MESSY,PERPLEXING POETRY--ONE GAL'S JOURNEY

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Howdy, Campers ~ and Happy Poetry Friday! (PF link at the end)

The topic of this round is MESSY MIDDLES,  talking about what happens if the middle of a novel is sagging or the middle of another project just isn't working, etc. 

I can't offer much advice or examples of this except to say that I'm always in the middle of quiet terror. Can anyone relate?

So...let's talk about the messiness of writing a poem.

Here's how this poem evolved...in four steps (I've left out many of the middle attempts):

1. Looking for an idea. 

I started with a first line: I am musing about music.

(UNTITLED)

by April Halprin Wayland

I am musing about music.

I am lost.

I cannot find my feet.

They are sinking in sand.

There is no topic.

There is not bottompic.

There is just sinking

no thinking

no help

no hope

no nothing

until a little bird.

Just a word.

Just a chirpy word.

One chirpy word.

I look up

from this hole

from sand in my hair

sand on my cheeks

sand on my hands

sand from the beach

sand into next week

at a sandpiper

at her slender needle beak

I wait for her to speak.

another chirpy word

which I find thrilling

I'm twirling in this hole

a sort of reverse drilling

I'm spinning out this hole

scattering the sand

spraying it

playing it

abyss

this poem sucks

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2. Research. 

I looked up the word music:

From Greek mousikē, any art presided over by the Muses

Read more: http://wiki.answers.com/Q/What_is_the_origin_of_the_word_'music'#ixzz1G3YuxcOS

The word music comes from the Greek mousikê (tekhnê) by way of the Latin musica. It is ultimately derived from mousa, the Greek word for muse. In ancient Greece, the word mousike was used to mean any of the arts or sciences governed by the Muses. Later, in Rome, ars musica embraced poetry as well as instrument-oriented music. Read more:  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Definition_of_music

...and wrote this:

This is a mushroom

This is my brain.

This fat white bumpershoot

Amusing

music.

I am the piano

I am the violin

I am a stupid poem

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3. What's at the heart of this idea? 

drawing by April Halprin Wayland

I broke away from everything above and thought about what I was feeling inside:

(UNTITLED)
by April Halprin Wayland 

Today I know

how that boy at the back desk feels

when his teacher tells him to write a poem.

He blinks blankly.

He isn't writing while all around him pencils fly.

He scratches his left eye

A storm cloud brews about his head.

His brows grow knotty.

When all around him ideas sprout

this boy at the back

is locked out.

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I rewrote it and sent it off to my friend Bruce, who has been sailing around the world with his wife for over 13 years. Regular readers know that he and I send each other a poem a day. We've been doing it since April 2010.

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4. Let let it cook. 

That was in March 2011. Today I searched my poems tagged WRITERS' BLOCK, found this poem (which has been cooking for quite awhile), and took another stab at it:

THE BOY IN THE BACK
by April Halprin Wayland

While all around him ideas begin,

he picks the scab on his freckled chin.

While all around him pencils fly,

his brows grow knotty, mystified.

While all around him windows open,

He closes his eyes hoping, hoping.

Ideas take root and poems sprout,

but the boy in the back?

That boy's locked out.

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Rewrites count as a day's poem in our rule book, so I'm sending this one off.

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Thanks to Tabatha for hosting this week's Poetry Friday at The Opposite of Indifference!

posted by April Halprin Wayland with lots of love and the help of (in order of appearance) Gin, Eli, and Penny...who are sacked out after helping to edit this: