry place
* I ordered the poetry books of the poetry tutors

My lurking fear of my poems being annihilated by the glare of flesh and  blood onlookers seems to have lurked its final lurk.

I may say that this is in no small part due to you, readers of extraplorer, who have performed a fairy godmother-like ting of wand onto my poetry, turning it from ether to real by the mere click of your ‘like’ button.

Thank you.

(The poetry course is not for a few months so I am excited to see what unfolds in the ‘year of the poem’s adventures in the meantime.)

 

inside out

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I sat at the long table the other day
under a window that spewed sunlight
onto me, and onto my chair.
Sat with the same old brand-new
journal
in the same old stance
at the same old beginning of
the new year.

The customary pen
hovered quite
unexpectedly,
did not pick up the
thread, turned back
to me pointing
questions.

Which I could not
answer straight away,
which I had seen flit by,
but they had been
minding their own business.
Now they looked me in
the eye.

Reached inside and pulled.

My feet left
the ground,
somersault in
existential wonder,
zero gravity,
disintegration and
very me,
distilled,
substantial,
astonished,
delighted, dizzy
with relief and marvelling;
a new-born truth:

I have become her.

I had no idea
it was even possible.

year of the poem – thoughts

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Having christened 2016 the year of the poem, I have been continuing to ponder the actions that will honour the name. How can I weave a path that eschews the rigidity of pre-planned milestones and preempts the risk of listlessness?

A living structure is starting to emerge.

It turns out that somewhere in me, a poetic year is unfurling itself. I want to talk about poetry, I want to ask people about poems, I want to explore poem things. The year of the poem is on its way seemingly of its own accord. Milestones even as an idea are already redundant and floaty listlessness seems remote as the momentum gathers itself.

While it is still early in the year, I am coming to understand that the year of the poem declared itself. It was going to happen and I merely announced its arrival.

So instead of worrying about the year of the poem becoming a place of constraint, or requiring a battle of wills (‘the year of the poem‘), or a list of ‘poetry resvolutions‘, I discover a curious peace, requiring nothing more than my own love and attention.

Some more small notes:

* An interesting question occurred to me:  What if my mother (and fan of extraplorer) was not complimentary about my writing merely from motherly duty, but because she –  an adult woman lover of literature in her own right – really saw a gift?

* What if I was not excited about my own poetry merely because I love myself (ego, ha!) but because I could recognise something good there?

I do not usually think of myself as someone who is unduly self-critical, but as I give myself a little shake, I notice the dust of a million tiny arguments belittling my writing drifting away from me.

Winter walk – question

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When I wrote ‘Winter walk‘ poem, I tried it with a final stanza to answer the poem’s questions. But then I could not tell if I had closed down the poem too much.

Here is the stanza I wrote, so you can judge for yourself.

If I make the world
stop for a moment,
and listen,
I can hear the sap
stirring, feel the
explosions of the
tiniest seeds,
almost reach out and touch
the promise of spring.