We The Poets

Over some past weeks I published some rafts of a poem, showing how its words, form and meaning gradually emerged from  the clutter of my mind. Today I discovered the origin of the central image of the space ladder, the idea of which I first encountered some years ago. 

 

  By draft 3 some lines are clearing, but much still to do - In the shadow of the Earth How dark is the night? I am on geostation A sign of intelligent life Tethered to my little box of warmth Floating in a cold sky. My carbon fibre beanstalk  Climbs up to the giants  Brooding beyond the clouds. I am held in the angels' path The wind of lights The curtains of the north At the pause of gravity I am a flourish of Nature The momentum of the moment Sewn to the globe with gossamer thread Pick me out in the plenitude of stars - Are we common, rare, unique?

Draft 2 - the fog clears a little, but where is it going ?  How are the space elevator and the barrage balloon emerging as images, and of what? How dark is the night ? In the shadow of the Earth I am on geostation Tethered to my little box of warmth Floating above in a cold sky. My cable is my lifeline My carbon fibre beanstalk  Climbs up to the giants  Brooding in the clouds. I am held in the angels' path The wind of lights The curtains of the north At the pause of gravity I become a flourish of Nature A moment's momentum A sequence of sequins Sewn to the globe with gossamer thread How dark is the night ?

I thought it might be of interest to follow a poetic process through stages. Last night I knew there was a beginning, but I wasn't going to get too far - just a feeling. It often starts with a moment's pause, an image, a chance concatenation of words. At present I find myself much concerned with the sky. The newish-to-me word that has been creeping in quite a bit is "angels". That's an image I have not been too keen on, and has had a deal of bad press down recent centuries , from the mighty fallen plotting the overthrow of the Miltonic God (whose ways had to be justified to Man, being so tough to take let alone understand and as to the underlying motivation, I don't believe the agonized John even got close) to the Romantic dissolute less threatening but with a definite edge on us in terms of beauty and tragic allure, to frothy little confections cluttering up the lower atmosphere, barely distinguishable from the tattier class of fairies.

  Why rhyme ? An interesting question – it's not just a matter of a discipline and a dimension of the language that is part of the craft. It adds dance, music, memorability. But, of course, in our times of free verse and so much choice about form in poetry, it is a step that may or may not be taken. I always find it challenging. Rhymes get in the way unless they are effortless – which often takes a deal of craft !

A Season of Love So, for this week or two, Love is the theme. There are many ways of looking at this absorbing subject, said to be one of the two main themes of poetry. (The other of course, being death - uncapitalized – if I capitalize it, it might get ideas above its station. Of the two biggies, that one requires an appointment to meet it, not the case with  Love, I find.)