On the Writing of Poems

Poems are curious things to me. They are one of the few works of art that I can reliably and continuously create. They are not things that need to be forced (and they shouldn't be labored) and so my writing process always begins entirely by chance - I will receive an idea from something that I saw or thought that day and write down my thoughts. When I have an idea of where I want to go, I begin to write out a rough draft and I try out different rhymes like some people try on clothes. I sometimes write down multiple possible rhymes and try out different lines, but if it sounds forced or inauthentic, I just dispense of the structure.
The most important (and enjoyable) stage of writing, however, is the rewrite. My preferred method for writing a poem is to write down my ideas, begin to shape them, and promptly forget about them. Then, in a month or so, I can happen upon the poem hidden away on a piece of loose-leaf paper or in a computer file. Much in the same way that the initial inspiration arrived, an editing inspiration usually appears, and I reorganize, edit, and remove whatever I find necessary. If a poem doesn't feel right, I can just leave it to be re-rediscovered someday. This helps keep ideas fresh and means that there's probably a fragment of an idea lying around somewhere when I can't think of any new ones.
My incessant rhyming is a result of my four or five years spent trying to compose songs. It has its time and place, but I try not to overuse it.

Shoes

Here, I see those that walk the earth each day
With endless permutations on a theme
A strong theme, though, considering the weight
They carry with each thought and ev'ry dream.

There, I see others with unhindered strides
That grow as long as they remain unbound
Adventuring on out, shallow to wide
Unhesitant, expectant all around.

And then, I look at what I walk upon:
It's but a single, candid, faded pair
Of trodden on and dusty overdrawn
Yet silly and familiar things to wear.

Written March 13, 2012
Revised 4/26/12

Mushrooms

Every misty morning they can pop
They do, and catch me off my guard.
"They're not supposed to be there,"
You can say, "At least, not in my yard."

But I cannot control a single spore,
No, they all float untethered, a chatty
Gossip in the wind, flowering more
And slouching 'round again, thick and fatty.

They rot away but they will never stop
To thrust their heads above the ground,
To laugh and celebrate my failure
As if jesters mischievously crowned.

Still, you must face them and live with it,
Their roots run deeper than I would admit.

Written March 13, Revised 4/26, 4/27

The Thing About Poetry

The thing about poetry, and writing in general, is the absolute nature of words. Sure, a word can mean or suggest many different things, but for the most part, the physical word itself that is written, printed in ink, or even displayed on a monitor is unchanging. The same cannot be said for music, because while instructions are given for rigid forms such as Classical, music is such a live experience that two recordings of performances by the same group of the same piece will not be the same. Music asks to breathe with its transience and its "in-the-moment" qualities. The improvisatory and human qualities of music are what can make it so compelling.
I much prefer to give my poems to people to read over reading them myself. I don't want the experience of my own reading (which, to be quite honest, would not do my own work justice) to affect how the reader feels.

Painting --

Painting --
                   With a brush too large
And colors of an unrealistic tone.
First cautiously, and spread too thin
Neglected flesh pulled taught across the bone.
Now caked upon too forcefully -
No subtlety or grace, no even strokes
Or detailing, no sign the hands
Can faithfully produce - truly evoke
The mind's intention -
                                       The beauty
Echoed stays pristine upon the peaks
And all struggles to climb or try
To carve its depth gouge out all mystique.
The color's plastered, slathered on:
Revival now would only suffocate
The dream as it drifts further down
Away and washes out.
                                       To dissipate
This mockery of masterwork,
To be released from it, it must be plowed
Through.
                 The worst of all of it
Is when you signature your name as if you're proud.

Written April 17-24, 2012.

Resting On Your Shoulder

Resting on your shoulder
As the music softly plays
No need of wit or repartée
Because the hearth
Does not yet smoulder.

Resting like a boulder
On a Sisyphean perch
That must inevitably lurch
Down - and down again -
Where souls all moulder.

Resting on your shoulder
Was an inconsistent way
For our concerns to be allayed
The falling rocks
Obscured the music as the world became much colder.

Written April 4, 2012.

The Beginning

Today I will begin to post poems and use this blog in earnest. As a warning, I may decide to edit and revise my poems long after they are posted. This is a testing ground for ideas as well, and I may post music and other related works such as short stories and non-fiction if I write them.

Thank you for visiting!