I am listening to a CBC radio podcast from the Ideas program called 9 Minutes that Changed the World. In it the work of Claude Debussy is analyzed and posited as the beginning of the 20th century. The hypothesis is that the music that went before was ordered and structured and technical. With Debussy, music bursts boundaries and flouts technical rules for composition. This musical revolution leads the vanguard of a new western world where rule breaking or perhaps more accurately thinking outside the box, ignoring old rules is the rule. Debussy is sometimes called a musical impressionist where music creates mystical impressions in the manner of Turner’s paintings. Poetry is mentioned in passing, but I would guess the Beats of the 1950s at least, but free verse for sure are included. All this is then at least 60-70 years old for words but actually dates back to Symbolism in late 1850s France. So…. my poetry is out of date. My playing with integrating words, images both moving & still and music in single word paintings is merely a re-arrangement of old standards. Not that this realization will stop me…..
Quite a pretentious title I think. As though it matters why ‘I’ write. The only thing that matters is I ‘do’ write. But….. I am occasionally pretentious and this is one such occasion.
A Facebook friend posted this Tedx Swarthmore talk by a young poet.
I am also currently reading an interview of Elias Khoury, a Palestinian novelist (actually a Lebanese Christian, but he ‘identifies with’ the Palestinian Muslims).
Both Chen and Khoury write from activist bases. Both write to promote political points of view: Chen in a more amorphous, ‘making the world a better place’ angle, while Khoury in a more traditional hard political/warfare way.
Here I will plagiarize parts of a post I just put on my Facebook Experimental Writing page, where I noted that I do not write from political motives:
I write when I am struck by beauty or darkness or mystery. I try to express these such that others too feel. Sometimes I write so others might feel textures and have that physicality enter their souls, crossing our age of science boundaries that separate the physical from inner reality. I deny a mental universe of categories and taste a universe that is whole. Perhaps I am an activist when I write.
I may have posted this before, but I came across it while tidying up files….
thoughts broken played
time swirled choking and mordant
empty and filled
until he lay exhausted
staring blind and despondent
How swift and oft doth freedom fly
Nothing more than a wind borne sigh
i painted green leaves on a tree in my yard
they grew on a tree that was savagely cut
naked it was as it seemed to stand dying
but sun and rain and kind words
sent it growing
a cool wind swept in
clouds of dust rose from their rest
as he walked along
She smiled and laughed talking of this and that,
“Should we hold hands” she said and hugged him quickly then darted back, her eyes
were dark she looked low and up at him, blushing quickly as he raked her body firm and young with his eyes old and tired, remembering youth and soft women of the past
sighing he smiled his only answer as she waved and laughed swallowed by the door that opened for her but not not him
(this fell off one of the dusty shelves in my brain a few minutes ago … typos and all)
he lay his head back against the chair cushion, dreaming of her again. She smiled, shimmering a bit till he got his focus right, then he could see the blushing alabaster and feel the warmth of body and soul radiating out towards him. He scrunched and wiggled, finding more comfort for his dream as she came closer. She slid in beside him and he put his arms around her. Then he jumped! She was real! She was here with him, hot against him, smiling and breathing. His eyes opened wide, he shook his head trying to clear the dream that was so real. But she was there. tight against his body, breathing and smiling and whispering his name
I rewrote part of this as the first version bothered me somehow….