I originally posted this over at Goodreads, but thought I'd post my waffling on here too, to make up for the sudden dearth of blogging!
e.e. cummings has been my favourite poet since high school. I carry a 'selected poems' around in my handbag (for emergencies), but it's always interesting to revisit a whole book, rather than just what someone else thought was a 'best of'. You get standout poems that don't make it into other collections, alongside lesser ones. Xaipe (pronounced "Khai-er-ree" to rhyme with 'fiery') means 'rejoice' in Greek, and the collection is often movingly joyous.
Cummings sometimes gets accused of being sentimental, deliberately impossible to read, and even casually racist. I can see how he could be read thus.
But I think his playfulness rescues him from sentimentality (I adore his poems about children):
if a cheerfulest Elephantangelchild should sit
(holding a red candle over his head
by a finger of trunk,and singing out of a red
book)on a proud round cloud in a white high night
where his heartlike ears have flown adorable him
self tail and all(and his tail's red christmas bow)
--and if,when we meet again,little he(having flown
even higher)is sunning his penguinsoul in the glow
of a joy which wasn't and isn't and won't be words
while possibly not(at a guess)quite half way down
to the earth are leapandswooping tinily birds
whose magical gaiety makes your beautiful name--
i feel that(false and true are merely to know)
Love only has ever been,is,and will ever be,So
His impossibility - shredded/recombined words and absurd punctuation litters his poems - suits the way I read poetry. I just read it headlong, straight through the first time, not pausing over words, punctuation or to try think or match up the parentheses. And interestingly when I go back for a second look, the image I've got the first time around usually still stands up. Try it yourself:
the little horse is newlY
Born)he knows nothing,and feels
everything;all around whom is
perfectly a strange
ness(Of sun
light and of fragrance and of
Singing)is ev
erywhere(a welcom
ing dream:is amazing)
a worlD.and in
this world lies:smoothbeautifuL
ly folded;a(brea
thing a gro
Wing)silence,who;
is:somE
oNe.
Cummings himself responded to the racist controversy (mainly around his line "a kike is the most dangerous") in typically cryptic fashion:
'Cummings' "Good American point," as he told Allen Tate, was "that the kike isn't(helas) a Jew..." (but is an invention of Gentile society).' (quote from the inner flyleaf of Xaipe).
I loved revisiting Xaipe. It's flawed and joyous and sometimes extremely funny:
o to be in finland
now that russia's here)
swing low
sweet ca
rr
yon
(pass the freedoms pappy or
uncle shylock not interested
Additionally, when I re-read it, a copy of poem by Gwendolyn Brooks that I had been trying to remember for ages (When You Have Forgotten Sunday: The Love Story) fell out - I'd been using it as a bookmark! Brilliant.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Poems by request
Well, that was an unexpected delight. Whee!
In early February, I wrote a poem on a whim, for Penni Russon and Kirsty Murray (because I idolize them a bit), and instead of squireling it away for a dusty publication, I posted it on my blog. I got some nice responses, and I tweeted something along the lines of "I should do this every day. What should I write about tomorrow, Twitter?" @facelikethunder replied that I should write something in dactylic hexameter, so the next morning I did, and posted it on my blog. More nice responses. That evening, I asked Twitter what I should write about the next day - and people responded with suggestions.
And so it went on - to 100 poems. It's not quite 100 days, all up, because there were a few days where I wrote two poems (crazy kid). It's tripled the traffic to my blog (which usually lies pretty fallow as I am slack). The most popular poem, hits-wise? This one.
For a very non-prolific person (I usually amass a grand total of about five poems a year), writing 100 poems in a couple of months has been liberating and heartening. Turns out if you just sit down and write stuff, then you've written stuff. Who knew?
Writing a poem every day (no weekends off!) for 100 pieces means I've written in practically every possible physical and emotional state I can think of. I've written poetry while I was happy, angry, tired, manic, ashamed, proud, crying, laughing, drunk, hungover, sick, stressed, hungry, spaced-out, distracted, sweaty, freezing, you name it. A couple of times I was prevented from posting my poem on the actual day - technology, parties, emotional disasters can get in the way of these things, but I'm proud that I never actually missed a day. I always wrote the poem, and it got to the blog at least within a day of being due.
I wrote poetry when I thought I couldn't face it, I wrote poetry when I thought I couldn't face anything. Sometimes the last thing I wanted to do was write a fucking poem. Sometimes it gave me a reason to live through the night, or get up in the morning. Sometimes it was so much fun.
Writing a poem every day - and in a way I couldn't cheat ahead with, as suggestions for the next day's poem were always taken the night before - has forced me to loosen up the way I write. Writing a poem in the morning, editing it and posting it that evening is a far cry from the strangulated way I usually write a poem over months. I've written poems entirely composed of quotations, I've written poems entirely composed of in-jokes. I've tried forms I never would have tried on my own - anti-poetry, sestinas (OMG sestinas are hard), visual poetry, concrete poetry, villanelles, terza rimas, etc. It's reminded me that I love formal restrictions, and how they can sometimes create better work than writing unfettered by rhyme schemes and meter.
It's overflowed into my non-blog writing, too. I've calculated that in the last three months I've written 20,000 non-blog words in the form of other poetry, short stories and essays. That's pretty much unheard of for me. I hope to keep the momentum going, because when I stop writing, I tend to get paralysed. Thomas Mann said "A writer is a person for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people." Sounds about right.
I love making things for people. Poems by request let me make something every night, and hand it over like a present. I'm ending the daily poem posting at 100 (because I'm a little weary, and it seemed a nice round number to stop at), but it's not really an end as such. I still intend to post poems, and take special requests. Just not every day!
What now? More of the same, really. Submissions, writing, reviewing deadlines, mothering, partnering, reading - and you know I have a day job, right? For the time being, anyway. I'd quite like to resurrect my reading your favourites thing too, though it takes a lot longer to get to blogging about that each time. I hate leaving things unfinished!
Overall, I want to say thankyou. The response from all of you has been quite overwhelming. Night after night, you kept coming up with suggestions for the next day's verses - I've had suggestions from lifelong friends, old friends I've just met, complete strangers, family, authors I admire, toddlers and children. Thankyou to everyone who's commented, tweeted, and spoken to me about how they've enjoyed this spontaneous project, and special thanks to everyone who's made a suggestion. Namely *drum roll* these 91 peeps (I hope I didn't miss anyone!):
- AG
- Aimee
- Allysha
- @_boobook_
- @_camer0n
- @1000yearsago
- @1000yearsago
- @alphabetsoupmag
- @anitranot
- @anthonyeaton
- @anti_kate
- @awurster
- Charlotte
- Claudia
- @cochineal
- Daniel
- @dogpossum
- @eglantinescake
- Erin
- @ernmalleyscat
- @facelikethunder
- Fred
- G____
- Gabe
- @greenspace01
- @GretasTARDIS
- H.
- Hamish
- @hleighthree
- @iFigaro2u
- Janet Punch
- @jellyjellyfish
- @johnnypurple
- @juliansanelli
- Justine
- Keira
- @kenrob2037
- @kirsty_I
- @kirstymurray
- @kissability
- @kumuda
- @lucyrogue
- Luka
- @margolanagan
- @marklawrence
- @matchtrick
- @mindlessmunkey
- @MJPhotographer
- @mlledelicieuse
- @msmaddiep
- @msmisrule
- Mum
- @notcharming
- Ollie
- P.
- @pcblues
- Peter Punch
- @pinknantucket
- @PipHaz
- @Quadelle
- @realnixwilliams
- Riley
- @robcorr
- @ryanpaine
- @sarahhazelton
- @SeanMElliott
- @simmonehowell
- @skippy_2
- @slimejam
- @snazzydee
- @sorrel_smith
- @sorrel_smith’s 3yo (and her 1.5yo sister)
- @spikelynch
- @spikelynch's three girls
- @sulphura
- @sushipyjamas
- @sushipyjamas
- @suz_la
- @suznannah
- Tammy
- TG
- The Boy
- @TheEndeavour
- @tiggyjohnson
- @timsterne
- Toby
- @twitofalili
- @tysonarmstrong
- Una
- @VayaPashos
- @xutraa
Thanks guys. What a trip. I'm so grateful.
xxx ARP
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Centennial
(based on suggestions from - deep breath - @realnixwilliams,
Dark blue morning opens sharp as a cat’s eye.
Magpies awdle louder than light switches;
gargling day to prayer with broken vase voices.
Whisper kettle towards rhymes, tuck up long feet.
Dim screen pins my arms like Golgotha nails,
evening vodka corrupts. Absolut vodka corrupts absolutly.
Last night’s endeavour leaves no spirited insignia,
blank missions to colour in; crayon may not be enough.
Back of my head houses deep pockets of
words expensive as flowering macadamias.
Squirreled away references to fish fingers,
recipes for lamingtons, the need to go swimming.
Pretend this head is buttered dish, all I need do
is place the cherries triumphant. Not so easy.
Books serve to show a man that those original thoughts
of his aren’t very new at all. Flowers among thistles.
Breathe quietly; small blonde boy wakes soon.
Wriggles free of blankets like a bag of kittens
exclaiming dreams of triangles and how cows go MOO!
Skin smoothed cream as ostrich eggshell
arms wider than the moon is far. His smile
is achievement, tiny ritual of baby teeth
enormity of lit-up eyes at my greasy face.
It is a miracle that our children love us.
Leave in hurried goodbyes, carry home and friends
in our pockets. Snail shells have room for hundreds.
The internet is bigger inside, we find what’s needed
in a flurry of little endings, mouse and monkey tails.
Hashtags cast rubber fishnets, sweep for laughter or rage.
A small white bar asks: ‘what’s happening?’
Fearing tumbleweeds: speak softly to the keypad.
Loved and beloved, we are surprised by the warm chorus.
___________________________________________________
Today's poem is based on 35 suggestions from 19 peeps:
- @realnixwilliams: “small rituals”
- @facelikethunder: “rage”
- @GretasTARDIS: “The TARDIS! Ostrich egg. Fishing nets. Lamingtons. Fish fingers. Abraham Lincoln. Feet. Triangles. Vodka. Cows. #many”
- @TheEndeavour: “yes. The Endeavour is about to go up. Second last shuttle launch EVER. ME SAD.”
- @PipHaz: “swimming! or small children…Well done on 100. Impressive tally…”
- @lucyrogue: “colouring-in. (I feel sad about this ending) xo”
- @pinknantucket: “Clafouti! Also that feeling you get when you’ve achieved something great.”
- @SeanMElliott: “Calvary"
- @notcharming: “kittens!”
- @ernmalleyscat: “breath”
- @johnnypurple: “well, I always like your cat poems, so how about the best things in the world: cats, books and love.”
- @timsterne: “Magpies. Rhyming. Swimming.”
- @suz_la: “going back home”
- @dogpossum: “squirrels and nuts”
- @_boobook_: “pockets”
- @msmisrule: “broken vases”
- Mark: "Ultramarine negritude"
- Erin: "Endings!"
- Janet: "Goodbyes"
This is officially the most suggestions I've crammed into a poem - I suppose being #100, and the final #poemsbyrequest, it was going to be a big one. I was determined that it not be longer than the four 8-line stanzas, though (perhaps at the expense of density, but poetry is about distillation, but no one wants to read forever).
Appropriately enough, the 100th poem is mostly about the #poemsbyrequest thing as a whole, and the rituals it has created for me around writing a poem each day. For something I started on a late-night whim, I'm somewhat surprised I kept it up for this long.
I'll leave it at that for today, though tomorrow I intend to post some kind of...reflection, I guess, and a thank-you to you all for being so enthusiastic and encouraging.
Because I am very, very grateful.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Eight things that will end
(based on suggestions from @_boobook_ @skippy_2 @spikelynch @ernmalleyscat @snazzydee @mlledelicieuse @TheEndeavour)
Winter whispers in sharp blades of grass.
Leaves threaten the ground: cool days press harder.
Favourite biro is no heirloom fountain pen
Refill-resistant, found under a chair. Limited ink.
Almost grown past the under-18 solo section
Fills her lungs with music like it’s her last breath.
Morning gold enlightens a ruffled brown river
Nirvana in brief seconds: the sun climbs higher.
Air slips through swimming butterfly fingers
Hovering five inches from waking grounded.
Young hands touch her too anxious and often
She has had many men; he knows he is not the last.
Metal spinning top corkscrews slower
Falls still and sideways in childhood outgrown.
Filled with baby, tight and shiny as eggplant
Soon they will be as far apart as they’ve ever been.
___________________________________________________
Today's poem (the second-last!) is based on suggestions from seven peeps:
- @_boobook_: “Spinning”
- @skippy_2: “Nirvana. The state of being, not the band.”
- @spikelynch: “Song contests? If that hasn’t been done. Or eggplants”
- @snazzydee: “Have you covered swimming through the air in dreams yet?”
- @ernmalleyscat: “The ultimate pen”
- @mlledelicieuse: “The penultimate of anything. The bittersweet feeling of knowing something will soon come to an end.”
- @TheEndeavour: “autumn leaves”
I've always liked writing poems that are lots of different things gathered up under a common theme (I have poems in a similar vein called 'Ten Best Caresses' and 'Five Pieces of Summer'). It's a bit of a pillow-book urge, I think. I like making lists.
One poem to go...
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Hidden treasure
(based on suggestions from @realnixwilliams, @mlledelicieuse, @lucyrogue)
Kept them almost all the sweetened year
White and dark and milk, the flavours three
Silver linings, eggy clouds held dear
Brothers scoffed the lot down before tea
Whined for months about her hidden stash
Knew the useless cadence of their plea
Another Easter shone round in a flash
Foil peeled, her prize devoured slow
Toothy crack of shell and gentle smash
Away from siblings, secret pleasures grow
Melted lips and chocolate eyes aglow.
____________________________________________________________
Today’s poem, the third-last, is based on suggestions from three peeps (how appropriate):
- @realnixwilliams: “flavours that come in threes”
- @lucyrogue: “The last Easter eggs”
- @mlledeliciuse: “Write 3 stanzas, trilogy style”
I always kept my Easter chocolate for ages, even as a kid. Even now Paul has dispatched his by lunchtime on Easter Sunday, and mine hangs around in the cupboard almost until the next Easter. It nearly kills him not to eat it. Probably just as well I’m an only child, as this habit would have driven my siblings mad. Or more likely they would have just found my eggs and eaten them.
Today’s poem is a terza rima, a form where the stanzas have three lines with the interlocking rhyme scheme ABA, BCB, CDC etc (you can have any number of stanzas, but @mlledelicieuse requested three). A terza rima usually ends with a couplet that repeats the rhyme of the final stanza’s second line (hence ‘grow’ and ‘aglow’ to rhyme with ‘slow’ in my poem). Terza rima was first used by Dante, and usually is written in iambic pentameter (five feet to a line: da-DUM da-DUM da-DUM da-DUM da-DUM). Here endeth today’s lesson in poetic form.
Two poems to go…
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Advice
(based on suggestions from @notcharming, @marklawrence, @ernmalleyscat, @_camer0n)
If a blind-hearted stranger in your local
offers a mouse’s tail at cheap rates,
you be wary of such a sight in your life.
Even if you’re seeing double by that hour.
It may well be just a sloughed-off skin rag
like he says, the skirt of a whirling dervish
with no hacked-off legs inside the cotton.
But that cut-price stump might come from
the farmer’s wife, herself.
It might be a fez box with a head inside.
If you find the time to sit out four repeats of
nursery songs read aloud,
could you resist proudly displaying your
carving knife prize to a child?
You want to shutter the rhyme with a cleaver,
reveal the true dark blood?
Walk away from the sale of the dead, sunshine.
There’s no point cutting off your own
tail to spite your arse.
_________________________
Today's poem is based on suggestions from four peeps:
- @notcharming: “Finding time to sit and read”
- @marklawrence: “Blind as in three blind mice? One of my youngest’s favourite bedtime songs.”
- @ernmalleyscat: “Whirling dervishes and fez boxes”
- @_camer0n: “Blind like blotto?”
Today's poem is quite ugly, I think. I took the theme of the 'three blind mice' nursery rhyme (which is a rather violent ditty, really), and just played around with the idea of taking it home from the gritty bar-room to the clean child's bedroom.
When we were in year 7, we were told in Science only to pick up the mice at the very base of their tails, because if we lifted them from any further up we might peel off their tail-skin in one go. I have no idea if that's true, but it's stuck with me for 19 years.
Three poems to go...
Friday, May 13, 2011
Goldfields summer
(based on suggestions from @realnixwilliams, @pinknantucket, @slimejam)
Reading back over old photo albums
peels the skin off memory and tastebuds.
Crackle of transparent static across time
squares decades with rounded corners.
Chocolate icecream white t-shirt
early Pollock talents in evidence.
Pale long feet tucked to the ankles
in off-clear
Invisible sharks butt against toes
splitting maul boats in choppy harbours.
The tall mast of the bath boat
gets a real-world wind whipping.
Adults pour Mateus rosé, guitars emerge.
Strains of ‘If I had a hammer’ harmonise
hippie parents and friends at dusk.
‘Gone the rainbow’ up next, my lullaby.
It was probably a carob icecream.
None of this Sarah Lee ultra-chocolate.
I can taste my childhood in natural
peanut butter, brown rice pie-crusts.
Mason Pearson brush smooths
hair towards bedtime. Side part,
never interrupted by wispy fringe or
hid behind heavy
Goldfields summer. Hayfever air
of dry grass staggers to evening.
Flavours of Moosewood Cookbook
fade from Colgate milk teeth.
Turn the page, weaken the taste.
Remember this in the nick of time,
catch events like an early bus.
Polaroid an era in an instant.
______________________________________________
Today's poem is based on suggestions from three peeps:
- @realnixwilliams: “tall ships and boats in the bath”
- @pinknantucket: “How about ultra-chocoalte?”
- @slimejam: “Hammerhead sharks. Catching a bus in the nick of time. The difference between a ‘fringe ‘and bangs’ (if there is one)”
There’s a photo of me somewhere, aged about four I think, standing in a paddling pool in our
My years of Baby-Sitters Club reading suggests to me that a ‘fringe’ is messier and less heavy than straight-cut ‘bangs’. But I think at base ‘fringe’ is
Please note: if you start googling different types of hammers, you may get the giggles. Not that I’m immature.
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