Treading slowly through the Labyrinth
Hagiography or Folktale?
As it is with most projects, a current idea has begun, quite by accident. Recently my boy fights falling into sleep; he effectively resists the plunge into slumber by holding firm to a strong resentment, most often during the period of his mid-afternoon naps. His anger lashes out, all energy channeled into defiance and independence. As a logical means of calming him down, I chant repetitive poems, or sing foolish songs I learned from camp, or casually talk about the day's events— anything to distract his moods away from rebelling against rest.
Recently, I found myself building a story from scratch, assembling a rough adventure typical of the Grimm brothers containing talking animals, dense forests with darkened paths, and a recognizable plot pattern of basic conflict-resolution. As I stand holding him, swaying, the rhythm of my motions often picks up the construction of the narrative, the phrasing of language basing itself on my shifting arms. In a sense, the story transforms around me, becoming a challenging labyrinth of information, forming itself slowly in my head of its own volition, even as I stand in the act of recitation.
Often in a caffeinated rush I visualize the full project in a formulated draft: three or five sections of verse, each division standing on its own, yet working together to form a plot, a hero's motion towards a successful denouement.
Originally I had planned beginning a modern hagiographical retelling of Saint Brendan and his adventures with the whale— of course based on my boy's sleeping habits and our whole adventure in the adoption process. But, now I find myself swept up in a sudden fantasy world of its own making— a hybrid concept stemmed from Galway Kinnell's The Book of Nightmares and Anne Sexton's Transformations. Perhaps, carefully, treading slowly through the labyrinth both projects will formulate themselves.•
Three of my poems have been posted by The Fertile Source this week. I am excited mainly because this trio of verse are all relatively new works— composed in the last two to three years. All three deal with Brendan in some fashion— as a background character, as a metaphor for my collective writing, and as direct conversation to his future-self.
Read the full poems at: http://fertilesource.com/2011/11/learning-spanish-as-a-figure-of-hermes-i-tell-my-son-to-burn-down-all-bridges-three-poems-by-david-glen-smith/.
As it is with most projects, a current idea has begun, quite by accident. Recently my boy fights falling into sleep; he effectively resists the plunge into slumber by holding firm to a strong resentment, most often during the period of his mid-afternoon naps. His anger lashes out, all energy channeled into defiance and independence. As a logical means of calming him down, I chant repetitive poems, or sing foolish songs I learned from camp, or casually talk about the day's events— anything to distract his moods away from rebelling against rest.
Recently, I found myself building a story from scratch, assembling a rough adventure typical of the Grimm brothers containing talking animals, dense forests with darkened paths, and a recognizable plot pattern of basic conflict-resolution. As I stand holding him, swaying, the rhythm of my motions often picks up the construction of the narrative, the phrasing of language basing itself on my shifting arms. In a sense, the story transforms around me, becoming a challenging labyrinth of information, forming itself slowly in my head of its own volition, even as I stand in the act of recitation.
Often in a caffeinated rush I visualize the full project in a formulated draft: three or five sections of verse, each division standing on its own, yet working together to form a plot, a hero's motion towards a successful denouement.
Originally I had planned beginning a modern hagiographical retelling of Saint Brendan and his adventures with the whale— of course based on my boy's sleeping habits and our whole adventure in the adoption process. But, now I find myself swept up in a sudden fantasy world of its own making— a hybrid concept stemmed from Galway Kinnell's The Book of Nightmares and Anne Sexton's Transformations. Perhaps, carefully, treading slowly through the labyrinth both projects will formulate themselves.
Read the full poems at: http://fertilesource.com/2011/11/learning-spanish-as-a-figure-of-hermes-i-tell-my-son-to-burn-down-all-bridges-three-poems-by-david-glen-smith/.
I will follow the link. How uplifting to have your talent recognised and published.
ReplyDeleteI remember my little ones fighting sleep. Your description has recalled it all...and how - sometimes I wondered if it was to calm me too - I fell into lulling speech rhythms and nonsense poetry and songs - anaesthetising them with words.
I found myself automatically picking up the threads of the tales my own parents had told. Remembering rhythms which I didn't realise I knew.
Parenthood is such a journey. I have never presumed to judge the childless (each to their own choice) - but for me, at least, parenthood has opened doors of perception. Changed and deepened how I perceive and experience the world. It sounds as though it has done the same for you.
Yvonne, you made a strong point: it is a calming act for the parent as well as the child— which is the first step for any creative expression— free the mind of all intentions and just write.
ReplyDeleteJust read the poems on The Fertile Source. I will go back to them again - and again, I suspect. There is such a wealth in them. Of ideas and allusions and connections and links and textures and layers. Such fine writing. You really do have a very calming style. There is a calming reassuring authorial voice - and then you find yourself "feeling" your way to a deeper truth. I am a poor flautist - but was born into a musical family (my Dad was anyway!). Poetry attracted me because it spoke to me in the same way as music - evoking feelings which are not to be captured in scientific definitions - but can best be hinted at in images and cadences. Your poetry does that.
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