A friend who started dabbling in poetry recently asked me how I became a poet.
At first I didn't know to respond. I mean, it wasn't something I'd set out to become (originally I'd forseen myself as a professor of Victorian literature who would write suspense novels on the side). Poetry was--is--something I'd fallen into, and I wasn't comfortable pigeon-holing myself as poet because I am a writer of different genres--short fiction, children's fiction, essays and articles. I'd also really had no formal training in poetry save for two classes as an undergraduate. Most of my training had been in prose.
As I told my friend, my walk along the poetic path came about via an unexpected turn. I'd been working for a continuing medical education publisher in Greenwich, CT, and commuting back and forth by train each day to avoid the Stamford and New York traffic crunch. I'd been revisiting a collection of Victorian women's poetry--savoring old favorites like Christina Rosetti's "Goblin Market" and Elizabeth Barrett Browning's "To George Sand: A Recognition." There was something about the rhythm of the train's trucks rolling along the tracks that, when set to reading the latter poem, sent me into a trance-like meditative state and began to stir emotional spectres out of the cobwebbed nooks in my memory. Twenty minutes later I looked at my canvas of college-ruled notebook paper and saw that a sonnet had exploded onto it. I tried to make sense of the scribbles, thinking something beyond me--a divine hand perhaps--had to have put it there. Then I realized the hand that had set all my emotions to imagery and iambic pentameter had been my own! I was ecstatic! And so it became a regular practice. I'd let my mind wander during my daily commutes on Metro-North and allow the poems to come in whatever form they chose. Once I even had music come to me along with the words (and I'm hoping that my husband, who writes songs, can help me translate it to sheet music one day).
I no longer work in Greenwich or ride the train daily, but entering that meditative poetic state comes so naturally now that I can still churn out a poem in roughly twenty minutes (not including the time it takes to edit and rework the scribbles) and I do this whenever it feels right.
At first I didn't know to respond. I mean, it wasn't something I'd set out to become (originally I'd forseen myself as a professor of Victorian literature who would write suspense novels on the side). Poetry was--is--something I'd fallen into, and I wasn't comfortable pigeon-holing myself as poet because I am a writer of different genres--short fiction, children's fiction, essays and articles. I'd also really had no formal training in poetry save for two classes as an undergraduate. Most of my training had been in prose.
As I told my friend, my walk along the poetic path came about via an unexpected turn. I'd been working for a continuing medical education publisher in Greenwich, CT, and commuting back and forth by train each day to avoid the Stamford and New York traffic crunch. I'd been revisiting a collection of Victorian women's poetry--savoring old favorites like Christina Rosetti's "Goblin Market" and Elizabeth Barrett Browning's "To George Sand: A Recognition." There was something about the rhythm of the train's trucks rolling along the tracks that, when set to reading the latter poem, sent me into a trance-like meditative state and began to stir emotional spectres out of the cobwebbed nooks in my memory. Twenty minutes later I looked at my canvas of college-ruled notebook paper and saw that a sonnet had exploded onto it. I tried to make sense of the scribbles, thinking something beyond me--a divine hand perhaps--had to have put it there. Then I realized the hand that had set all my emotions to imagery and iambic pentameter had been my own! I was ecstatic! And so it became a regular practice. I'd let my mind wander during my daily commutes on Metro-North and allow the poems to come in whatever form they chose. Once I even had music come to me along with the words (and I'm hoping that my husband, who writes songs, can help me translate it to sheet music one day).
I no longer work in Greenwich or ride the train daily, but entering that meditative poetic state comes so naturally now that I can still churn out a poem in roughly twenty minutes (not including the time it takes to edit and rework the scribbles) and I do this whenever it feels right.
I fell into art recently in much the same way I did poetry--serendipity. I'd been in an art supply store one day looking for odd-sized frames when I ended up in the aisles that housed canvases, acrylic and oil-based paints, charcoal pencils and sketch pads. Having had no previous formal art training of any kind, I decided to dabble (first charcoal sketching, then acrylic painting) and tapped into something I didn't even know I had. Like with poetry, all I had done was let myself go into a meditative zone and then was left with an interesting sketch or a painting. I decided to audit an introductory drawing class and have had some surprising results. I'm still a novice, especially with tone, but branching out and exploring a visual form has been enriching me creatively.
Poetry and art happen in conjunction with fiction and essay writing. In fact, I'd say they've become interdependent. One medium or genre gives birth to ideas for another or keeps the creative juices flowing on one side of the brain while the other side is resting. They all seem to work together. That's why I don't like being packaged as just poet or writer or artist or thinker. I'd like to think I can be all of these.
Poetry and art happen in conjunction with fiction and essay writing. In fact, I'd say they've become interdependent. One medium or genre gives birth to ideas for another or keeps the creative juices flowing on one side of the brain while the other side is resting. They all seem to work together. That's why I don't like being packaged as just poet or writer or artist or thinker. I'd like to think I can be all of these.
What really spurred this creative expansion? A Muse. I don't know how else to account for the surge I've been riding through my late twenties into my early thirties. It's as simple as that. A Muse has been leading me. Fortunately, I've had the good sense to follow Her ebb and flow while developing my paddles and strokes. That has meant trusting the discoveries and destinations the Source has led me to, even if it means adjusting plans.
Going with the flow is an essential part of creativity. Let go and you open yourself up to new, exciting and endless possibilities!
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