Essay: On Writing Poetry

I was woken this morning at 2 am. It was similar to when the boys would wake us early. They would pry my lids open and say, “Open your ice Daddy.” Only now the “boys” are in their 30’s and this wake up call was from that extremely mixed blessing we could call “creativity”. Somewhere in my brain something was knocking which, these days, is usually a start to a poem. But this morning it turned out to be an essay.

It is now 4:30 a.m., my services are no longer required, and I am dismissed to wander around the house. Please pardon any typos. My numero uno editor on 2,000 miles away and sleeping peacefully.

                                                             On Writing Poetry	

         Setting out to write a poem means doing a lot of contradictory things at the same time.  You have to open the bomb bay doors located at the top of your head.  They should be fully open, not just enough to let a breeze in.  You want whatever ideas are floating around nearby to fall in and you want to make it as effortless as possible.  On the other hand, you have to watch out for bugs and frogs, unless your poem is about frogs or bugs.  In which case, you should wear some kind of pleasant bug spray, like L’Occitane’s Lemon Verbena, because you don’t want the bugs on you but you do want them on the page and you don’t mind smelling great. 
	All of which is to say that you must entertain whatever notions are out and about because many of the best ideas are not in your head yet, if at all.  Most, if not all, are "somewhere out there", outside of your precious cranium, which is why the doors located there must be wide open.  Most poets make the mistake of thinking the poem lies within them and that is why so many poems read like navel gazing or lint collection.  We make the mistake of thinking we are endlessly fascinating when we are in fact endlessly, stupefyingly, bottomlessly dull.  The only part of us that is remotely interesting is our ability to accurately record what’s going on around us.
         It is that world ‘around us’ that holds the key to an infinite number of poems.  We, the poets, are sitting on a small pin cushion which is radiating ouchward, and not just in 360 degrees, because that’s just one circle.  Tilt the circle just one degree, like a plane slightly banking and now you have another entire circle to investigate.  Dip the nose of your plane, or your nose to smell that rose, downward just one degree and you’re off and running, so to speak.  There is nothing like mixing metaphors to really get the blood pumping. 360 x 360 is a lot of poems.  You'll never get to them all, which is good because we don't time to read that many.
         Another of the contradictions to manage is that when an idea arrives, it can be extremely picky about accommodations, like a spoiled starlet in a snit.  All the pillows should be fluffed, turned with the good side out, zippers down or behind and whatever else pillows require to be inviting.  Does the idea want some tea, perhaps lemon verbena?  Music can be just the thing that brings along an idea or it can be the thing that causes her to pause at the threshold and tap her teeth, waiting for it to stop.  The trick is to be aware of which and when.
         Keep your mind on the flow and if it’s flowing, record whatever she has to say. While she is talking, you don’t.  You don’t interrupt, you don’t ask questions, or even tell her you love her purse, her eyelashes, fingernails, none of that.  You just record, nod and generally indicate silently that whatever passes those divine lips of hers is pure gold.  Soon enough, she will be wrapping up her speech about bugs and frogs or whatever batshit crazy idea is running around in her dizzy head today.  She will bat her eyelashes, which you still don’t know are real, but now is not the time to ask, and announce she is leaving.  This could be the time to speak, and all you say is, “Any other points you’d like to make, final observations to sum up why bugs and frogs are today’s topic?”  At this point, she might look at you with scorn and say, “I’ve given you all the information.  You figure it out.”  That's fame for you.
         Later that day or week, she may stop by briefly, to complain about the temperature of the tea, the pillows, the frogs.  Promise you’ll have a thermometer ready next time and she might return.  That, I believe, is one way to write poetry. 
 
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I don't get a dime but everyone smells better and that’s what matters.

Here are the bomb bay doors open. Mine open all the way and only rarely do skydivers fall in.