Stream of Consciousness, Structure and Catharsis |
experimental pantoum I "Seven Deadly Sins"
Eight pieces of brocade
Cover seven deadly sins,
Flame-trio, sanjiao corset,
Chakras in a tangled mixture, © 1996 Anne Lawrence/SilkCocoon |
|
The "Eight Pieces of Brocade" series may be the closest approach to a signature work that I have ever produced. Whether these poems represent a grand achievement, or a grandiose construct of self-indulgence, is not for the writer to decide. Either way, I cannot deny that the act of composing these pieces was not only pivotal in my development as a poet, but also critical to my evolution into something resembling a human being. In 1995, the poet was embroiled in a caustic broth of depression, confusion, hypocrisy and outright misery. It was becoming clear to me that the sorry state of affairs that was my life was too intolerable to be allowed to continue. The thought of suicide was a constant companion, which warred with a persistent desire to live. This state of contradiction was agonizing. At some level, I knew that something needed to change, but was ill-equipped to figure out exactly what was wrong, much less what was to be done about it. My arsenal included few weapons which could be brought to bear upon The Beast, but I clung to them with tenacity -- writing, meditation, yoga, martial arts. I wrote on a daily basis, usually producing reams of morose material that were little help in coping with the negativity that gripped me. The only thing that seemed to relieve and stabilize my moods was T'ai Chi, with its graceful movements, serenity-inducing breathing patterns, and picturesque teaching metaphors. I decided to try and put some of my T'ai Chi experience into verse, in the hopes that by focussing on more positive subjects, I could begin to retrain my cognitive patterns. I cannot claim to have originated this concept, having been advised by my cognitive therapist to to try to cathartise through writing. Many poets recognize the usefulness of this coping technique. Jane Hirshfield has written recently: "Writing poems, I believe, is fundamentally a contemplative practice, and in contemplative practices of every tradition, intention is the groundnote of change." (American Poetry Review, January/February 2000 "Kingfishers Catching Fire: Seeing with Poetry's Eyes.") She is quite right. My teachers say so, and having seen the proof, I believe them. One of the T'ai Chi chi-kungs that we were taught is called "The Eight Pieces of Brocade," a series of exercises developed by Marshall Yueh Fei, originator of the art of Hsing-I (pronounced "Shing-ee"). According to the teacher, Yueh Fei designed this series of eight exercises for his warriors. Apparently their health needed some improvement. The name "Eight Pieces of Brocade" seemed to me to be incredibly poetic, and I began to obsess upon the whole concept as I practiced these movements in my small cleared circle on the hillside near my home. I had difficulty remembering them all, so I scribbled pictogram cues on the end of my staff. It occurred to me that I might try to write eight poems using this subject as core material. I can't say that the experiment was entirely successful. My default mode of poetic expression was - and still is - the stream of consciousness, and what poured out was more of the same, rather than any orderly, disciplined work. Here is the original version: |
|
eight pictograms eight pieces of brocade
she wore
she drew
she split
she turned
she swayed
she stretched
she screwed fists
she raised |
|
This is the first part of the original. The eight short stanzas were intended to be individual tanka, or something resembling the same. They were composed in an attempt to help me remember the movements, as well as the desired effects on the body's energy, or "chi." Study of the Eight Pieces of Brocade brought the students into contact with the Chinese language. I incorporated as many of these beautiful Chinese words as I could.
But could I let it go at that? Hell
no. For one thing, I didn't feel that this composition had the necessary sense
of closure. For another thing, I didn't feel that I had said everything that
I wanted to say. So I waited, and waited, and waited, for the Muse to revisit.
Inspiration came from the AOL Poetry Board "Suggest a First Line,"
where many cyberpoets were hanging out, suggesting first lines for poems and
using the first lines suggested by others as jumping-off points for new works.
A talented lady named Bella put forth the following intriguing phrase: "All
night, through its long reaches," which immediately enchanted me with possibilities. I continued writing as follows: |
|
All night, through its long reaches |
|
Obviously in this section of the poem,
I had fixated on a particular rhyme, and this silvery, tinkling, sparkling rhyme
seemed to compliment my particular theme: that of weaving and resultant texture
that seemed so implicit in the idea of a brocade. It continued:
|
|
eight pieces of brocade |
|
Although I was not happy with the "sins/spins" rhyme, which seemed forced, at last, the poet's inner eye was beginning to focus. The "Eight Pieces of Brocade," according to Yueh Fei, were supposed to alleviate and/or avoid "seven illnesses and eight injuries." The thought of "seven illnesses" percolating in the stream of consciousness manifested the Catholic concept of the "seven deadly sins;" I was vaguely aware of being guilty of quite a few of them. The work of self-examination was beginning as Eastern and Western philosophies were becoming interwoven in the pulse of the poem. "Seventy times seven" is an allusion to the New Testament, where Christ answers a question of his disciple Peter: "Then came Peter to him,
and said, Lord, how oft shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him?
till seven times?"
I
can see much more clearly in retrospect what was happening within me. For years,
I had been trumpeting my atheism about the countryside, and yet, my Christian
upbringing persisted, my true belief in the old forgotten concept of the Law
of Forgiveness jumped up and bit me in the ass! My sense of self-conviction
and sorrow bubbled to the surface in this imagery:
|
|
deserted arcade
diadem of disarray |
|
Next, the picture of the student is painted for the reader, later rather than sooner in the poem: |
|
eight pieces of brocade she sings |
|
And here, the true nakedness of one who attempts to place armor between herself and the world: |
|
eight pieces of brocade she wore |
|
And the word "accolade" in the context of one-handed push-hands, an obviously impossible exercise, which is intended to convey the sound of one hand clapping, or even suggest an acolyte who neither deserves nor receives praise. "Windswept tatters slowly fading" should convey a sense of ephemerality, of illusion and unreality. Hypocrisy, again. |
|
eight pieces of brocade what for © 1995 Anne Lawrence/SilkCocoon |
|
"She wore" and "what for" are to rhyme and resonate with "hsin for," the "heart-fire," as well as to ask the central question: "what is it all about?" For the poet, the questioning is becoming far more important than the knowing - or what one thinks she knows. And yet, even with all this, I was not satisfied with what I had created. This rambling piece seemed merely a beginning, seemed merely to scratch the surface of the issues to be cauterized in catharsis. At the time, I was becoming interested in more structured forms of poetry, and it occurred to me that I might take particularly musical parts of this long verse and expound upon them more fully by constructing pantoums. For those who are unfamiliar with the pantoum, here is how John Drury defines it: "The pantoum is a Malay form. It is written in couplets and repeats whole lines in an interlocking pattern." (Creating Poetry, Writer's Digest Books, Copyright 1991 by John Drury): From this book, I learned that each stanza of a pantoum contains four lines. The second and fourth lines of each stanza are repeated as the first and third lines of the next stanza, until the final stanza, where the first line of the first stanza becomes the final line. The third line of the first stanza becomes the second line of the final stanza. Of course, variations exist, but this is the classic structure. The
pantoum form is challenging because it is tempting to simply follow a formula,
sucking all the life out of the original poetic intention, becoming simply redundant,
as in this example: |
|
experimental pantoum III "Texture"
All night, through its long reaches Thoughts of truth pervade and linger Weave the rain for blanket slumber Humming tones from languid thunder Tasting them in kindred mixture © 1996 Anne Lawrence/SilkCocoon |
|
Well, I suppose this pantoum is successful in the respect that it maintains the sensuality of the original lines, and in that the rhyme and metre are pleasant enough, but looking back at the lines which served as source material for this experiment, I don't feel that this pantoum adds anything significant. In fact, I still prefer the original lines. Fewer words, same impact. But when the pantoum structure is used as a skeleton to flesh out with inspiration, the result can be quite powerful. The structure helps to maintain a strong theme, and the repetition helps to hammer it home. The challenge of wringing every drop of meaning out of repeated lines was too much to resist. I found it to be invigorating. It was the interlocking aspect of this form that caused me to choose it for my project, which used source material focussing on concepts of weaving and texture. As I worked, I was astounded by the meditative, chant-like effect. Even as I delved ever deeper into my own consciousness, my own background, my own make-up, a sense of distance and detachment came over me. It was as if the poems were taking on a life of their own, while I could only watch in wonder. My favorite of these eight poems is "The Trellis:" |
|
experimental pantoum V "The Trellis"
The plaited nightshade blooms Upon the veins of azurite Eternal petals plume A diadem of disarray © 1996 Anne Lawrence/SilkCocoon |
|
The final stanza of this pantoum is
the concluding stanza from the original. To compose "The Trellis,"
I actually took this final stanza and worked backward, sticking with the rules
of the pantoum. Lo and Behold, a whole new creation!
If nothing else worthwhile came from all this poetic thrashing about, at least I have this one little jewel. And although this might seem like quite a lot of work for one decent poem, one has to remember that it truly is the journey which matters, not so much the destination. By way of proof of this statement in context, I can truthfully say that the time and effort spent working on this project was useful not only professionally, in terms of developing my art, but personally as well. For writing poetry has been one of the great safety nets of my life. I know that there are many others who can say the same. Jane Hirshfield has commented in her recent article: "'Grapes long to turn to wine,' wrote the Sufi poet; but it may be that even the wine - the finished poem, the perfected soul - does not matter. It may be the turning itself we long for." And it is because of this turning that I still treasure these fading blooms of past inspiration. Love, January 18, 2000 Anne Forrest Bonfire contributor |