Toronto Interlude

How does a poem start, and how do you bring it to fruition? Who knows for sure. In my opinion how or where the poem begins has more to do with being receptive when the poem vein starts to leak thoughts slantways, or sideways, or anyway, or when ideas come with a new crispness, when words have a ping in their step, or when sounds evoke a memory that may be long forgotten.

Sometimes when I arrive at a new place, the wonder of that place takes over and my antennae are out for any creative crumbs that might be floating in the atmosphere. 

About two years ago I was in Toronto giving a reading. It was my first time there. The hotel we stayed in was kind of posh, and we were delighted with the comfort. When we went out for a walk the most striking thing we noticed was that most of the people we saw nearby were struggling in one way or another. 

The doorman at the hotel had a comic way about him. His body movements were swift, yet he would stop mid- step and change direction; a bit like Groucho Marks. His eyes darting, he had every direction scanned. He seemed to bounce when he walked; he did a kind of pirouette. He always had a wad of money that he spread out like a fan in front of his face (he wouldn’t do that in parts of the Galway I know and love!). It was a peacock display thing, as if to say “I’m Flash Harry, look at me”. 

We got the distinct impression that Flash Harry did not like us. We were not nice luggage people, we had no Gucci labels, and we were haversackers. When we needed information about anything we were told “Ask the concierge”.

Every time we went out we saw the same people – strung out or scarred by poverty, or some other sadness. It was like walking down the avenue of loss.

When I got back to Ireland the people I had seen in Toronto near the hotel, and the concierge, were jostling for position in the alleyways of my mind. They were side by side, yet Niagaras apart. A poem was starting, or a couple of lines were colliding and they would not go away. It was up to me to follow it through or let it go.

When I start writing a poem I’m not worried if the first draft does not have a sense or structure about it; it’s just to get the bare bones down. It doesn’t take much shape until around the third or fourth draft. By then I have a fair idea what I’m after.

I’m pleased when I get what I think is a good line. If the opening stanza is not as strong as other stanzas, I start writing it out again. Punctuation has always been problematic for me, I try not to have too many full stops because they are so sudden, and they halt things and I like the rhythm to go from the start to the end, and full stops play puck with the rhythm.

I had never seen a black squirrel before and they were plentiful in Toronto. I put ‘black squirrels galore’ in the notebook, I might be able to tie it in someway. (Having loads of notes won’t make you ready, but notes can prompt you about things you have forgotten. So, yes, the notebook is important.)

“Some poems write themselves,” the soothsayers say. I don’t believe that. Poems have to be worked on, until you have done as much as you can to make all parts of the poem seem like a seamless piece.
Reading other people’s work is very important, not just for the pleasure but for learning about technique and style.

Put the odd poem in the rubbish bin – it’s tough but it’s humbling to know that not all your poems will make the final cut.
I usually find when I have lost all interest in the poem, then it’s finished. This generally happens after I have been rewriting and tinkering with it for about two weeks.

It’s a combination of the gut, the heart, the mind, the notebook – then the hard work starts.