Eight Grade Poetry (the ramblings never end)
I used to write poetry.
We all did, right? Literature class was always my favourite, and there'd always be a poetry section, wherein at some point we'd all be forced to write some. I liked it, in fact by high school I was keeping a regular diary and some poetry would slip in there now and then. I even took poetry as an elective in college. The teacher was great; she had a dramatic white streak through her hair.
But my favourite was 12th grade, It was a GT class and we did a weekend 'writers retreat' up in Volcanoes National Park. It was a big cabin surrounded by ironwood trees. In the evenings it would get all misty and we'd try not to get scared on the way to the outhouse. I shared a bunk with my friend D, and when we left we wrote a letter to the future occupants, tucked under the beams of the top bunk.
My point is I don't write poetry any more. It's not like I sit down and try, but outside of class I never did. Something would just come to me, and I would have to grab my diary and write it down. I still remember the last poem I wrote. It was the last days of Sophomore year at college. It was called "Ode to a Dorm Room."
And so what has changed? And why do I care?
It feels like a symptom of...... something hard to explain. Our conscious mind is just a tiny part of the processes of the whole mind. It is the proverbial tip of the iceberg, it is like seeing just the surface of a deep sea. I believe that thing called 'creativity' or 'imagination' is wholly the province of the subconscious mind. How many times have you heard an artist describe the source of their creativity as unexplainable, as just coming from some unknown place? Put another way... how many times have you thought hard on a problem, or even just to remember the name of some actor, only to have the answer come to you later on when you were busying your mind with something else entirely? Where did the answer come from?
Actually this takes me back to another point made in meditation class. When you ask your mind for an answer, think of your mind as a person going "ok! I'll just go rummage around in the basement for that." If you then immediately call the mind back and say "ok, what's the answer?" Well, the mind hasn't even had time to get to the bottom of the stairs.
What was my point? Ah! Yes! I think I am worse at accessing that mysterious place of creativity than I used to be. Poems don't come to me in the middle of the night any more. It has become a place only glimpsed in dreams. I guess it's something I'd like to work on, if I can figure out how.
And this whole line of thought started as I was listening to Leonard Cohen, admiring the mystical quality of his songs.
We all did, right? Literature class was always my favourite, and there'd always be a poetry section, wherein at some point we'd all be forced to write some. I liked it, in fact by high school I was keeping a regular diary and some poetry would slip in there now and then. I even took poetry as an elective in college. The teacher was great; she had a dramatic white streak through her hair.
But my favourite was 12th grade, It was a GT class and we did a weekend 'writers retreat' up in Volcanoes National Park. It was a big cabin surrounded by ironwood trees. In the evenings it would get all misty and we'd try not to get scared on the way to the outhouse. I shared a bunk with my friend D, and when we left we wrote a letter to the future occupants, tucked under the beams of the top bunk.
My point is I don't write poetry any more. It's not like I sit down and try, but outside of class I never did. Something would just come to me, and I would have to grab my diary and write it down. I still remember the last poem I wrote. It was the last days of Sophomore year at college. It was called "Ode to a Dorm Room."
And so what has changed? And why do I care?
It feels like a symptom of...... something hard to explain. Our conscious mind is just a tiny part of the processes of the whole mind. It is the proverbial tip of the iceberg, it is like seeing just the surface of a deep sea. I believe that thing called 'creativity' or 'imagination' is wholly the province of the subconscious mind. How many times have you heard an artist describe the source of their creativity as unexplainable, as just coming from some unknown place? Put another way... how many times have you thought hard on a problem, or even just to remember the name of some actor, only to have the answer come to you later on when you were busying your mind with something else entirely? Where did the answer come from?
Actually this takes me back to another point made in meditation class. When you ask your mind for an answer, think of your mind as a person going "ok! I'll just go rummage around in the basement for that." If you then immediately call the mind back and say "ok, what's the answer?" Well, the mind hasn't even had time to get to the bottom of the stairs.
What was my point? Ah! Yes! I think I am worse at accessing that mysterious place of creativity than I used to be. Poems don't come to me in the middle of the night any more. It has become a place only glimpsed in dreams. I guess it's something I'd like to work on, if I can figure out how.
And this whole line of thought started as I was listening to Leonard Cohen, admiring the mystical quality of his songs.