To write properly is to write with no ulterior motives, no nothing but for complete joy. To forget about the utter and absolute need to create a kind of fiction never seen nor read before, all in all to just try and let it flow for its own worth. For as long as I can remember I’ve had this thing in me, this uninformed yet no less screaming need to create perfection. It’s not possible, by the way. No-one will, nor have they ever managed to succeed at such a ridiculously heady and unattainable task as that. Not at all, in fact. You can go close, perhaps, but even then, even upon your reaching a greater height of portrayal, there can be no real guarantee that what might work for one person will work just as well for another.
By the way, there is no real visual for me when it comes to the actual part where I get to sit down and to writing a poem. In that, as it stands, it has always been this kind of a directionless intent wherein no poem I create will ever get to match its artistic equivalent for merit. What do I mean by that? Well, as though I were actually able to transform the poem into the equal standard of a visual that I have been endlessly screaming out for. A strange and no doubt strenuous admittance but hardly all that unusual, I’m sure of it.
Words are words, and I feel perfectly capable of utilising them all to the highest level of their worth, or at least expressing lines and sentences in a manner that most other writers aren’t able to do. That’s my inner belief – that yearning thing that just will not stop until… it stops. Most poets, if lucky enough to make some kind of a plausible name for themselves over the course of their lifetime, only ever end up having three, maybe four well-known poems out there in the mainstream. A very poor return when you take into account that I myself have to date created a grand total of three-thousand poems plus.
I might just have created my finest work, who can truly tell until such a time as people let their ears and eyes both hear and see it. Sure, I’ve also sold quite a few poems on a commission basis, which are nicely framed inside of popular businesses, but this was never going to be about the money, that’s not poetry’s win. It’s just an extremely non-lucrative endeavour, even at best. Unless of course you do a Heaney on it in winning The Nobel Prize for Literature. That’ll be a ferocious injection of one-point-two million in your bank account right there. At worst? You’ll be unknown to the perilous point where either people are smirking and finger-pointing at you behind your back owing to your glaringly obvious poor quality with the written word, or you will believe that you are great without any real reason to do so.
Me? I think I lie someplace uncomfortably in-between – there will, and have been the pointers, and there’ll be that part of myself which won’t let me stop believing. It carries both its good and its bad sides, I guess. On the one hand, there’s an underlying confidence, while on the other this crazy feeling that I need to explain my ultimate reason for writing in the first place. It’s a mind-field rather than a minefield, maybe you could say. Stop doing that and I might just have to start calling myself a poet, God-forbid. That’s a gun full of loaded bullets all of its own. You know it, I know it, but, funnily enough, not every ‘poet’ knows it. That’ll be what has to be seen as either the lucky ones or the silly ones with a soft touch and hopeful approach.
Luck is huge. So huge a piece of the whole puzzle that many won’t even let themselves see it. Surely all of that hard work of theirs cannot come down to bare-faced fluke!? Right places, right times. Nuh-uh! People won’t let themselves hear it. Also, there is always better out there, a far more typically talented writer, artist, whichever. That’s just life, like with all things really. You learn from your many, many mistakes and you try to steal like a real artist in breaking the rules without appearing too chaotic in your handling of that particular task. It’s interesting for sure, but neither is it everyone’s cup of tea. Heck, you’re in the minority. And for me it’s definitely a minority and also one that I am not yet too certain I belong too. To be fair, I’ve been called crap, I’ve been called weird, and I’ve even been called a genius now and then. Probably enough times in fact to wonder if there is something solid going on underneath of it all. That isn’t to say that I ever could be truly perceived as the latter, only that a fair few heavy and appreciative readers of the spoken word seem to thankfully be able to let themselves see what it actually is that I am trying to do. To bolster the meaning of a poem, its sentences, its description, its comfortable rhythm til such a time as even the serious doubters will feel a definite need to hold up their hand and to finally admit that if they do have to read something then it may well be my work that they do read.
There’s a luck in that, even. A luck that some people’s imaginations work wonders for you when it comes down to your style of writing. By the by, writers don’t mean nearly half as much of the things that they say. Hate to blow the romantic notions out of the water but it pours rather than uses itself as some kind of a weapon. I don’t really think too much about what I write. Sure, I want to experience all of these experiences that I write but, safe to say, I’m not a heroine addict, A murderer, a painter, a person even with magic in my fingers. It’s a gift but neither does that have to mean that a gift has to turn out brilliant and a thing of mainstream acceptance. A gift regards the pace with which it does pour, yes, but that’s it – the rest really is left up to the reader. That’ll be the ultimate and often unknown collaboration.
An ego has no real place in art. You can carry it with you, fine, but it’ll be the bane of your creative existence. To beat your ego could well turn out to be your greatest achievement regards the whole process. So yeah, my poems do probably begin the minute I awake and continue on all along until I feel that I have managed to create what it is that I came to create in the first place. Utter art. Art that matters, be it to me or to other people. For some reason I really don’t think that poetry is my medium at all. I think it might just turn out to be, you guessed it, painting. And right now, safe as it is to say, I’m at stick-man standard and that will absolutely have to do.