Our guest today is Audrey Chin, a published novelist and one of our own readers, who's here to tell us something about how she writes poetry. Audrey lives in Singapore where she has published two novels. To read some of her poetry visit Audrey's blog. I hope you enjoy her post!
I consider my poetry intermezzo, what I do to “practice” when I’m blocked on my novel. It's a simple process. I string words together, looking and listening as I go. When everything more or less fits, I stop.
I look and listen for strings of words that resonate with meaning in the same way Chinese ideographs or picture-words do. For example, in old Chinese, the ideograph for family is written as swine under a roof. In the simplified ideographs used in mainland China today, the ideograph is a combination of “strength” on the left and a mouth on the right both under a roof. How’s that for cultural referencing?!
Photo by Kevin Dooley
In terms of sound—the Chinese word for family sounds like the word for “increase”, it is one tone lighter than the sound for “marriage”. How many layers of meaning is that?!
Although English isn’t a pictorial language, the same principles apply.
An Example of a Word-Picture
This morning, I happened to walk under a butterfly tree in full flower. When I stopped for a sniff, I was disappointed to find the plant is scentless. It’s an overdressed bimbo, I thought; except that I didn’t want to create a word picture about bimbos or clothes. I’d to find a correct word to hang my disappointment on. Scent, smell, perfume…essence!
Essence had the correct sound too, starting with a light drawing in and then a hissy disappointed out, exactly the same way I felt sniffing the flower.
“A butterfly tree has no essence,” one picture-perfect string of words done, one word-picture.
When Is Your Poem Finished?
That one word-picture took half a day forming in my mind. Tonight, when I’m done working on the paragraphs I’ve “budgeted” for my novel, I may go back to look at it. I might add another line or two. I don’t push it. I’m never sure how many more word-pictures it will take to finish what I want to say. I don’t let that hassle me.
My poems are intermezzo, my playtime. Personally, I don’t think poetry can be written in a hurry anyway.
I’ll know I’m done when it’s done. A bit vague, this. But when do you stop eating? When you’re full. It’s just a feeling in the gut.
After which, I leave the poems to sit for a while, so I can get some distance. From time to time, I go back and give them another look, take a few words out, add some back. Mouth them in my mind, to hear if that’s how I want them to sound. Sometimes I shift lines or break them up in different places. And then, I leave them be.
PRACTICE
Practice forming your own “word-pictures.” Look around where you're sitting for images to convey, or think of images you came across today. See if you can come up with a short poem of word-pictures.
Try it out for fifteen minutes, and when you're finished, share what you've written in the comments. Good luck!
Joe Bunting is an author and the leader of The Write Practice community. He is also the author of the new book Crowdsourcing Paris, a real life adventure story set in France. It was a #1 New Release on Amazon. Follow him on Instagram (@jhbunting).
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WHEN ASKED TO THINK OF IMAGES I CAME ACROSS TODAY
The sole image i see from my day is a small scruffy smiling dog
tied to the fence next to the Washutopia sign that says
“making laundry heavenly…if that’s possible.”
I pull up beside him, snickering to the laundry basket beside me.
“Dogs are such simpletons,” I say to my dirty towels.
What creature in his right mind can stand to sit so
idle
a statue in the grass
while hulking machines steal away the day, one blinking red digit at a time?
I enter dubious nirvana and have a look around.
People with clothes much nicer than mine have
clearly
done this before.
They’ve brought computers.
Novels 800 pages long.
An adorable child in the corner.
A handsome husband at my 2 o’ clock.
Stuffing weeks of dirty socks and underwear
into the polished chrome barrels of two triple-load commercial washing machines
it occurs to me that i am bereft of the
essentials
of Washutopialand
this odd celestial city where dirty clothes are held in the highest esteem.
I have no towel-folding hunk
No pixie child
No classic murder mystery
No annual business reports.
In a room full of winners
There’s
Nothing for me to do
but surf the net on my
puny
gen-one
Android
phone.
I look out the window.
Still the mutt sits,
wagging his tail in the wind.
Clearly
he’s too dog-dumb to know he shouldn’t be sitting stuck at such a place
happy
with nothing worthwhile to do.
And clearly
between him and me
at least
I reign as the superior being.
For though I am alone with nothing to do, I at least am not happy about it.
The spin cycle arrives.
I reach for the dryer sheets when
I hear a commotion outside.
I look out the window.
The small scruffy smiling dog is no longer smiling.
He’s pulling at his leash, barking, begging.
Still no owner in sight.
I follow his gaze, then see the cause of his sudden complaint.
A white puff of a dog has hopped out of her car, showcasing her freedom of motion, attached as she is to the human who hovers at the end of her pink
diamond-studded leash.
It strikes me funny,
this dog and me.
today
he and I are the
same.
The sole image i see from my day is a small scruffy smiling dog
tied to the fence next to the Washatopia sign that says
“making laundry heavenly…if that’s possible”.
I pull up beside him, snickering to the laundry basket beside me.
“Dogs can be so dumb,” I say to my dirty towels.
What creature in his right mind can stand to sit so
idly by
during this menial daily task?
I enter dubious nirvana and have a look around.
People with clothes much nicer than mine have
clearly
done this before.
They’ve brought computers.
Novels 800 pages long.
An adorable child here, a
Handsome husband there.
I sit down, now fully aware I have
No one to talk to
Nothing to do
but surf the net on my tiny little phone.
I feel unprepared.
Awkward.
Unprofessional, somehow
Without my computer
Stuffing weeks of dirty socks and underwear
into the polished chrome barrels of two triple-load commercial washing machines.
I look out the window.
Still the mutt sits,
wagging his tail in the wind.
Clearly
I am the superior being.
The spin cycle arrives.
I reach for the dryer sheets when
I hear a commotion outside.
I look out the window.
The smiling dog is no longer smiling.
He’s pulling at his leash, barking, begging.
Still no owner in sight.
I follow his gaze…and suddenly I see why this happy beast is no longer
happy.
A white puff of a dog has hopped out of her car, showcasing her freedom of motion, attached as she is to the human who hovers at the end of her pink
diamond-studded leash.
Suddenly I see clearly
this dog and I
today,
at least,
he and I are the
same.
A blinding ball of light,
Yellowish now, soon to become red,
Weaves the surrounding air with pale gold thread.
Birds don’t seem to mind it –
They swerve and shoot straight towards
This quilt, this fine needle’s work, maybe because
They can’t see?
(Seagulls spot fish and fries
And flock en masse for a feast,
Yet they won’t flinch at the gaze of the beast.)
Below them blinks a
Tired old geezer, whistling and puffing
With the day’s last breeze.
Clock winding frozen.
Black phone. Black heart. Black soul.
Emptea Sugar.
Full wallet. Full stomach. Empty wallet. Empty heart.
Headphones, noise. Brain, noise.
Blue in a bottle.
Skin soft snake sheets sucks.
Dust forgotten, dust ignored.