WRITING POETRY

I have not written many poems but I have written enough to know that every one of them has started with what I think of as ‘the crystal’. That is, no matter what is floating around in my head, there must be an image, a thought, even a short sequence of words, that are the quintessence of what I have in mind and this, or these, form the crystal around which the poem grows. Chemists will understand this metaphor - the crystal which, when dropped into a supersaturated solution, forms the heart of a growth of new crystals around it. This starting point may not end up as the beginning of a poem. It may well find its place in the middle or at the end - or may even be dropped altogether if something more expressive comes to mind.

With this starting point in mind I have to convince myself that this idea is worth writing a poem about. Ideas are, after all, ten a penny. Some are worth writing a book about. Others are worth no more than a casual comment in a conversation. It has to be worth writing a poem about and - does one need to say this? - it should also be original. The form of the poem should be right for what you have in mind. The medium should be appropriate to the message.

I rarely if ever try to fit a poem into any kind of predetermined structure, whether it be metre or rhyme, numbers of lines or any kind of restriction - but that’s just me, others obviously see it differently. What happens is that the form the poem takes grows out of the ‘crystal’ and the length and number of the lines, the meaning of the words, rhythm of the words, the sound of the words and ( most important for me) the mood suggested by the words I choose to use, all grow from the seed that is the crystal.

It is pleasing to me to find a rhythmic pattern develop as I write just as it is pleasing to find lines forming into certain lengths but it is not vital for these qualities to be present. The only exception is where there is violence in my mind - that is, other people’s violence - and I seem often to associate violence with crude, rhythmic patterns as you might imagine a mob beating out on dustbin lids; then a poem will be driven by the violence of the rhythm and, of course, the violence of the words. My abhorrence of violence is often expressed passionately and passion is one of several moods that can form a poem. The mood of nostalgia forms another kind of poem and humour another. Moods do seem to have a powerful effect upon my language and on the form a poem may take on.

The other important point, as it is with most creative writing, is where I, the writer, stand in relation to the thing I am writing. I often think of myself as being the performer in a one-man show in which I assume characters, act them out, be them. Otherwise I take a more distanced position and describe , as though I were telling a story or arguing a case - or shouting from a soap-box.

This idea of being a performer should, I believe, underpin the poems you write. Poems are for other people, not just you. Even if you never will read your poems out loud to people you must still think of what you are creating as being something that is performance. Your poetry must aim to have an effect upon people.
Let us look at an example. We’ll look at the ‘crystal’ and then we’ll see how it is made to grow. The poem is called ‘Those were our hay days’ which I have already published on this blog.

First, the crystal. I had in my mind the time when as a child , with some other boys from the nearby village, I watched grass being cut to make hay. The atmosphere was hot and dusty. There were grown-ups with dogs and guns waiting for the rabbits that were huddled in the long grass to break cover as the cutter approached. The mood was at first relaxed and then became tense. The memory was of a ‘golden day’, the kind of memory of childhood that I hope everyone has. Nothing happened until the pun ‘hay days’ relating to the ‘heyday’ came into my mind. (The dictionary definition speaks of ‘full bloom’ and ‘flush of youth’, but most people tend to think of it as simply meaning some splendid time in the past) . Thus the first line came through:

Those were our hay days

And then, after a few days, I was able to set the scene with:

Those were our hay days
When waving grasses,
Tall enough to shelter childhood games,
Burned dry by Summer sun,
Fell to the rolling flail
And sharp reciprocating teeth.

At this point I was not really thinking about the poor old rabbits. All I had in mind was the mood, the atmosphere. I still had not conveyed this fully. There was no dust and there was no sound. There was no tension. I thought more about the rabbits and I began to recall the way in which the poor beasts were chased and killed. The dogs played a large part in this bloody business and the dogs, unlike sympathetic people writing poems, saw rabbits only as things to be killed and eaten; they whimper with excitement at the thought of doing this. So, after a few weeks of pondering, the rest of the poem was written.

We would stand within the stubble
With sticks in hand
While nosing dogs moaned bloodlust
And raised up choking clouds
To make the grown-ups with their shotguns
Curse and threaten them with lead.

Then thinking of what the rabbits must be feeling brought me to the notion that there they were, poor creatures, contained within an island of tall grass that was being reduced as the machine went round and round as though it were unwinding it. The noise would have been deafening, the terror of the animals reaching such a pitch that eventually one then all broke for cover there to meet their ends.

The heart of furry terror,
A tight-wound spring,
Moved not at all, froze with fear.
How many there? A dozen? More?
Good for the pot in creamy rich stew
Good to chew raw on the kennel floor.

The machine unwinds the blind
And makes the island smaller.
And .. there! See! Two go! Over there!
Here! Can’t you see?
Dammit dog, run you bugger!
Huge explosions everywhere.

One leg thrust beneath the tendon of the other
Is how they’re carried.
Slung on sticks or binder twine.
Heads down, dripping blood
Shiny eyes now dull with dust.
Dogs whimper at the smell and at the thought.

Those were our hay days

Our hay days, maybe, but not so good for the rabbits.

Although I do not recall the detail of how these verses ended up the way they are I do remember that there was a lot of tinkering about. The verses emerged from a continuous pile of lines and were divided up into ... paragraphs, really. The final line, the repetition of the first, was to emphasise the nostalgic quality of the poem. People do repeat things when they tell stories and they may say them differently as they do. You can easily tell how the first line sets the scene, like a storyteller .. Those were our hay days. The final line is said much more slowly, as though the storyteller is relishing the memory with a touch of sadness.

There are only two more things I can offer. The first is that unless you are very, very erudite and academic and want to make what you know (for example, about Literature) the heart of the poetry and are not concerned with sound at all you should say everything out loud to see how the words sound and how the syllables and words ‘fall’ as you speak. You may not be writing within the confine of a metrical pattern but rhythm is still an important part of what you write, even if it is irregular. The way words sound, by themselves and together, can add a lot to your poetry or, of course, if you don’t have a feeling for this, it can take away a lot as well. Remember what I said about performance. You must have a feeling for how your poem will impact on people and reading out loud helps a lot. (Look at the ‘hay days’ poem again. Read the first verse put loud. Savour the words rolling flail and bite into sharp reciprocating teeth. I challenge you not to enjoy reading this aloud!)

My final point is that for me poems rarely seem to be truly finished. Whenever I see something I have written I want to tinker with it. There is nothing wrong with putting your words on a piece of paper and saying ‘There you are. That’s it. I’ve finished’ but unless you are really good I doubt if it is ever really finished. I still think of all my poems as being drafts, lying there waiting for me to give them the final touches, the final polish. They are waiting in vain. It will never happen!