HOW TO IMPROVE YOUR POETRY- SOME TIPS THAT WORK FOR ME

I came across an old tip sheet yesterday that I used to hand out when I ran poetry workshops. I thought I'd write a special post and share it with you.

• Always have paper and pencil on you for when inspiration strikes. It may not be a fully realised idea, it may be a phrase or an image that holds the kernel of a concept. Whatever it is write it down while it is fresh in your head. 
• When you are writing try to show your idea rather than telling people. Information dumps are not poetry. You are trying to turn personal experience/thought into something universal and unique. 
• Never be too much in love with a phrase or a line. Sometimes you have to remove a line to make the poem work. Put it to one side, it may be useful later.
• Look at your finished draft and scrutinise each word. Ask yourself whether the poem still works if you remove this word and if it does remove it. Pare the superfluous from your work. Make it lean. 
• Read it out aloud as you write, remember poetry is meant to be heard as much as read. How do the lines sound? Do the words flow? If not change them.
• Revise your work. No matter how perfect you think your first draft is revise it and then revise it some more. 
• Get someone you trust to read it aloud so you can hear how it sounds. Your work sounds different when you hear someone else speaking it.
• When you think the poem is complete put it in a drawer and leave it alone for a couple of weeks. Time grants a more critical eye. You will see the faults believe me. 
• Show your work to others. Join a writing group. You will get useful feedback and you will learn how to structure your opinions. Get a writing buddy and offer each other constructive feedback. 
• Read as much as you can. Not just the poets you like but different ones. Read the classics and ask yourself how does this poem work? How has the poet structured the poem? You can learn a lot from each poem you read. 
• Look at different poetic forms [for example villanelles, sonnets, rondels] and try and write your own. Exploring form gives insight into how poems work. Don't be afraid to experiement.
• Lastly, keep on writing. 

I hope this is of use to you, it is the distillation of sixty years writing. Good luck.

THE THREE LAST PEOPLE ON EARTH

Another train poem. This one also featured in the anthology about trains in the south west. It is based on a real life incident. I was collecting my daughter from the station and the train was late.

NIGHT TRAIN

we could be the three last people on this earth

cold as the bone in this post midnight chill

the station is as silent as sleep

then the light

rounds the bend

yawns to a stop

is this the carriage door

the one you will explode out of

telling tales of jostling platform changes

that lead to cheek by jowl overcrowding

no seat until well after Bristol

of course it isn’t

we hug and walk home

I think it is a straight forward account with little embellishment. 

Here's the Roches with The Train.

Until next time.

THIS IS HOW THE WORLD BURNS

We are experiencing a heat wave as I write. Second one of the year so far. We seem incapable of changing our collective behaviour and reducing the amount of carbon dioxide we create. A number of years ago I travelled across France by train, an adventure in itself, on my way to Catalunya. There was a similar situation.

TRAVELLING IN TIMES OF UNUSUAL WEATHER

I had expected more delays

but the trains ran through the heatwave

slowed only by a series of failed signals

we were handed

plastic bottles of warm water

until the supply ran out

the heat in the final station

stole the sweat from our skin

this is how the world burns

This is a simple, factual poem that I hope delivers the punch in its final line. 

I've been listening to Anna Ternheim a lot recently. Here's Caroline.

Until next time.

PRACTICE WHAT IT PREACHES

Today's poem appeared in an anthology of railway poems. I'd started it about fifteen years earlier but had put it to one side because it just wasn't working. Distance did grant perception though and I was able to make it work eventually.

LET THE TRAIN TAKE THE STRAIN

it is clear the train company worries about me

this is why they advised me [twice] to hold the handrail

at all times when I climb the station stairs

counselled that I must carry water on my journey

as this weekend’s weather will be unseasonably hot

and suggest should I feel unwell

then I must disembark at the next station

as this will make it easier for them to aid me

obviously they have heard that I forget things these days

and so repeatedly remind me

in these times of heightened tension

not to leave my luggage unattended

because if I do the security service may damage

or blow my case to smithereens just to be on the safe side

it is also pointed out that I should stand behind the yellow line

and let people exit the train before attempting to enter

and to mind the gap at all times

as I am now in the quiet carriage I must not play my music

talk on my phone or annoy the other passengers

it is a shame the railway company

does not practice what it preaches

It is a light piece. The announcements both at stations and on the train are faithful to what I heard over the speakers. 

Here's an old Pentangle album, the title song is about a steam train amongst other things.

Until next time. 

RUBBER BANDED

It's an interesting phrase rubber banded, with a number of meanings. The surface definition that a number of things are held together by a rubber band is obvious. In Transactional Analysis the term refers to being suddenly catapulted back to an earlier powerful emotional state. The phrase lent itself to the idea I had for this post's poem.

RUBBER BANDED

there was a memory jogger

buried deep

in the language of the word stash

he held in his hand

and read with his eyes

and it hurled him back in time

to gaze upon his younger self

a small thing half formed

I had the idea of being transported to a time in the past after reading something that chimed in a book. This is a small poem but it was included in The Wait of Water. Contact me if you would like a copy.

Here's Boy Genius.

Until next time.

EVENTUALLY IT SANK IN

A poem of exile. A human the wrong side of a wide sea, a cold beach, night falling.

LIVING BY THE WATER

His last great splendid had sailed.

He walked the changing shore,

watched the waves,

kidded himself that a life

lived beside the water kept it real.

Eventually it sank in.

His last great splendid had sailed.

And here he was

quenched in brine and red biddy,

discovering he was the wrong side of a sea

too deep to wade, too far to leap.

The sun had set, the night was cold.

It is an attempt to catch a fleeting moment, a sudden realisation that changes one's perception. The illustration is by Alison Wilson. Oh, red biddy is a drink of the desperate, cheap red wine and mentholated spirits.

Here's Anna Ternheim and Ana Brun. 

Until next time.

MOSES DOWNED TOOLS

I should explain the phrase "downed tools", it refers to workers striking, they withdraw their labour, put down the tools they use in their work. 

INDUSTRIAL ACTION

Moses downed tools,

and before the management capitulated,

things turned very nasty.

Frogs fell from the sky alive

and children died.

Imagine that:

children died.

Could you pray to a deity

that valued one child’s life over another?

This poem wrote itself quickly. As did this next poem. Actually they arrived as a pair. 

ON THE ROAD TO JERICHO

On the road to Jericho

we bitched about the gig,

hunted out mouthpieces

long unused and dusty.

On the road to Jericho

we raked over old grudges,

squabbled about the set list.

Unspoken fears every step of the way.

By the second tune

we knew the notes to play,

the size of the walls no longer mattered.

That last day, the seventh,

almost made the previous forty years make sense.

What can we say about the walls of Jericho being broken down by Joshua's trumpets? I focussed on the life of the musicians and their supposed forty years in the wilderness. I am often inspired by stories from the Bible although I would not class myself a believer as I am a pantheist. God is truly all around us.

Here's the late Leonard Cohen with If It Be Your Will.

Until next time.

I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THAT WORD MEANS

This poem originated in a workshop. We had to choose and year then write our responses to certain questions that were asked about it by the facilitator. What follows is as true as I can remember.

1974

I spend more on the green buses

travelling there or coming back

than I do where I am going.

There is the occasional milky coffee

chipped cups in the bus station cafe

windows misted, cigarette smoke and coughing old men

The park is empty

sun slopes through trees

to redden the lake and the municipal ducks.

Winter comes calling

my patch pocket, button front, black loons

are no match for the lazy wind

I do not know where or what we eat

but we are either at The Grand or the Beer Keller

or kissing in a doorway

Once in a while your house is empty

I say I love you

I have no idea what that word means

The poem was in my fourth collection. I like its honesty and the way in which the disparate facts build up to offer a picture of a lost world. I've been back to Wigan on occasion but obviously it has changed beyond all recognition. The last time was to go to a gig and I happened to drive past The Grand Hotel, it was derelict. 

Here's The Beatles with All Things Must Pass.

Until next time.  

 

WEST OF EDEN

This is my 31st post, a calendar month's worth of poems. After this post, for the rest of the year, I shall post twice a week, Monday and Friday. This post's poem is about being evicted from the Garden of Eden. I never could get my head around the story of the eviction. For me it always put too much emphasis on Eve. Plus in Genesis there are two differing stories of creation, does one take one's pick? 

WEST OF EDEN

my grandfather walked out of Eden

just as the trouble kicked off

and they were all cast out of paradise

by that angel with the flaming sword

grandfather said it looked the business

impressive in a peevish kind of way

the trouble with that sort of history

he told us is the focus on

those with their names in that book

and not the likes of him

offspring of Lilith the first wife

the one who is never spoken of

nor of all the others lost to time now

who were quietly getting on with their lives

while this angry god psychodrama

was acted out around them

my grandfather walked out of Eden

the world is large as he discovered

there is enough room for everyone 

I think this poem works. I wanted to express the view of those who are never heard, those who do not make history, the ones Frantz Fanon named the wretched of the earth. The people who got on with their lives while this great psychodrama around them, a repost to those who claim our country is full, who would make us all mean spirited. 

Here's Will Varley with a song about a man who died attempting to enter this country.

Until next time.  

CAN YOU KEEP A GRIP?

When I was a teenager we used to have this silly game. We would try to burn the whole match and if successful we would crush it with the edge of our hands. If everything worked as we hoped, when you parted your hands half of the burned match would be on the end of each hand. This indicated in local mythology that you were really in love. No one else I've ever talked about it with had done it. it was local to where I grew up. 

THERE’S A METAPHOR IN HERE, SOMEWHERE…

Take a match

from any box you care

strike it boldly

Can you keep a grip

and not singe your fingers

as the wood burns away?

I can tell you how

keep the flame upright

so the head is first consumed

Hold the burnt remains

Invert

and hope the structure holds

When all is charcoal

lick the edge of your hand

stick the skeleton with your spit

Join your hands

edge to edge

and press as hard as you can

open and a verdict will be revealed

If it parts in two perfect halves

then you my friend

are truly in love

This is an older poem from my second collection. It was written over twenty years ago. I think it carries the narrative, just. At readings I always explained the background before hand as I think without that you would have difficulty with it.

Here's Elmer Gantry's Velvet Opera with Flames, a suitable song I think.

Until next time.  

WE'VE ALL BEEN THERE

A poem that is mostly imagination mixed with a little real life.

YOU KNOW THIS IS FOR YOU

When they broke up

she claimed the bass

provided proof in ledgers

their love reduced

to columns of figures

her profit

his loss

The separation hit him

somewhere deeper than the deepest not

he had ever played on that bass

he started to scatter photographs

across their common social media

an illusion of success

only his eyes told the truth

and then you had to look to see

post break up I meet her again

note the bass on the stage

but do not ask

we’ve all been there

played on both sides

It is from my fourth collection, All Yesterday's Tomorrows. I think it works. What do you think?

Here's Spirit with Give a Life, Take a Life.

Until next time.

WALKING SPELL

A poem about cradling a crying child and walking around the room until they are asleep. Some human actions never change.

For Euan and Murray

I am carrying you

into your dreams

This is

my walking spell

I walk the same circuit

of forty two steps

Again and again

around this room

And as we move

all I ask of you

Is to close

those heavy lidded eyes

Then you

will cross the border

Don’t worry

the whole wide world

Will still be here

when you awaken

This is a poem I am proud of. It works, taking the personal and making the experience universal.

Here is Shelagh McDonald and Stargazer.

Until next time.

TO CREATE THEIR OWN ENERGY

Another love poem. It arrived from walking the shoreline and thinking about farewells. Sometimes the unconscious mind writes it for you.

Just One of Those Things

when the sea returned

the lovers had gone

to create their own energy

in a rented room

then to part

on some street corner

late in the afternoon

in a press of people too preoccupied

for the intensity of this farewell

to ever be noticed

This was another poem that didn't need much in the way of editing/revising. Sometimes you are left wondering where they came from.

Here's Anna Ternheim. 

Until next time.

IT WAS RAINING OUTSIDE

This is a recent poem, pulled together from a couple of memories and mostly imagination. That said I think it makes its point.

PROOF

Opinions were aired

for no other reason

than it was raining outside

and people have mouths

and a need to use them

One of those days

you know the sort

when the talk circled

then settled on Jesus

was he real

She thought he could have been

though wasn’t sure

whatever he was

he was only a man

the rest of it was made up

Then her husband chips in

what do you know

none of it was real

and you’re the fool

for thinking that it was

Those of us listening

looked away

were silent

we would rather

have been elsewhere

While I reflected on

how many times this conversation

must have happened

since that day

they went and nailed him to a tree

Brian Patten used to talk about how the last line can make you re-evaluate a poem. This is what I tried to do with this poem. I wanted the body of the poem to illustrate the last stanza.

I have been a fan of Maya De Vitry since seeing the Stray Birds around 2011. See has a new album out later this year.

Until next time.