The most difficult aspect of poetry for me is editing. Perhaps I have pared this down so much it no longer says what I intended it to. Perhaps it is too contrived. Maybe I should just say: I was walking home form the park and the light was so gentle on the dry grass it made the whole world seem soft. And there were apples nested perfectly in the straw, glowing like embers, like they just had the most amazing fling with the sun, who was now resigned to leave his wildness behind and settle down for the winter. That's not quite poetry. I mean, Raymond Carver can pull it off, but maybe I don't want to write poems anyway.
Also, I think the painting might be a little contrived. But its alright because I saw this beautiful thing and I put it on paper and later when I've done it hundreds of times it will all come out in my real voice and I will not have to think about things like art and poetry.
No comments:
Post a Comment