Where Poems Come From

David Bircumshaw replied today to a question from another member of a poetry list we are both on, and I have his permission to print it here for you to enjoy:

'Thanks, tatjana, it is like a bit of a gift from the gods, the lines are just dropping into my hands. What kicked it off was something unexpected, a sudden combination of thoughts that made the universe open from a different angle: a very badly written book on Rosicrucianism and the Tarot and the Kabbala; a particular bra of Victoria's; an intellectual biography of the early years of C.G.Jung; the traffic on the roads where I live and one of my mates, 'mad Chris', going through a bit of a mid-life crisis. And something secret besides (!)

BestDave

David Bircumshaw
http://homepage.ntlworld.com/david.bircumshaw/ '

People often ask, Where did you get the idea for that poem? Or, they state the corollary: You should write a poem about it!

Most of the time poets don't know where poems come from. Oh, they make up stories, or - like David - can give you a list of ingredients, but the secret ingredient that sparks brilliant word use and original imagery, accurate rhythms and just the right cadence is all a mystery. It lies somewhere deep in the recesses of a poet's entire being - not just their brain or mind or memory but the entire blood and muscular system of some such a person who, in full flight, will let themselves go where their wings will take them. A Romantic notion? Well, yes, when taken to extremes.

I believe everybody is a poet when born - maybe it's the shock of the cord being cut that takes it out of most people, or our education system that aims even toddlers at a 'job', a 'career' ... What are you gunna be when you grow up? How many answer, Poet? And a clue to what's wrong with a lot of our society is in the 'What' of that question. It would be more illuminating to ask 'Who'. What's more, I've noticed many people introduce each other by their name and occupation - Meet Joe, he's an electrician ... Are we all in a 'game show'?

Back to poems. A wonderful image by Ben Bellitt comes to mind: He wrote a poem in his book The Double Witness about flying a kite. Once it was up and flying, after running down the hill with it and letting out the string, he decided the kite was flying him. It is that type of concentration that lifts a poem out of a poet's everyday-world, between the morning wash-up, the office or classroom, and the evening meal ...

Now, here I am speaking of poetry, not necessarily verse. It is entirely possible to write an epithalamium or somesuch quite consciously and do a good job. I have written verses for people retiring from places where I have worked, and many many jingles to sell you more than you need - but these are not instances of poetry. If poetry did creep in, I had to banish it! It was all together too weird ...

The moment of a poem's birth is like all the planets suddenly lining-up at once: the sensory data, the layers of language, the sound of it (often called the 'music', but that in itself is metaphoric), the occasion for it. I come full circle around to myself now and ask - and does it matter? A poem that sings or roars is a gift from - somebody. A muse, perhaps. I like to invite my muse into my lair but it seems when I consciously invite the muse, she stays away. She comes in her own good time for her version of a 'good time' ... Not quite the same as the phone box graffitti - 'For a good time, phone Muse on Iambic Pentameter ...' No, not the same. For a poem - a song upon the breeze to be pinned to the page. I will later skite about it and say it was all my invention - but it is hers almost entirely.