So a number of things happened, I wrote ‘Counterpoint’ a short story that attempts to use a part prosaic, part poetic style which seemed to go down well, and recently I had the privilege of recording some poems by friends who are passionate poets.
And all this got me thinking, why do I shy away from the idea of writing Poetry so much, when, clearly, I care very much about matters of form, the style of my Prose and how it flows and sounds?
I suspect, the biggest reason for me is fear. It is difficult to write good Poetry - I mean this as a compliment. Poetry is a discipline and medium all its own, which I’ve never really felt compelled to utilise before now.
The truth is, while I am not making a public pledge here to write more Poetry necessarily, I certainly want to make an effort to enjoy Poetry more. I believe infusing my consciousness with Poetry can only make my own Prose stronger.
To that end, as his name came up in conversation, I began by focusing my efforts on T.S. Eliot. I was ever an admirer of the Modernists … and what I remembered most vividly about Eliot was his use of Intertextuality; the enormous range of sources he drew upon to create his own masterworks. This aspect of his work holds great resonance for me because I feel I want to be able to, not only draw upon more external sources and literary textures in interesting ways but also, I want to develop my own muscles for crafting a good image. Not to mention, access/keep in touch with, the more fluid part of my brain.
Eliot once stated that ‘… a poet should advance his own interests.’ For him, a poem was a meditation to be experienced, a testament of personal experience. It could define emotion or represent psychology. The poem was not a document to be scrutinised objectively as a form of commentary. Though he did not deny that readers brought their own interpretations, their own understanding, to bear upon his works. A notable critic in his own right, Eliot also supported the notion that Art should be viewed within the context of other Art.
His poems certainly exemplify his own exploration into critical style and form. Employing his fragmented style with his distinctive and commanding voice, he makes use of many diverse characters from Landladies and Prostitutes, to figures of Mythology, History and Literature who are either observed from the distance of memory or picked up and conversed with. Disjointed voices can sound like incantations or memories. Settings at times are like whole worlds or dreamscapes. Mood, Emotion does indeed function as the constant heartbeat behind a given scene. The atmosphere within a room, the tension of the mind, or conflict existing between individuals is always shown, always made tangible.
‘You dozed, and watched the night revealing
The thousand sordid images
Of which your soul was constituted;
They flickered against the ceiling.’
It would seem that his images stayed with me long after I had finished reading the actual words. I hope Eliot would have been happy about that. Here, I have to admit, I did attempt to write my own poem too. - and I found in doing so, I couldn't help alluding to some of his imagery, the truth is, he gave me more confidence to proceed. You can see the result of my experiment below …
WAITING FOR NIGHTINGALES
Full of Yesterday
When now is missing.
Whisper
At nape
Nose, lips rest
The momentary still on cheek
We sit
We wait for
The untethering by storm’s fingers
Empty plates,
Tongues paralysed
Skin like rushes laid
Hard, brittle
The sun
Casting her warping glaze
Not feeling.
Nor tasting,
Insensible of buzz and hum.
Tis blood itself that numbs all feeling.
Though thought runs fast.
Hands run up and down.
Questioning, blind
You try,
The Summoning of Gods,
Perched on gilt and glorious thrones.
How they laugh and deride
And pity too.
Now is escaping us.
Though lips reach and seek
Fingers touch
Actions sewn.
Dust reaped.
I wander through the Waste Land seeking out the cruellest rocks and the cruellest stones,
To hoard in my pocket.
The red one I do not dare to touch.
I gather up the silent stares
The saddest laments.
Urgent whispers amid the hush
The slightest creak
I try to decipher what waits beyond
Unlit stairs
The shadows there
The faceless presence moves away
A backdrop of streetlights and drizzle.
I follow the fog,
Corner blind, ahead behind.
I note a drifting barge, drifting on …
I seek the shimmer of pearled eyes
Though they are dead.
Nothing gives.
The city is most real after all.
We sit undone.
And wait for the turning tide.
While Sweeney weeps at the death of Agamemnon
A far greater man than he.
No less of a man also
We wait for the Nightingales.
For their reeling judgement.
Concerning ourselves
With how we are to be remembered
Not how we have lived.
By Robyn Hunt
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