Awhile ago, Sara W posted about a letter Kurt Vonnegut wrote in response to some students, telling them to be creative for the sake of creation–to write or draw or sculpt only for themselves and not an audience.
And she suggested, as Vonnegut did, to write a six line, rhymed poem, and tear it up.
I did that.
Little poem pieces…
One of the things that stayed with me from Sarah’s post was what a friend said about the act of destroying the poem–that it wasn’t a waste, because if it wanted to, the poem would end up written, anyway.
Since I see creation as practice–and I write a lot of things in my head, mulling them over for a time, I think that’s true. Here is something like that poem.
On the Fence
Along the rolling, verdant literature hills
rises a fence made with boards of plot.
Twining up those wooden posts spills
ropes of leafy noun-vines thick enough to blot
out wood, verb leaves, and adjective blooms
in vibrant, sweet, soft-petaled plumes.
My daughter had a pottery instructor that destoyed any pot that was less than his best. To me that represents a commercial entreprise rather than an artistic one. To me imperfections are part of life and need to be prized for there uniqueness.
Well, you can make a pot that isn’t usable, which I might get rid of myself. But imperfections are what makes life interesting.
On the other hand, in writing, you do have to cut out some flaws to make the best story/poem. Not perfect, but the best possible. That’s something, right?