The Life of One Canuck

Oh Lawdy, is dat sum poetry right thar?

September 29, 2009 at 6:10 am (Uncategorized)

So I’m working on a few new poems. This might sound a little arrogant of me, but I think in my years of writing I have created a pretty disciplined approach to writing and before I post what I’m working on, I’d like to elaborate a bit on my creative process so you, dear reader, can have a bit more of an introspective perception of how my work comes to be. Who knows, maybe there is even a small iota of altruism left in this withered embittered old husk of emotions I call my personality that compels me with genuine sincerity to help a struggling writer, lol.

I like to think when I make poems – or any kind of work for that matter – I go through three creative phases that I stick to very adamantly. By sticking to these stages, I feel my writing as of present day has benefited from a great deal more refinement than anything I produced in the past (in terms of work and thought put in).I now truly consider my writing to be a discipline of the utmost importance, to be taken seriously or not be done at all.

The first step is what I call my ‘raw chunk’ stage. This is perhaps the most difficult to really describe or to give any direct meaning to in terms of how to evoke or actively make use of your own ‘raw chunk’ stage (if thats how you choose to define it). The best I can do is describe it for you and hope that in the future you will be able to conceptualize this stage better as it happens.

During this stage, I’m usually drawn into inspiration from some audio/visual que; usually music helps. For example, one of the following poems I’ll post I originally went into writing at 2:30 A.M. after hearing the sound of a drop hitting the sink in my residence. I immediately sprang from my bed and wrote down – scribbled might be a more appropriate term – my thoughts until I felt the idea had exhausted itself and there was nothing more to immediately write about. Once this process is done, I consider the framework, the inert dormant concept  of what I’m trying to evoke and convey to be down. From there I leave the piece of writing for a day or two (I like to think I’m letting it age and ferment, like a fine wine ) before moving onto the next stage.

The next stage, I have dubbed the sandpaper stage. This is where I sit down, review what I have written for a while (usually I skim over the same lines for about a good ten minutes each) and I try my best to pick up on what it is I write, what wierd intangible thing from the past gripped my mind and possessed me to write with such a fervor only days ago. Once I realise what it was I was going for, I refine it (See, like sandpaper. My namings are nothing if not practical and self-referential ) I scrape off the bits of the original writing that I find superfluous or just demeaning to the original idea and concept. I whittle away like a woodblock artist until I have turned a frumpy old log into something wholly more sophisticated, more human relatable to the frosted, tired soul and warm, beating heart… *Sigh*….

…

Where was I? Oh yes, this stage also involves a great deal of expansion. I try and prologue the idea, stretch it out to a point of taut transparency wherein there is no question that this poem is meant to evoke a happy, sad, angry or desperate feel; you can leap seamlessly through the small window  into my soul (one does not walk through a door into my soul, they must leap through the window as my soul is one crafted to be the playground of the most august absurdity, not of putrescent pragmatism) for a brief departure and indulge yourself in who I am at my primordial basest level.

So thats the sandpaper stage, one of repetitive convulsions and expansions (like an orgasm! I don’t mean for that to sound juvenile, but I know it will).

Lastly comes the ‘ornate’ or ‘flowery’ stage. This is where I like to superimpose more articulate language and revise small key sections. The poem remains the same in concept, but it becomes slightly altered in terms of how it is expressed to the end reader. This is of course the easiest stage for me to describe, and I consider it an absolute godsend when I think about it because it means that this world isn’t solely the domain of abstract meta-physicalities (yes thats a real word despite what … Crap, did that sound at all condescending?)

*Phew* Well that is a little view into how my writing takes form. Although, I think the point I got across more is more why I write, the benefit I gain from expressing myself; it’s certainly open to interpretation. At the very least, these blog posts are a good example of the ‘raw chunk’ stage in and of itself a good example of stream-of-consciousness prose, maybe?

I should say at this point as well that I didn’t develope these structures entirely independently (there; maybe this post doesn’t reek entirely of arrogance anymore) and that they are the culmination of years of taking writing classes, showing of my work and getting some very critical input and like any other discipline practice! I should also say that these skills certainly aren’t finite, I fully realize that they will not work for anyone and that they won’t always work for me. What I will say IS finite however is the importance of adapting skills like these into your writing regime, it always helps to develop your skills as much as possible.

So without any further adieu, the ‘raw chunks’ I have been working on laboriously today:

The first is a short work of prose which is kind of an extension of a previous work, it’s a recurring concept thats really dear to me that I call The Little Grey Girl.

- – -

The girl of my dreams, the little grey girl formed out of insipid teasing thoughts of unrequited desire playfully parades throughout the annulled halls of my mind. She is the combined indiscriminate company of smiles and tears. Dancing with a transient glee, wafting daintily from one flight of fancy to the next neglecting her will to linger to long lest she be swallowed up by the jaws of satiety.

For you see,

She is never to be satisfied while she wanders within me, too much of her enviroment lies upon the precipice of oblivion so she has in kind given into lyrical whimsy and begun dancing with fire in the doomed days of forever. Dancing ever more gracefully she spreads more and more flame about, igniting long dormant halls in an immaculate light. Desperation, fear, loathing, happiness, serenity.

All these emotions are given a new light in the all-consuming flames of love and within these flames they will amalgamate into something more, something richer then I can possibly hope to understand a flurry, a great daunting fiery hurricane of sensuality and perception that demands no understanding, only the reverence accompanied with nostalgic, loving reflection. With these you can rest within the middle of the firestorm, unable to move pinned by the thought of being singed while gradually accepting the idea that life is better left to be burnt then to be a pristine unsullied thing.

The embers, climbing high and resolute are reverberations of my desire. Ashes and smoke billow within my head, seeking a route of escape and, finding none have given into circulating within my skull. My mind is full of stinging vacuous embers and smoke with thoughts of the dancing arsonist below; all I am is forfeit to the fire being roused from below in dark places now made light by the whiles of the little grey girl. The smoke, for all its intoxicating effect is so lovingly endured by me. After a while, I see the point, the misleading machination behind her tall, pyre fires.

For you see,

The little grey girl is likewise affected by the flames she lit against the walls of oblivion. She is roused, lovingly into a dancing stupor. Oxygen has ceased to fill her lungs and now she dances, like all suffocating people do, so that they might go out with a smile. They set fire to memory to give themselves one last meal of vividness in their private, tenderly constricting thoughts.

And now out of the generosity and kindness of her heart, she has let the fire grow irrevocably higher so that the smoke can intoxicate me too, so that despite her trappings in the meta realm of my thoughts, she can prove to me that she is real. Despite her grey skin and featureless limbs, she can be something more real, colorful and vivid to me then anyone within my the range of my senses. She tells me to defy what I see, to encapsulate it in thought so that she might set more kindling on the fire and create even larger puffs of smoke to make the world all the more transient, so that I might even possibly be, in my thoughtless revery, make her real and appear for me. Nevermore a prisoner to a lonely warden’s sharp steel cage, but a free dancing little grey girl, riddling my minds eye upon the stage.

- – -

Secondly, there is a smaller poem I’m working on called Reading in the Rain, which is in a bit more refined state but still long from being finished:

Here I sit, reading in the rain

With my belief that the sanguine sun will sustain

My life, my love, my unaltered aim

Quietly I endure the drops

That sink into the page

Reading about bronzed ledges hung high

Waiting by meticulous props

And beasts of rage

Before traced glass castles in the sky

Here I sit, my thoughts not worried,

Tired or fleeting,

But restless, running without meaning

And Patiently I am hurried,

To water with reason, hungry seeds teeming,

With congestion, growing, but misleading

Serenading wordlessly with the sane

Recreating my unaltered aim

Here I sit, reading in the rain

- – -

As you can see, I still need to expand it a lot more!

Oh, and as a brief tidbit, I’d like to add a wierd… Thing, that my friend Josh and I came up with. It’s juvenile, silly, absurd immature and impractical and its my best attempt at some kind of humor. I’d say more about what it is but it’s a good example of the ‘raw chunk’ stage so I’ll just let is speak for itself (it’s taken nearly verbatim from a Facebook post, so please forgive any spelling mistakes):

Ok, so heres this ridiculously stupid idea Chris and I had one day. It’s a reality TV show/drama called Bear High School.

Synopsis: OK, so it’s a high school, where all the students are bears (Josh and I believe simplicity is a virtue when it comes to humor). The bears are dressed to represent their respective stereotypes (i.e. Jock bear, emo bear, prep bear) and they interact and stuff. Only the teachers are still actual people, to keep it interesting. There’s a guaranteed mauling in every episode, and half the series revolves around the three way relationship between Jock Bear A, Prep Bear C, and Emo bear F. everyone’s gonna cheer for the emo bear, just because hes so fucking awesome. In the second episode, theres some sort of football game, where the bear high football team (all bears, of course) scores the game winning touchdown with 2 seconds left!… and is then immediately disqualified for eating a referee as bears often do when they disagree with a penalty call.

Characters: Jock Bear A: Some kind of jock bear, always wears football pads. Has a preference for eating referees. Is currently dating Prep Bear B (can bears date? tune in to find out!) Teaser: No, bears cannot date. Because they are bears…
Prep Bear B: The Preppy girl bear, who’s somehow dating Jock Bear A. Wears some sort of short skirt, and a HUGE American eagle sweater although according to bear standards, she is considered quite slimming (see bimbo). Shes incredibly jealous, and mauls anyone who goes near Jock Bear.
Emo Bear F: The true star of the series and a very layered personality, Emo Bear has a tough outer shell, beneath which dwells a gentle giant. And beneath that is a godless killing machine. Wears Tight bear pants, and eye liner.
Loner Bear: Some sort of loner bear. Doesn’t fit in to any category. Is really wise, for a bear anyways. Although most of Loner Bear’s wisdom is somehow related to hunting salmon… Regardless of this, the bears often consider his advice free to interpretation and derive a lot of sage wisdom from him at times, even it is based on eating salmon that he previously hunted.
Mr. Jonesbury: The weak math teacher. Is constantly mauled, but is always back in the next episode, only to be mauled again…  Has an acute deficiency for sensing an impending bear mauling. Our ratings pump (who doesnt love bear mauling?!?)…. Maul (just because we haven’t used the word enough).
- – -

So thats my big update. Feel free to fall asleep and make base camp halfway through (although, I guess in retrospect it would make more sense to put this message the start). Hopefully this will tide me over for a few days so I can focus on studying. Please forgive any spelling and grammar errors, I’m finishing this at 2 AM and my mind isn’t so coherent. I’ll edit tomorrow.

Bye all and be well!

-Your friendly neighborhood canuck

- Chris