Picnic Poems

During this summer holiday I have learned something more about my methods of poeming. A little while ago, when going on a picnic at a local beauty spot, I snuck a print-out of my latest poem-in-progress into my bag. Whilst the kids were happily playing and the mother-in-law was reading, I pulled it out and took the opportunity to chisel away at a couple of missing verses and awkward rhymes. Bizarrely, I found I couldn't sit still at the picnic table to do this, but instead started pacing around the play area, muttering to myself and occasionally awkwardly balancing the paper on my thigh to scribble down or cross out words.

I was fascinated by this discovery of a new way of working, which lasted precisely until the kids clocked on I had access to pen and paper and insisted I instead used them to create a treasure hunt. I stalled for a few more circuits of the field but in the end had to capitulate and join in the games of hide-and-seek and lou-le-loup. I actually had good fun, helped - I suspect - by the fact that I felt I had nailed the poem, the last couplet had fallen into place and it simply awaited typing.

[The scary thing is, now I try to think about it, I can’t even remember which poem it was. I have so many floating around in my head at the moment it’s getting quite uncomfortable in there.]

As an addendum to the above story, more recently I took the kids on another walk/picnic, each carrying our little backpacks like proper hikers. We stopped to lighten my rucksack not very long into the expedition, when the moans of “I’m hungry” got too much to bear. Once this was done, I discovered that my daughter had in fact stuffed her rucksack with her dolly plus accessories, which she preceded to extract and set up for a long “play” session, right there in the middle of the footpath. They insisted they wanted to play before going any further. Bewildered, I protested that they could play at home, where I was at least in the vicinity of all the pending laundry, tidying and other housework. I pointed out that, not anticipating this interlude, I had not brought a book to read or even my little scribbling notebook. My son, as usual, had an answer for everything: “don’t worry mummy, you can sit down and write slam in your head”.

And so that was precisely what I proceeded to do. I was intrigued and gratified to learn that the kids have integrated Mummy as poet into their everyday. They mostly left me alone to muse, passing close at one point to say “I can see your lips moving Mummy!” They even let me start pacing up and down next to their improvised play area, as long as I didn't get in the way.

The time may be coming where I can get away with “sorry kids, Mummy is busy writing right now”…

Parallel poem processing

Since I caught the slam poetry bug, about two years ago now, I can safely say I always have at least one poem kicking around under construction in my head, if not two or three (or four or five).  I leave them to fight it out to see which theme will really take root. I feed them occasionally, adding to them little by little. Many will wither away and be forgotten. Usually one takes precedence; it will push to the top as the ideas start to accelerate, more couplets and images sprout as they occur to me. If there are gaps remaining, holes in concepts or lines awaiting rhymes, I’ve learned not to fret.  They will come to me when the time is right, if I let them.

As the poem gains momentum I really start focusing in, chiseling away at it during down-time – on public transport for example, or when I finally switch off the light at night and should really be trying to let my brain sleep. If it really takes off I may end up trying to sneak off into quiet corners to write it down, switching on the laptop when I should be cooking dinner, or hurrying into the office to quickly type up the creative products of the morning commute before getting on with the day job. In this way, poetry can be my pleasant mental retreat, my buffer against the mundanity of routine: but just occasionally it takes over and won’t leave me along until it’s spilled out onto the paper or into the screen.

So when is the poem finished? When there are no more gaps? When I feel that the meaning is sorted and the message is clear? When it is typed up and saved? I’ll admit I feel a kind of lightness, a satisfaction, a sense of achievement. This feeling can last… ooh, two or three days maybe. Then, little by little, my brain starts getting the mental equivalent of itchy feet: it would quite like to be working on something else please, to be chiseling away at a few more ideas.