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Some Self Reflections
of the Poet at Age Sixty Three I never really knew where to hide, only that for a
bit of peace, a very small piece, I had to keep hiding, At first the isolation was local but as I was pushed along that isolation
kept spreading and needing more and more bastions. At no time have I ever been deceived and at no time have I ever understood
or suspected the levels of the deception that would keep peeling away to reveal more. Some of these skins are mine but most
are the oddities of others. When I finally realized I was plagued with enough insight to realize I knew very little but far, far, far more than
most of them, this did not prevent me from sacrificing myself at their altars as the victim seemed appropriate in everyway
to me just so long as they never really broke any bones, incarcerated me, or succeeded in my pursuit of art, a pursuit that
I am a Master in knowing it to be the false front of all the peelings lying about me. Nevertheless, I had found company in
myself, and a kind of sublime separation of my existence from their insistence. Knowing that they would eventually go away and that
I would simply stop in the shape and form of the strange mobile that is me, I began to accept myself as an eater of the onion
only, and that I was merely a revolutionary herald, revealing what was in front of me for whatever it might mean and that
I owed something to the struggle that it seemed to me everyone was in. I, in fact, was inclined to scream at them simply to
observe the effect. Like Alexander the Great I want victory after victory for no particular purpose but to not waist myself
in insipidly and to hear my voice bouncing off the canyon walls. I had come to the most mundane of everything. I had developed principles
that in my snobbery, a direct reflection of my insecurity, I owed it to myself and to them to declare some mysteries as primary:
one imbecile can make a difference; freedom can be experienced so long as you are ruthless in its defense, love is as blissful
as the grief it must eventually bring, sex is a religion, and I humbly know nothing of God. Enough! I feel my mask slipping.
Let others figure me out. I’m to busy hiding from myself and the dreaded them.
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When the Muse Sleeps
She's fickle and tends to be temperamental.
I believe at sometime or another we've all learned not to take her for granted. What can I say? She's Greek.
Artists
of all kinds come in all kinds and work in different ways. It's not really feasible to suggest what you should do, should
the muse temporarily abandon you. It's more helpful I think to tell you what I do when the muse won't work for me. What I
endeavor to do is nothing. I do not presume on the attentions of a Goddess.
Seriously, I've learned that I can not
force that creative idea that mushrooms into a work of art, in this case, specifically, a poem. There are some writers who
can sit down every day at precisely 3:15 and write until 6:15 and stop until the morrow. I am one of these. Did I just speak
in opposites? Yes, of sorts, I did.
What I mean to say is that the spark, the first line, the initial idea, I must
trust to the muse. Once, I'm embedded within the work, I have the discipline to come and go at will. As a matter of fact,
I've found this is very wise. If I let the poem I'm writing sit for a day or so, I find that when I come back to it, the muse
is there with little sparks to make my working poem shine brighter. In fact I'm amazed at what I did not see was more or less
under my nose at the last writing.
This is not to detract from the spontaneous poem but merely separate the two in
categories. I've written some of my best poems spontaneously, but in practice I take awhile to hone a poem before I put it
up for "show and tell". I take care though to not overwork it. This is something that is instinctive and just builds on experience.
It is just as important to stop when the muse dictates as it is to begin.
Like many other poets, I am a danger on the
road, as I look for something to jot that precious muse-whisper onto before the idea is gone with the wind and like the grocery
list, and the coupons, I left the tape recorder at home. When I'm watching or listening to media I am always open to inspiration.
Many of my poems are inspired by PBS specials or the History Channel, even the news. It is my habit, lazy creature that
I am to lie in bed, watch TV and work at the laptop computer. If I'm engaged in something other than poetry, I can still quickly
bring up Word and jot the initial spark of an idea down so that I do not lose it. Google and other search engines are invaluable
sources of research to me and I personally believe that a new poetry of sorts is developing side by side with technology that
to some degree will change the way we create, share, and actually read poetry. I'm no Jules Verne but I am an artist and all
art is influenced by the inventions of time. The Bard did not have Google at hand but he did have a library thanks to Gutenburg.
Like me and so many others, Shakespeare used history to his advantage not to mention what was contemporary if not
dangerous to the times he lived in. I've a strong suspicion that the Muse and the Bard was an item if you catch my drift.
William was no novice when it came to romance and I further would not be surprised if the Bard does not have a very comfortable
couch somewhere in eternity.
Regarding work shopping, it did not work for me. There are enough unfortunate misunderstandings
on-line as it is, for this codependent case [I speak of me] to ever take the emotional strain of this sort of group therapy.
It may fit your temperament very well, however. It depends entirely on just how thick your skin is, how firm your boundaries
are, and how well you can juggle misunderstandings. I still grieve the number of poems I chopped up, all for the sake of trying
to satisfy too many different points of view, and I've no heart for psychological warfare. By all means try it though. Much
can be learned of value, just tread softly and carry an anthology of urban street language for rebuttals.
Finally,
I would tell you to trust in the muse. She may go wandering but she'll return. Life may have you under too much strain or
you may be ill. There are many reasons why the Muse may be telling you to rest awhile. Do not try and dictate to her. Just
follow her lead and be grateful to her. She's a gift to not be taken for granted.
E.D. Ridgell
Copyright © 2009
©
2009 by E.D. Ridgell
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