I now tend to write as I read. In the past I would reflect on things I
had read. Now I read first in order to find better ways to write.
As
an example, formerly I may have read sonnets, and then written a sonnet
with the idea ‘sonnet’ in my mind. Now I hold off writing something
until I’ve read the Ballard or Boethius (for instance) that I need to
write the ideas better.
Because the best way to write an epic is
to read epics. The idea you can produce one, off the bat, without
knowing them is amusing. Interestingly, you are just as likely to hobble
yourself when you realise how hard epics are and how soft you are, but
the attempt is worthwhile.
Dante improved on Virgil, but who did Pound improve on?
I
also write with the maxim (that someone once said) that poetry should
cast an image on the mind, create a sound for the ear, and illustrate
the play of thought. Not necessarily all at once, but certainly, there
are many strings to the poetic lyre.
Poetry is feeling lonely and
I want to be a good friend. When music stole rhyme from poetry, and the
Dylans, Cohens, Caves and Eminems showed they mattered so much more
than the modernists and post modernists they contemporised, poetry
should have woken up.
When cinema added orchestra to photo, and touched on epic topics, poetry went comatose.
Perhaps it’s terminal.
In any case, I pretend nothing’s going on, and keep visiting in the hope it will sputter back to life one day.
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