Just re-watched one of my favourite TED videos : Elizabeth Gilbert on nurturing creativity. The bit about poet Ruth Stone’s writing process is what I love most about this talk :
“As [Stone] was growing up in rural Virginia, she would be out, working in the fields and she would feel and hear a poem coming at her from over the landscape. It was like a thunderous train of air and it would come barrelling down at her over the landscape. And when she felt it coming…cause it would shake the earth under her feet, she knew she had only one thing to do at that point. That was to, in her words, run like hell to the house as she would be chased by this poem. The whole deal was that she had to get to a piece of paper fast enough so that when it thundered through her, she could collect it and grab it on the page. Other times she wouldn’t be fast enough, so she would be running and running, and she wouldn’t get to the house, and the poem would barrel through her and she would miss it, and it would continue on across the landscape looking for ‘another poet’. And then there were these times, there were moments where she would almost miss it. She is running to the house and is looking for the paper and the poem passes through her. She grabs a pencil just as it’s going through her and she would reach out with her other hand and she would catch it. She would catch the poem by its tail and she would pull it backwards into her body as she was transcribing on the page. In those instances, the poem would come up on the page perfect and intact, but backwards, from the last word to the first.”
(Stole the above text from this blog)
Last chances are
My poetry/other creative writing will be put up here : http://geetanjalic.wordpress.com
I’ve written some new poems over the past couple of months, so do check them out. Feedback would be appreciated !
I will continue to post regularly about my highly exciting life on Squibble, not to worry!
Poetry spammage soon. Watch out. Not mine though.
Excerpt from John Updike’s 1973 Phi Beta Kappa poem:
APOLOGIES TO HARVARD
We took the world as given. Cigarettes
Were twenty-several cents a pack, and gas
as much per gallon. Sex came wrapped in rubber
And veiled in supernatural scruples—call
Them chivalry. A certain breathlessness
Was felt; perhaps the Bomb, which after all
Mushroomed us as we entered puberty,
Waking us from the newspaper-nightmare
Our childhoods had napped through, was realer then;
Our lives, at least, were not assumed to be
Our right; we lived, by shifts, on sufferance.
The world contained policemen, true; and these
Should be avoided; governments were bunk,
But well-intentioned; blacks were beautiful
But seldom seen; the poor were with ye always.
We thought one war as moral as the next,
Believed that life was tragic and absurd,
And were absurdly cheerful on that basis.
We loved John Donne and Hopkins, Yeats and Pound,
Medieval history was rather swank,
Psychology was in the mind; abstract
Things grabbed us where we lived; the only life
Worth living was the private life, and—last,
Worst scandal in this characterization—
We did not know we were a generation.
I stumbled upon a couple of lines from the above excerpt in the book “The Class” by Erich Segal.
The last line is just.. inspiring.
So much to read! Mythologies, The Second Sex and now I stumbled across Laura Mulvey’s essay“Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema”
Also, totally tripping on T.S Eliot.
“For I have known them all already, known them all -
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?”
- The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock
Yay! The weekly online literary journal Poor Mojo’s Almanac(k) has featured my poem as this week’s poetry piece ! You can check it out here
there is this version for him and
another, and the other will
be this version, for her
the insurgence of now
no matter, the fire where it
burned, the embers remain
of a long pause and now
wisdom, I laugh
no pain, no gain
and I lie here when I say
there is a another train to catch
I will never reach
the same place
I will never know the place again
when it is bathed in us
Were there promises of love?
Of children, and houses
“Just come with me”
Did he say it, or plead?
Shall I believe them, she asks
what can I say, but look
a watery smile :
“He’s the One”
And then she’s gone,
Swept away, sunshine
here they come,
wailing and sobbing
“All wrong, all wrong!”
Those dreams, they gurgle down
the dirty drains where soggy
tossed out fantasies go
washed down by downpours
of Heartbreak and Sadness
(always in season)
Advice to Women
if you want to learn to cope with
the otherness of lovers.
Otherness is not always neglect –
Cats return to their litter trays
when they need to.
Don’t cuss out of the window
at their enemies.
That stare of perpetual surprise
in those great green eyes
will teach you
to die alone.
– Eunice de Souza
Poem found on this blog
eternal pausing, the shells
of smoked peanuts
drips of tea on the stone bench
and as I watch the train pull away
dragging a bit of my heart
with each chug
across the littered tracks
there are questions
answers I don’t need
for now, I’m a blur
yours, a moment ago
when you ran your fingers
through my hair
as always, your fingers caught
in the tangled ends
and just like always
you left them like they were