Long poems! Yikes! Their uncontainedness is exhilarating, and scary.
The poem '1969' still requires an enormous amount of energy, time and concentration. A different kind of writing mentality, too... I've barely begun. I already have about ten sheets of scribbled-on versions of the first section. It's difficult to keep tabs on the progress of it because I'm jumping backwards and forwards, around this particular section, editing and adding. So it's growing and hopefully getting better, but not in an ordered or logical way. It's difficult to figure out what path I've taken because the scribbled-on sheets are no longer in any chronological order. At least I can keep different sections - and drafts thereof - separate from each other. That's one way, at least, I can keep control.
The other problem, one which happens when I'm writing short poems too, but which is especially pressing now, is the way I get fixated on one or two lines and forget or neglect the narrative of the whole, the wider perspective. I need a bifocal lens because I need to constantly shift focus.
The close-up... The panoramic... The close-up... The panoramic...
I'm also reading what I've written obsessively, repeatedly. This is good. It's good to test the sound of it, the movement of it, out loud or under the breath. And it shows how deep I've plunged. But re-reading's also a stultifying trap, potentially. Like getting locked into compulsive behaviour, or like staring at my own reflection. I have to pull myself away from the poem every now and then to regain objectivity and to be able to think up fresh stuff. Those bifocal specs again...
I'm listening to a live recording of John Coltrane's 'A Love Supreme' at the moment. Something about '60's jazz, where bebop seques into something looser - maybe its flighty, inchoate, fluctual quality - makes it conducive to my writing. And this piece seems resonant with '1969'. I'm looking for the same kind of sustained intensity I suppose, and yet, similarly, I want it to move quickly and lightly. Does that make sense? Generally I'm trying to write the lines to fit the 1-9-6-9 syllabic structure, making the line-ends coincide with a natural caesura or with the end of a clause or sentence or where I want to accentuate the last word for dramatic effect. (Though the opening one-syllable line is tricky. The word I put there often seems arbitrary.) This is so that, generally, there's a feeling of smoothness and containment. The repeated rhyme at the end of each stanza corroborates this. However I'm also doing all this because I have one eye on messing with the pattern later on in the poem, or in parts of the poem where I need to reflect, formally, a more disturbed mood. But that comes later...
I'm attempting to edit out indefinite and definite articles, personal and possesive pronouns, conjunctions and prepositions where possible. I want the poem to be reminiscent of directions on a script, or of a director's notes. The storyteller - the 'me' - is, after all, overtly imagining the scene in filmic terms. So it seems appropriate. I also want to get an intensity into the lines so I want every word to have a damned good reason for being there. I'm reminded here of how Betsy Warland took her pencil to one of my sonnets and drew lines through a handful of 'the's' and 'and's' as I watched in horror! "But now the lines won't be iambic pentameters!" I protested. Her attitude was very much that each word had to pay its way and that if I really wanted iambic pentameters I'd have to get back up to the ten syllables with words that really mattered. I think that's also what I'm doing here. I mustn't go too far though. One thing about all those 'and's' and 'she's' and 'the's' - they help flow. And movement is important. I don't want to write something choppy and halting.
I'm also feeling the need to drop down a notch into a more vernacular and idiomatic register. I've just replaced 'row' with the more ironically understated and authentic-sounding 'to-do', for example. And I've replaced 'recalls' with the more colloquial 'it all comes back'. So
she recalls / the row about the miniskirt
has become
it all comes / back: the to-do about miniskirts
Such seemingly insignificant lexical choices do make the poem feel strangely more intimate and living. It's gut-language. Root-language. Not the kind I teach to my foreign students, and not the kind I write emails in, or even blogs in...
It's a relief when I find it, like a familiar smell, but how odd that I have to dig for it...
Hi Richard