I’m not a very
consistent writer. I never have been. To sit down and write at the same time every
day doesn’t come naturally to me. Whether I’m working on a book, drafting a
blog or creating copy for a client, there are times when the words will not come
no matter how long I stare at the computer screen. I can find myself writing,
then rewriting the same sentence to no avail. It will still be crap until I finally
abandon the exercise and stomp off to another part of the house, muttering with
frustration.
But there will be
times when the ideas simply flow through me and onto the pages so quickly there
is almost a word pile-up as my fingers struggle to keep up. That’s when I am
thankful for the strict edicts of my year 10 typing teacher Miss Dunn who taught
me to touch-type on an electric typewriter back in the 80s – yes, I am that
old.
Those times of natural
creative flow are so effortless and when it’s done, I always know it is good. Or
at least, it meets my own exacting standards of good.
My Muse is annoyingly
elusive though and can disappear for hours, days or weeks. But she has
vehemently demanded my attention when I’ve been in the throes of abject misery –
recovering from heartbreak or struggling with anxiety and despair. She often
thrives in those environments of emotional turmoil and my creativity can feel almost
uncontrollable. I once felt her call every night for a few short months. More than
200 poems, some several pages long, were the result.
A colleague once showed
me pictures of the huge, beautiful canvasses she would paint when depressed. “When
I’m happy, I can’t paint a thing,” she said. A lot of artists will tell you
their creativity thrives when they are in emotional pain. Perhaps that is the
Universe’s way of giving us a helping hand in difficult times – giving us something
to cling to as we ride the glutenous seas around us and try desperately not to
drown in the darkness.
Pain has certainly
sparked my creativity many times but living a life that is inspiring has done
the same. I can remember years ago, leaving my Monday night university class
where I taught a bunch of smart, eager students who couldn’t wait to learn, travelling
home, walking in my front door, grabbing my laptop then hurrying out to my back
deck where I would write a blog in 20 minutes or less. The energy of my
students was so inspiring that my Muse was jumping with joy.
Over the last few
weeks I have started to hear the whisper of the Muse in my ear once again. I
was afraid she had died or disappeared forever. I’m thankful she has not.
Half-formed ideas now occasionally
bob to the surface of my consciousness before disappearing once more. But
knowing they are there, is enough to make me feel hopeful that the creative tap
is beginning to drip.
I am not struggling
with despair but I am consciously seeking out the inspirations of books and art
and passionate conversations. Perhaps this shift has heralded the Muse’s return?
Only time will tell.
In the back of my first book The Men I’ve Almost Dated, I included some poems from my next book, The Madness of Love. The poetry collection is best described as an enticing concoction of reality, fantasy and other-worldly insight. It asks the reader to find the line between madness and love. I’m now curating those poems for publication. Here is another one entitled Egg on Her Face. Can you relate?
Focus on the feelings you felt, she said
Not the man you know who gave them
But when I did all I could do
Is think of the man who raised them
I realised then
The drama created
Was always derived from me
My expectations of being trampled on
Let my fear run away with me.
All I wished for now it seemed
Was his stillness and his light
The feeling that all was well
Of calmness with no strife
His air, just present
His eyes so kind
And frequently warmly smiling
While making me laugh
I’ve never felt so torn
As I do now
When I think back
And realise what I’ve done
I helped create the current stance
In fact, I loaded the gun
He had played his part
It’s true
He had driven it home
But I, oh God
I couldn’t believe
Just what my fear had done
All was well
Until I lost
My way and all perspective
And then all he and I could do
Was drown in the invective
As we rocked from side to side
Carried on unsteady waves
Of fear, anxiety, never confidence
I behaved just like a babe
He had called me so naïve
Was that for trusting him
But perhaps my real issue
Was actually me, not him
He had turned away from me
Because I did not stand
I had not yet put myself first
Fear had the upper hand
I did not stand in my power
I was quite simply
Just all over the place
The thought that I had caused him pain
Simply left me with egg on my face.
The brick wall was coated with Teflon
It stood there staring back
Everything she threw at it
It just kept sliding back
So she walked around the side
To see what she could see
But all she could see was more Teflon
As far as the eye could see
Eventually she lay down
And stared up at the sky
The Teflon shadow stretching over her
There was nothing else that she could try
To shift the weight
It pinned her down
She was gasping her last breath
Or so she thought
Then something moved
And she got up instead
She knew there were cracks
Not far inside
That Teflon-covered wall
But it wasn’t up to her to budge it
It wasn’t up to her at all
She put on her hat
She put on her shoes
And left her calling card
Well actually truth be told
She left more than several cards
She stuck her cards
With super glue
All over that God-damn wall
Those cards they stuck
Didn’t even move in the breeze
They weren’t going anywhere at all
And every time
She passed by
She simply stuck on another
That God-damn wall would have to collapse
She wasn’t giving up
No she wasn’t, my brother
But that wall
Was fucking determined
It liked the safety of Teflon
But she didn’t care
About any of that
She didn’t care about the Teflon
She’d keep leaving
Her calling card
It was printed in colours of light
That wall it didn’t stand a chance
Against all that beautiful light
Eventually the Teflon would be consumed
By the light of those sweet cards
The black would fade
To leave all the cracks
All the indelible scars
She would run her fingers through them
All those faulty lines
She would reach deep within
Or maybe not
Who could surmise
What would happen
When the Teflon left
And revealed all that was hidden
So much love
So well-protected
So hidden from normal vision
Perhaps she would just know it was there
As days turned weeks turned months
Her life expanding
And then contracting
Seeking always love
But walls are harsh
So very hard
Wiser ones would say
But it’s the cracks that lie deep within
I love them she would say
Life is full of faults and pain
And some use that Teflon
To repel all other advances
They prefer to keep it on
And that is fine
To be sure
There’s nothing wrong with that
Although perhaps there is actually
Something profoundly wrong with that
Imagine if they moved the black
Moved that dark Teflon
And instead they let the light flood in
All the darkness could be gone
What did she know
Anyway
About anything, any of that
All the plain eye could see
Was Teflon staring back
But she would keep leaving her calling cards
That glue was really strong
Was the Teflon stronger
She wondered
As she kept on, keeping on
She didn’t know
Maybe she was wrong
To believe in any of that
Maybe she was wrong
To believe
The darkness was merely an act
Fanciful flights
Circling her brain
They flew straight to her heart
She was happy right then
To let them fly
The light still filled her heart
‘I read your blog. There’s a lot of poetry on there,’ said You Know Who You Are.
I’ve been writing a lot of poetry lately. I can’t honestly tell you why or when I became a poet, but it seems that I am. On my last count I’d written around 150 poems since May and five of those have been written this week! It’s a seemingly never-ending stream of words, rhyme and rhythm that turns up and demands to be written. So I write it.
Like the rest of my writing, my poems are very autobiographical so I need to be a little circumspect in what I publish here on my blog. Social media and the online world is so very open and everyone can know your business (exes and current lovers included) and words can be misinterpreted, too revealing or understood perfectly (horror oh horror). Other times I publish immediately, unable to keep it to myself, but then worry that I have revealed too much (oh the mortification!). Nevertheless, if you read all my poems you would see the outline of my life – its ups and downs, twists and turns and yes, let’s face it, the times when I’ve fallen flat on my face. It’s all there in those poetic words that just won’t leave me alone.
The tone of these works inevitably rise and fall with the happenings in my personal life because they are all connected to love. Love – whether it’s causing a flood or a drought in my life – is always there. And, for those of you who know the tempestuous possibilities of that emotion, I’m sure you would agree with my statement that sometimes love can indeed, drive you to madness.
My poems, when they appear in my psyche and demand to be written, cover all aspects of that madness – the pain, the exhilaration, the gentleness, the devastation, the silence (the most cruel aspect and hateful aspect of all). Not to mention anger, passion and of course, sex (whether you actually have it or just think about having it…all the time!).
Love seems to me to be an inescapable thing. Ever-present and ever-persistent.
The wonderful thing about poetry though, is it helps me to release that madness within. Like many women, I tend to obsess, to cling to that emotional roller-coaster and manipulate every detail in my brain to try and understand just what happened or will happen or might happen. But my poetry perverts the course of this bad habit. It simply grasps all those emotions and forces me to throw them onto the page. The form is not of my design – I firmly believe that is coming from elsewhere. But it is my fingers that fly across the keyboard.
Afterwards I often feel spent, exhausted, sated, like after great sex (okay, incredible sex) or a good cry where your tears fall like torrents. I will wonder if the madness has left me then. I will wonder if there is more to write. How can there be more to say?
Inevitably though, the rhythm will return and I am drawn once again to the black keys on my Mac. Love will haunt me again – love lost, love wished for, love longed for – driving my fingers onwards.
It seems that love holds the soul of poetry for me. So for now, love is all I need, or at least the promise of what I thought it was, or what it could be.
Not a word could be heard
The Facebook post it asked of me
‘I read your blog. There’s a lot of poetry on there,’ said You Know Who You Are.