Poetry Points - How (not) to write Poems

the poet 

I have noticed that I am always ready to preach, but not to practise. Especially when it comes to writing. It could be that I am pretending to myself that  that is the reason I am not a great writer, or a famous writer. I prefer to overlook the highly possible fact that I just do not have what it takes to be one.
Anyway here goes, - now that I know for sure that I am never going to amount to much, and that I never did, I can dole out advice freely. Time to grow up.

To  budding poets/writers, especially those whose mother tongue is not English :

We all know good poetry is sincere. That it is authentic, and arises out of the heart and mind of the poet, his/her experience/knowledge - from a variety of sources.

Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful emotions, Wordsworth did write that. Coleridge took it a bit further. And we in India read the 19th century English Romantic poets more than anybody else, at least that was how it was in my time. Of course we did read others. But somehow for us back then the Romantics embodied greatness. They were the role models. That perspective could backfire sometimes. Great, original poetry was written by them, or so we think, rightly or not.. Colonialism did affect our thinking.  Still, what they wrote then still manage to amaze us. Times have changed. For us now, we can be inspired by them, however, unless we have some new way of talking of those same themes, we have to find different subjects.That of our time. There are some ideals  that will always be the same, such as love. But even that has changed. New versions or rather supposedly new versions have appeared  However old or new these versions are, we will have to find new ways to describe it. To write poems about it. So let the emotions and ideas fester in the mind. Take the time to make it your own. Turn it over and around, think how to enrich it using the knowledge you have gained. Which process you already do, I know. Do more of that. Read more, live more. Books from all lands, from our own land, from the present, the past, movies, music, science, philosophy, the internet, and art, and travel are some ways to gain more knowledge, expand our perceptions.

Talking of the Romantics, be very careful when writing nature poems generally. That's because many of  those descriptions and imagery  have been overused down the line, and nowadays they are everywhere, from old romantic poems, from  new and old love songs to Hallmark cards.  Thus, sadly, the golden orbs of the sky, the transient dewdrops, "beaded bubbles winking at the brim", darkling anything and unquenched desires have all become trite. Let's say that those Romantics have among themselves pretty much exhausted all the yearning sighs of lovers, the arching azureness of the heavens, and the writhing demons of desire for the forbidden. You can still write about Nature, and desire, and love, and death - in refreshing new ways. Using unexpected but unpretentious words and images that make sense and that make the reader stop and think. They could be ones of fantasy, of the modern times, of the past, of the great treasure chest of mythology, gritty and/ or charming, and/or rural or urban, suburban, and much much more.

Apart from the usual culprit named grammar, there is one common element that most new writers of poetry misuse. Ellipsis - those 3 dots -  is not a  device to be used indiscriminately. It is not there to prove that a piece of writing is indeed a poem. We all know we are reading a poem when we read one. No need of ellipsis just for that. Use it sparingly, for the most effect. Same with the overuse of "like" for introducing similes.  When you delete just those two factors itself, things change. Getting your meaning across would be a little less easy. That might entail a lot of reworking of the whole piece. But it will make one think beyond the usual clichés, and make the poem fresh. Most poems could benefit from an overhaul. Make it shorter, denser with apt but unpretentious devices, make it more succinct . Better to have drama rather than melodrama, I think. 

Be careful when you are determined to  write rhymed verse, sometimes they look too forced. Especially when you pick up weird but rhyming words from the thesaurus. Poetry should flow naturally. So is with the use of uncommon words. That just looks pretentious, and many readers will not bother to find out the real meaning. Loss of communication. Some use "nay" and prithee and thee for their poems which, let us say, is amusing. And a lot of question marks, and words in all capital letters to make a point, or to show someone is shouting. ( I have done that!)  I am enjoying writing this! It sure feels good to pontificate!

Also, I do not think readers enjoy too much preaching/pontificating in poems. High morals and ideals, and observations of that nature are good, actually it shows an observant mind. But a poet has to go beyond just stating the facts. Show the pitfalls of evil or sin in simple but symbolic ways. For poems in general, I prefer “showing” rather than “telling”. Or a good balance of show and tell. Again, read more, observe more, think more, live more, I guess. Poetry is an attempt to transcend the concrete, using various poetic devices and at the same time, capture it. It should make the reader feel and think beyond what is written in the poem. I am not asking  that a poet should be obscure, but the poem should spark, trigger ideas in the reader's mind. Provoke. Inspire.  Just my opinion. 

Early poems, say of a very young person, are useful in the sense that the reader can see how an imaginative, intelligent young person  with a good grasp of the English language saw the world around him or her at a certain point in time. But many creative young persons have done the same, which is fine too. But when they all do it in rather similar ways,  it stops being that special. But it still could be special for some readers. Here's where knowing your audience works. Who are you writing for? For yourself? Then it's all fine. For young people of your age? They may like them. For a few youth of your age? Sure, some will like them. Now, how about older readers? And we are talking of the ones who like to read poetry. How about an international reader?  I am not sure how they will read them. What I am sure of is that if the poems are good, they will see that there is potential, and there is time before you, to get the experience, through just living, through books, movies, music, works of art, through travelling. A talented, aspiring poet should realize that not all are literary minded. Not even students of literature. They are not able to write or think like you. You are different. You can write. You are  budding writers. And it takes time and work to be  great writers.

  I do not consider myself to be a poet, let alone a good one. I am guilty of many of the issues I have mentioned. And I am too lazy to change, and that may be one, just one, of the reasons that I am still unpublished by an established publishing house. Remember what I said in the beginning? Fooling myself. But  I can recognize good poetry when I see it, most of the time! I may be totally wrong too in my opinions. Appreciation of poetry is totally personal. Ask others to read the poems, (criticism hurts, but it helps too, they say) maybe an English teacher of yours, or a published writer - not a self-published one, preferably.  In this age of self-publishing, and success through effective marketing, or by "going viral" (yikes!), or by just having a group of enthusiastic, supportive friends and  as all of you happen to live in a big city, where they can even start a publishing house for you, and/or if you are web-savvy, anyone can be a writer. Well, these days they have courses in creative writing. But to be  writers whose writings stand the test of time, to rise above mediocrity - that is the ideal. And I believe a moderately talented, determined person can do it, with a little bit of luck . 

However, it is your choice that matters the most, when it comes to publishing right away. Choose your favorite ones, work on them if you feel like they need work, after hearing competent readers' take on them. Those should not be confined to your usual set of admirers, made up of people who dislike any kind of creative writing, or who just read comic books and romances,  your love struck boyfriend or girlfriend, or an apparent hotshot connoisseur whom you met online who is really just angling for a bit of romance on the side, via the net or via Main Street/M.G. Road, your younger siblings , (guilty here )or just one of your indulgent teachers who thinks the world of you because you have a good vocabulary, and you are one of the few who could write a complete sentence without making any spelling or grammar mistakes, and because, maybe unconsciously, you walk around thinking you are Keats or Emily Dickinson, and managed to fool them too!

Don't be afraid that a good critic or fellow poet will steal your thoughts, or that they will be envious and put you down on purpose.  Not that that does not happen, it does. But most often, your current attempts are not that original or perfect for them to copy. I may be wrong about that too now. Some would-be poets and novelists avoid reading others' poems and works of fiction fearing that they would be influenced. As if their very unique genius, and sublime innocence and purity of thought will be tainted by the others' views. The noble savage has to remain so! The other fear is different - what if the other person is better than you? And you think that might make you feel anxious and jealous and leave you unable to focus. Another fear is that of failure. What if no one likes your work? And at the other end are those who fear success even before they taste it! So they sabotage themselves in many ways. Fear and laziness - two evils that pull us down. Look who's talking! 

In spite of all that, if you think your poems are good as they are, I respect that too. After all, you are the author. And you only live once, and this is the age of self-conscious living! (I did it! - I went and self-published my 2 books. For my first novel, I did the "query" thing -- did not work. So went the digital publishing way. The second one, the poem thing, I just didn't bother doing the query procedure - I knew my poems were nothing to write home about. Anyway I avoided the pain of rejection and by that also the joy of recognition. Lesson learned - no pain, no gain. The only difference between you and me - I am older, and do not have time and youth on my side now). Besides, you won't be around to see if your work stood the test of time!

The suggestion is to wait. And then write, and rewrite incorporating new insights.I know many writers or aspiring writers cannot bear to rewrite and revise. I am one of those. But I also know that revising and reworking our writings will make them all the more substantial, rich and polished.  If there is talent, that  needs to be nourished, sustained, and grown. I have heard drugs and alcohol fuels the imagination and many a great writer and artist have used that throughout history. In fact there seems to be a huge market for redeemed addicts' - that is with addiction of any kind, love, religion,sex, drug, alcohol, food,politics--  writings. Well, that can mean that they are passionate about something, or that they are intrepid warriors of experimentations, those who are not controlled by boundaries. But let me make it clear to you young writers - I do not recommend that. Why? For one, most of the time those artistes/artists are too much into their experimental living that they are unable to enjoy their talent(s). For two, they just get stuck in the experiment and not in their art. The greatest among them do not see their own fame or popularity in their own lifetimes. Be sensible, or not. But take care of your body and mind. Make reading  your addiction, if you will.

Now, there are those who are physically enabled to be highly creative artists, they say. Synesthetes like Vladimir Nabokov, tetrachromats like Concheta Antico may have used their special gifts in their creative endeavor. Some say people can be trained to see and feel the world like them. Till then, for the rest of us, good old reading and living and talking and thinking will have to do.

there's work and then there is wo....rk ...

Caution! Men at work!

overtime

Just thinking of this scene makes me laugh out loud. Well, I guess it is the intention that counts. They should be paid for that.

Asterix aficionados will know this from "Asterix and Cleopatra". Where the heroes are in Egypt taking in the sights, and are introduced to the people and their customs. What makes me laugh even more is when I think of some of my volunteer jobs. Let's just say that I wasn't needed that much at those places, that I did not make that much of a difference. Or, the brick did not budge an inch, or less. Of course not all volunteers or volunteer posts are like that. No offence intended. Once I was reminded of this scene when I saw a lone construction worker in the driver's  seat of some equipment on a Sunday, in one of the construction zones on the expressway. He may have been doing something useful surely, but I couldn't help wondering what the heck he was doing there? :)

This is what the work really looks like, by the way.

Add caption

a woman's sphere

spheres in the setting sun

There was a time when my main job was to oppose vehemently the strict, confining definitions of a woman's sphere. "Marginalization", "life on the periphery",  "legitimization of femininity", "debunking of the feminine mystique" -- all these were the usual concepts that were bandied about by me. Little did I know that there would come a time when I made spheres.

This summer I was engrossed in a project that made me work on my patience and fortitude( yes, I exaggerate ). Inspired by the myriad diy sites on the web, where they give detailed instructions on how to make concrete spheres, I ventured into it. It was a  totally satisfying, tactile, energizing and therapeutic process.  The one part that tried my patience was the making of the molds. On the net, everyone seemed to be using discarded dome light shades, which many got from thrift shops. I went to one thrift store near where I live and there was nothing like that available. So I got some kids' rubber balls, which I  reinforced with several layers of  papermache( which took me weeks, kind of tedious - some vouch for using the balls as they are, but placing them in wet sand so that they retain their shapes - but I did not feel I had the patience to deal with deflated rubber ball and wet concrete)  and then used a waterproofing spray. The concrete was mixed, poured into prepared molds. That part is easy - like mixing cookie dough. I waited from a week to two weeks before un-molding. Then I soaked them in tubs of water for another week. Curing, they call it. At last they were ready to be finished. Another step where I used resealing cement to smooth the imperfections, and kind of re-shaped the spheres to my liking. Again, drying time. Finally, I could paint them. At first I had thought to leave it unpainted. But I changed my mind. Of course I had to make a couple of stepping stones too. That was like making mud pies - fun and fast.

My front yard has a lot of flowers. Bees, butterflies and hummingbirds and finches have a party in those beds. After the riotous living there, I wanted a place of peace and quiet. One for meditation, kind of. And so this one flowerbed at the back came in handy. Once all the overgrown plants and weeds were cleared off, I planted a Japanese maple . And then placed my spheres. My eyes are drawn to them whenever the sunlight hits them from different angles, at different times of the day. They catch my attention  even when they lie there just like the inanimate lumps of concrete that they are. :) Something grounding, calm, and clean about them, don't you think? But then the play of light and shadow begins and they assume altogether different personalities. Endless variety! fascinating!

rising sun on my little earth!

I got a little universe in my backyard.

or a half-moon

PS: I guess the easier way to make the spheres would be to make 2 hemispheres and then seal them together. But somehow I rejected that idea. This unveiling of a whole sphere seemed to be stuck in my head. But for my next set, I might do the 2 halves thing.

on a rainy evening

whatever happened to Asha Joseph. M?

Asha Joseph M circa 1991

Have you seen her? Missing for about 20 years. This is to those who knew her a long time ago. Some were at that time, thought to be very close friends. Never to be parted from completely. What do we know when we are at that age! For that matter, at any age! The only difference between now and then would be  that back then we thought we knew everything, as we all know. Coming back to the old friends and acquaintances,  they themselves are probably busy looking for their old selves now. And that leaves no one else -- since Asha was never famous. Still, admit it. some of us did fear, albeit slightly, that Asha Joseph M may get famous some day!

So let this Asha speculate. And wonder. May be Asha Joseph. M died. Or she lives on in some faraway land, an island perhaps. Perhaps, mishaps. Or, she may be living in a convent! Or better, walking on the moors with the Bronte sisters on cold winter days, and later huddling close to the fire, busy pretending to write the next novel about doomed lovers. 

By all this I hope she doesn't think I am making fun of her. I just write this in fun. Her sense of self-importance may take it as a blow to her great dignity and noble pride!Please do not take umbrage, Asha! Your oversensitivity is notorious! After all, Asha may very well be leading a happy, contented life somewhere. If so, that is if she is completely content, then that either makes her a simple saint or a fool. To quote Edison, ( I am afraid, like those annoying quote posts on social media), "Restlessness is discontent — and discontent is the first necessity of progress. Show me a thoroughly satisfied man — and I will show you a failure.”  Well, that is neither here nor there. Quoting some famous person   is not that different from a hypocritical overzealous sanctimonious bible-thumper quoting the scriptures. Still doesn't tell me where the heck Asha Joseph. M has got to!

 This came to me suddenly - could she be languishing in some prison cell of a dictator? No, Asha's activism was never of the suffering kind. Her ideas never left her armchair set in that rarefied atmosphere of like-minded revolutionaries. Quite safe. But then she could be in that little cottage at the edge of the woods, near a stream, with a vegetable patch in the back yard,  and with a few hens, and a dog, for company. While we are at it - she could very well be in a big city in a little room overlooking a busy street, where after work, she writes stuff that no one wants to read. Why do I always picture her alone? For all I know she could be surrounded by a half a dozen children or even grandchildren! Wherever she is living, she will go on living, and then she will have to die one day.

Let's retrace her steps from the last I had seen of her. That is how a detective usually starts, I have heard.. Where did I see her last? At her wedding? Or before that in that magazine office? What did we talk about then? Did she seem like she had any solid plans as to her future? Not really, I should say. Mind you, she looked like she knew what she wanted. Not at all the clueless person that I now know her  to be . She was a dreamer all right. Lived in the world of dreams. Some vague idea about the immediate future, probably. Ah! I know! She must have got lost in her own thoughts! And is still wandering in those lanes, alternately elated and despondent, relieved and frustrated, all the while growing older and weaker. Soon she may lose her memory, thus all her thoughts, her consciousness, and fall down, never to wake up. Natural selection at work.

Another set of questions arise now. We all know Asha Joseph. M. has disappeared. Now is there foul play here? After all, I knew that she had secret plans for world domination, no one else knew, by the way. Yep, that disinterestedness, that air of nonchalance, that was all a facade. Inside she was a scheming Dr No. Total fraud (fraaad) case. as our Jagathy would say. (If there is foul play, there is every chance that she did it. no, the B did it!) Why? How? Who? Well, the good old motive and opportunity. Who stands to gain from her disappearance? Who couldn't stand her so much that they had to delete her (so to speak)? We have to be honest here - she really was the limit, sometimes. Someone had to try to stop her. Or was it a crime of passion? Jealousy? Love? Lust? Or sheer pigheadedness? Someone just did not like the way she looked? Or was she the woman who knew too much about someone or something, and had to be silenced? For instance she may have seen some crime being committed. Or, was she a victim of diabolic revenge ? For some imagined or real slight that someone endured from her? Will we ever find out?. (Did I cover all points? Now that's me being her - with her irritating habit of , that compelling need to cover all points, every eventuality.)

Anyway what do I care where Asha is! For that matter, where I am! There is no point in knowing either, seriously. Her own child would not recognize that Asha from the past. Even her mother wouldn't be able to recall that Asha. As far as I am concerned, Asha Joseph.M could live or die or vanish into thin air. Or take a running jump at herself or off a cliff, off even one of Brontes' cliffs. She is history. Or, herstory. Just covering all points again. :)

one of her permed hair phases

asha's "twin" 

asha in the "dog days"

PS: Do let me know if you happen to find her!

a chicken flight

Back to school night again. That day when you get to meet your child's new teachers for the first time.  Sounds simple, doesn't it?  It was simple - till high school. Once you are in high school, things get complicated. First,  you cannot get away with sitting in just one classroom. Classes take place in different rooms.  Oh, it's an efficient system, all right. The bell rings at the start of every class. The parents go to the classroom and meet the teacher till another bell after 10 minutes or so. Then they go to the next class. and so on. But the classrooms are scattered all over the building. So we get a taste of what our children have to go through everyday. With a five minute break they have to get to their locker, get their stuff, and reach their classes on time through crowded corridors.

Second, most parents have no idea where the classrooms are, and there is so little time between bells. Sure, we are given maps and schedules. At the beginning of  the freshman year, everything is new to the parent. Armed with that map, and holding onto that schedule for dear life, I rushed through the hallways looking for the rooms. Some rooms seemed to be deliberately hiding from me, in never to be found corners. One classroom would be at  one end of the school, and the next one, at the other. I walked fast, ran, dodged other  rushing parents, stopped, came back, made detours, asked for directions to the students assigned to guide us hapless adults, and on the whole, got some exercise. In the end, after that mad dash, I would reach the intended classroom hot and sweaty and already worried about finding the next room.

When I came home and told my son of this, and asked him for clear directions for the next year's back-to-school night, he laughed, and politely refused. And informed me  that they all made fun of the parents' helplessness and ignorance. They enjoyed our confusion, and had this pact that they will provide no help in this matter - he gave me another laugh. So that was that. And I went through the same agony and ecstasy the next year too.

By the third year, I was prepared. I went 15 minutes early.  I was reluctant , naturally chicken, to do this before -- did not know if parents were allowed to roam around the halls ahead of time. But by then I was desperate (well, sort of - I have a tendency to exaggerate, if you haven't noticed it ) and was determined to do this right. So I ran around and found the whereabouts of all the classrooms. When the first bell rang I was pretty excited . Yep I am that eternal student who likes to be the (invisible) teacher's pet! Not that anyone is going to applaud me here for finding the classroom and turning up on time. hmpf! In other words, I was more interested in congratulating myself on my accomplishment rather than paying attention to what the real teacher was saying. Well, mostly. All in all it went well, but for one little part where I went and sat in one extra class, (which was not for that semester). hehe.

But this year, I was perfect! Again I went early, especially since I knew that construction had been going on during summer, and there were even more corridors, and even whole new floors to get lost in. And this time around, it was a breeze. I flew around as sure as a breeze too. No more the headless chicken! A young lady did help me when I asked her at one point. All this was done way before the bell, and I was ready. I found all the rooms, got inside each on time and did not go in to any unnecessary rooms. But I did laugh at myself when I caught myself always finding a seat near the door, as if ready to flee, the moment the bell rang. And I laughed at my glee when I got to the next one with time to spare. It seemed like a race that I had set against myself, and which I won. I patted myself on the back - not literally. I think there were points in time when listening to the teacher, I almost asked him or her  if I could leave early! So that I could run to the next one. kidding!

Anyway, it is over and done with. By this fourth year, I am an expert at navigating the labyrinthine routes of my son's high school. As I walked out of the building, it struck me that this is the last time I'll do this. This is my son's final year at high school. End of the road here. This has been a sort of learning for me as well. While in the before-high school period, I was a mess of nervous tension regarding the kind of teacher my baby was going to get, I find that now I am not as worried about that. I have learned that there is no point in worrying about something on which I have not much control. And by now my son has grown, and I trust him as an intelligent, well-adjusted human being. Well, he is still a teenager, so fingers crossed! While I won't miss the panic, I realize I will miss the back to school nights. By the time I learned to do it properly, it was time to leave for good. Unbeknownst ( ya, right!) to me, time was passing by, and I will have to do it no more.

on a lighter note

The local homeowners association annual  meeting announcement -- a couple of days later. thought-provoking.