That’s an interesting thing about this whole daily blog business, I put up an idea each day and the next day may reconsider, but if I’m going to keep my 365-365, I’ll leave up the previous post, with all its unfinished thoughts and unbalanced views.
I also find that, when I write a poem, the words take on a life of their own. Sometimes driven by the rhyme, sometimes by the meter, sometimes by the sheer pleasure of it – I never end up where I started and don’t always know where I’m going. I find it all quite amusing, but later I’ll wonder how it may be read by others.
Mind you, the vast majority of poetry which I have written has never been read by anyone either than myself. These poems to me now are like abstract reflections of an unclear past. Sometimes I can recall the situation which prompted them, other times I know that I was simply playing with words, playing with ideas and voices. Some of them amuse me still.
I’m not trying to make excuses for what I wrote yesterday. It was fun. I don’t disagree with what I wrote. I don’t fully agree with what I wrote either. That’s the nature of poetry – at least it is for me.
I was listening today to CBC’s Writers and Company with Eleanor Wachtel. She replayed a part of a previous interview with Gary Hyland, a Saskatchewan poet who recently passed away. His poetry and words were beautiful and touching.
As I often do when I hear the works of poets and writers, I wonder about their process. I wonder about their relationship to the words they’ve written. I wonder if there are writers who always write the truth – or if even such a thing is possible.
I wonder what it would mean for me to write the truth. I don’t think I have that in singular. Does anyone?
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