That Little Guy in my Head

Every time I go to post a poem

About my partner or family, or another poet

That little guy inside my head says,

Hey You Can’t Say That! And when I ask,

Why not? He says. Are You Serious?

You Re3ally Don’t Know? But, of course, I do

But you can’t fictionalize everything.

You take away the bite of authenticity.

So I slam the door shut on that censorious little freak

but he shouts out anyway: DELETE! DELETE!

Don’t Throw Away Yr Old Stuff

Don’t throw away your old stuff.

You will never have enough

new material to work with;

writing can be tough.





Put away your frail and flaccid.

put it in a book.

And in an idle moment, open it,

lighten up, have a look.





Give it iron, backbone,

a new voice, beat

find it a new form.

Let the old be reborn.





Everything will have its place.

Everything its time

the giddy, garrulous, the gruff.

Don’t throw away your old stuff..

The Alchemist: for those interested in origins

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I wasn’t thinking straight.

I wanted an image.

A wonky shopping cart.

Perfect.

But the poem grew too dark, too heavy

with baggage

way too personal.

I wanted to fictionalize it,

lighten it up.

Then I thought of the pathway

through linear park

with its crazed markings,

the one I had taken a picture of

a year before

the one with the man with the trapezoid head

at its centre.

All  I needed was a poem.

He could write it.

It had to be light but still true

to the original concept

of muzzy thoughts.

It went through ten drafts over eight hours

but I got there

& I was amazed how the mind can transmute

dull matter

into material that almost leaps

off the page.

 

* picture courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Poem with a Great Last Line

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I have just written a poem.

I read it to my granddaughter.

“Hey! Great last line,” she says.

“But what about the rest of the poem?” I say.

“Great last line”

I go back to the poem.

Read it a few times.

It is a great last line.

So what I do is this: I jettison the rest of the poem and keep

the last line,

I read it a few times.

I read it to her.

She hesitates.

I read it again.

It seems to lack something,” she says.

So I put the poem back together like it was and read it to her.

“Great last line,” she says.

Cauldron of Creation

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I don’t know whether you noticed but when I write a poem I slam it down on the page still white –hot from the cauldron of creation. Only when it cools do I see its cracks and imperfections. This may take minutes, more often hours, sometimes days. One poem took me nine years to write. There’s still a few I’m working on from twenty years back.

Those of you who see the still molten post will be surprised when you see the reworked version solidifying into its present state. Yes, you should edit. The trick is not to edit out the primal energy which birthed the poem.