Put a beat on it, a strange exercise in a harried flurry of words
Put a beat on it and let it flow, against the grain
I remember an exercise in a poetry class. We were to write a poem with no rules and no editing. Just blat it out on the page and leave it. Then read it and discuss it. Well, there were rules, but they were floating in the ether; grasp them if you like.
Use metaphor, image, simile and mix the rhythm.
I cannot remember the poem, it burnt in the fireplace with 2000 other poems.
But, I thought I would attempt this exercise again. Here’s the thing. Writers of all sorts are trained to revise, revise, revise until they cannot revise any longer, then let someone else copy edit, then revise, revise and revise until you bonk your head on the desk.
So, this exercise is sweet and source sauce, yin and yang, hot and cold, easy as pie and as difficult as brain surgery for an auto mechanic.
It’s like letting a huntsman spider walk across your face slowly and you just sit there still. To not revise is not divine. So you get what you get: improv poetry. Put a beat on it.
We Were At The Lake
We were at the watering hole
The eve like the Sitka was staid
like the spirit in my hand and
the water on the lake, reflecting
the moon’s ominous diffraction
we were at the watering hole
deflecting
We were at the lake — alone
we were adrift, two lost souls
ruminating
delimiting
reflecting
like ghosts
We were at the watering hole
the morn’ like the vista was made
like the spirit in my heart and
the water on the lake, reflecting
the sun’s auspicious deflexion
We were at the watering hole
embracing
We were at the lake — alone
we were adrift, two found souls
celebrating
illuminating
and channeling
white wraiths
So, are they dead, those two love birds? Or is that the use of metaphor? The Sitka, with the sun recently down, becomes silhouettes and for any temperate rain forest-dwelling soul it is spooky, wild, and somehow soothing. Thoughts of bears, wolves, cougars in the night…..warm summer nights and still lakes….
Have they been killed?
No.
How old are they?
Is this permanent?
Did they ever see each other again?
We were at the lake — alone
we were adrift in our dreams
celebrating
commemorating
remembering
why we float
Float as in living and appreciating.
How often do we sit and treasure life, if just for a few minutes or an odd night?