09 December, 2008

Inspirations

I recently went to the Aiken Taylor Lecture - John Haines was this year's recipiant. He read for almost an hour, and I was struck most by his poems about nature and his time passed (some twenty plus years, as I understand it) in the Alaskan wilderness. The following is one such poem:

If the Owl Calls Again
at dusk
from the island in the river,
and it's not too cold,

I'll wait for the moon
to rise,
then take wing and glide
to meet him.

We will not speak,
but hooded against the frost
soar above
the alder flats, searching
with tawny eyes.

And then we'll sit
in the shadowy spruce
and pick the bones
of careless mice,

while the long moon drifts
toward Asia
and the river mutter
sin its icy bed.

And when the morning climbs
the limbs
we'll part without a sound,

fulfilled,
floating homeward as
the cold world awakens.

-John Haines

I was inspired too by the time dedicated to each poem. Few of his poems took less than a year to complete - some spanned decades. It is something I need to learn: that creative endeavors are seldom perfected instantaneously, and that there is no shame in taking one's time to complete even the shortest of works. In looking back, I cannot recall a poem that has taken me fewer than a couple of hours, and I often revise quickly, finishing my poems in less than a week. I'm resolved to move past that, to learn more completely how to perfect the use of diction, rhythm and rhyme.

Haines's readings inspired me to write this poem, entitled

"Haikus for Winter"

we slept by the pond,
and watched the frail moon breathing,
sucking up the day

till it burned orange,
and perched triumphant on the
tops of naked trees,

and from some place near
came forth the deep throated cry
of a whip-poor-will,

the voice of the woods,
low and mournful and dreaming,
bearing memories.

we heard further down
the coyotes’ shrill voices
splinter in the cold,

while high above us
glowed the cerulean sky,
seeming glass and sea.

sometime between dreams,
I heard the lowing cattle-
the singing of birds,

and then that old fog,
stealing sweetly from the east,
bore forth the new dawn.

(but don't worry, I plan on revising)