WORDS
Iíve been watching Iris on DVD, catching up on it long after everyone else. I read a number of reviews ñ most favourable, one or two negative, seeing the film as sentimental. Thus far Iím conscious only of riveting acting: Judi Dench & Jim Broadbent in particular are magnificent. Judi Denchís portrayal of Iris Murdochís descent into Alzheimerís is at times unbearably moving, as is Jim Broadbentís depiction of John Bayleyís helplessness as he witnesses Murdochís vast store of language evaporating into blankness & with it the wisdom to which he contributed so much & from which he drew throughout their life together.
Murdoch speaks of a pre-linguistic, almost pre-cognitive stage of our development at which the sense of justice & harmony are at their purest; the stage at which my 16-month-old Reuben is now, the stage at which the world constantly surprises & delights. How cruel is that inversion of evolution by which the individual is taken to the other side of language but into fear rather than delight. Always present must be some inchoate sense of what once was & there can be no restitution of innocence.
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I posted some thoughts a while back concerning the writing of poetry ñ ëthe art that dare not speak its nameí, was the rather flip by-line, I think. More in humour than serious contemplation, I suggested that if at a dinner party one declared in answer to the inevitable question that one painted, sculpted, composed music, danced, the response would be interested, intrigued even. If one declared that one was a poet the response would be likely to be altogether shiftier & attention would be transferred to the quantity surveyor just across the table. Somehow the more common perception is that writing poetry is an activity more for the tortured adolescent & the dilettante & that most people grow out of as soon as live becomes real & earnest. Only those who write poetry with any real sense of commitment to the process know it to be largely a craft much like any other.
I write poetry driven by two particular motives: the need to capture in words experiences, which, had I the facility, I would choose to interpret & communicate through painting or music, & a real pleasure in handling language in a manner that eschews the normal rules & protocols of writing. I write from an impulse of real imperative. I carry a notebook at all times & in it will go any line, phrase, word or ghost of an idea that strikes me. It is more difficult to write of this in a straightforward, from-the-shoulder sort of way, but I am aware too that there flows continuously a current of creativity just below the level of day-to-day consciousness; something which, lamely, one must identify as ëinspirationí. Occasionally it is immediately accessible; sometimes it can be accessed with a little gentle but firm pressure; much of the time it flows out of sight & hearing but is still powerfully, troublingly apparent. It is informed by clear memory, half-memory, dream images & that elusive, ineffable sense that someone once characterised as nostalgia for that which one has never known.
I have, with some regret, decided that, for me, the writing of poetry is a solitary activity. Nothing can be forced or rushed &, once started, a piece might take minutes to emerge or it might take months. Sometimes bits & pieces will lie around for years, gradually getting bolted into place, shifted elsewhere or removed entirely & dumped back on the bench. Since last summer Iíve been attending the weekly meetings of Poetry ID, the very lively & enterprising Letchworth poetry group. The sessions begin with a workshop in which, to a given stimulus, we all write for 20 minutes & then read out the results. Although at first I found this approach refreshing, within a short while I wilted under the pressure of that 20-minute time-span & I stammered & stuttered to a halt. Others were able to produce work of real power & I was staring at a few deleted lines on the page before me.
So itís back to the notebook & the staring out of the window for me in the hope that current blockages will clear. In the meantime, Iím picking through the bits & pieces & re-drafting old poems. And until the conduit down to that continuously flowing current is re-opened, even if only fitfully, I shall declare in answer to the dinner party question that I am a tree-surgeon, a chicken farmer or a quantity surveyor.
12:17:01 AM 
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