Ego

 

Question 19: Can a poem be a mini-essay? Just musings? How do you structure it? Inside a poem, more likely hidden as exposed, is an idea. In this respect a poem is a mini-essay. It might be nothing but a musing, no structure, quarter of an idea, a fanfare of syllabic sounds, but it’s a start. On the other hand, poems can be complete essays in miniature. Their structure does not have to be thesis-antithesis-synthesis. They may open with the conclusion, proceed largely by digression, and conclude inconclusively. May turn musings into works of art.  Say everything in fewest words.

 Question 20: Should you keep your ego out of poetry? If poetry is personal then ego is there somewhere. ‘Song of Myself’ knows where it’s coming from and when Walt Whitman unabashedly declares “I contain multitudes”, is he talking about all humanity or just himself? We think of poetry as communication involving someone else, whether an absent or present lover, upward to a Globe of Shakespeareans or amphitheatre of Homerics. To work, ego will take a backseat, not the front row. Awkwardly, even if we never speak in the first person singular our words can be all I, me, mine.

 Question 21: If poetry is easy to write then why doesn’t everyone do it? Well, is poetry easy to write? Moreover, does it work? More likely to say: though everyone can do it, most don’t, even if they did once. The movement from childhood to adulthood should mean poetic maturing, not putting away of perceived “childish things”. It’s a lifetime thing. Some works materialise with the wave of a wand. Others are like building an Ikea cathedral. Meanwhile, lots of people see no point in making poetry. It never occurs to them. This makes poetry special, not elite or niche.

Ego

Fearsome as cities O monster of loud,

Imposer on grounds with your honour due,

Stubborn minder, what’s to be done with you?

Your name in papers sourced by a crowd,

Words that mean something else mean only you.

Your paramount will overheats sockets,

Insensate to mood, subtle as a rocket.

Till now, under the sun, there was nothing new.

This that we time in our wanderings,

Tiptoe around, tread past with a breath,

Discuss like a statue with shoulder chip,

Flesh we laugh at as it gives us the pip,

Question does it end at lunchtime or death,

Is a man tattooed through with sighs and wantings.

Ego (February)

This February we read that a very rich person has sent his own rocket into space. Outer space, not the local park. We’re told this is great, significant and historic because a very rich person has never before sent his own rocket into space. Could supplying more dinghies to cross the Aegean be on his to-do list? Strapped to his rocket is a red racing car, with dummy driver, at little extra cost. ‘Don’t panic’ is printed on the dashboard. His rocket, we’re told, will circle the sun for millions of years. Look on my works ye mighty, and despair.