Creative Services ~ Anatomy of a Poem Exercise

This exercise was presented on a two-sided sheet, in a continuous fashion. It was designed to help people visualise an approach to poetry writing. I included all of the notes, starts, stops and score-outs that made up the poem, finishing up with the completed poem.

  

wood, old photos, lists, missing names, faces, still signs of character, cockily tipped caps, paintbrush moustaches, porthole spectacles, goggles, bomber jackets and spit-seasoned pipes, desert shirts, never-bronzed skin, the smiles of boys, razor-edged trousers, khakis, stare/fear of photographs, stilted, relaxed - different personalities, clapped-in mouths, vital energies.

Corris Institute - War photos  War photos, Corris Institute War photos, Corris Institute, Wales

the desert rats and wrens
lest we forget
poking their (in my ribs,)
for all of us,
lest we forget

On a wall facing nothing
hangs a frame of faces.

Below, a list of names and blanks.
Although these faces do not move, they do,
I am their audience.

(A cold drizzle of names drips
from the window frame of faces)
Outside, it rains and rains.
Inside, the institute welcomes me
as a grave welcomes
the tender of her flowers.

Upon a wall of shadows
many different windowed faces

 

War photos, Corris Institute, Wales

Outside, it rains and rains.
Inside, the institute welcomes me
as a grave welcomes company.
the tender
On a wall facing nothing
hangs a frame of faces.
Below, a list of names and blanks.
Although these faces do not move,
they do, for I am their an audience.

Cockily tipped caps tip further;
eyes narrow behind porthole spectacles;
paintbrush spectacles darken in their wiriness;
the smiles of smiles sparkle again, frowns get stouter.

I must acknowledge every face,
honour every presence.
Each one is worth it.

And then, stuffed with seeing,
I am the older, they the younger. 

War photographs, Corris Institute, Wales

Outside, it rains and rains.

Inside this the Corris, institute,
this the Corris of coffin wood
and gravestone slate
I come across a window

A window of faces,
scratched into life.

Inside the institute,
the Corris of coffin wood and
gravestone slate,
I come across a window,

a soggy, soaken sodden,
smeared-up window
of faces, scratched
into the lids of wall.

Our breaths exchange,
and through

Breaths are exchanged,
and the glass begins to clear

We exchange breath,
till the glass clears
and I re

We exchange breath.

Cockily tipped caps tip further;
eyes narrow swim behind porthole spectacles;
paintbrush moustaches darken in pigment:
hair loosens and smiles widen.

I travel from face to number to name
and back again, trying to give
the past my kiss of life.

And then there is a chortle,
a snigger
And then there is a snigger
and a sigh, and a hand upon my shoulder,
and a spit-seasoned pipe
poked into my ribs.

And all is blank before me
And then there is a pilot
and a private, and a desert rat
and wren

 

 

War photographs, Corris Institute, Wales

Outside, it rains and rains.

Inside this the institute,
the this Corris of coffin wood and slate,
I come across a window,

a soggy, sodden, smeared-up  steamed-up
window of faces, scratched
into the lined-up lids of wall.
into the glassy of wall
into the glass of wall.

a saturated, steamed-up glass of faces

We exchange breath.

Cockily tipped caps tip further;
eyes swim behind porthole spectacles;
paintbrush moustaches twist and twitch;
hair loosens and smiles widen.

I travel move stumble from face to number to name and back again, trying to give
this past my kiss of life.

And then there is a snigger
and a sigh, and a hand upon my shoulder,
and a spit-seasoned pipe
poked into my ribs.

And then there is a snigger and a sigh,
and a girl’s hot wet breath upon my ear,
and a boy’s broad deep hand upon my shoulder,

and a

 

Till all the photographs have disembarked
and I am left alone upon the gantry,
gazing at the swinging (between) the land and sea and air

And still, with less remorse,
and welsh wif wilfulness,
outside, it rains and rains.

 

I stumble from face picture to number to name
and back again, trying to give
this their past my kiss of life.

And then there is a snigger and a sigh,
a boy’s deep hand upon my shoulder,
a girl’s wet breath upon my ear.

Till all the photographs have disembarked
and I am left alone upon the gantry,
swinging over land and sea and air.

And still, with less remorse,
and more welsh wilfulness,
outside, it rains and rains

 

 

War Photographs, Corris Institute, Wales

Outside, it rains and rains.

Inside this institute,
this corris of coffin wood and slate,
I come across a window,
a saturated, steamed-up
glass of faces.

I stumble from picture
to number to name and back again,
trying to give their past
my kiss of life.

We exchange breath.

Cockily tipped caps tip further;
eyes swim behind porthole spectacles;
paintbrush moustaches bristle and twitch;
hair loosens and smiles widen.

There is a snigger and a sigh,
a boy’s deep hand upon my shoulder,
a girl’s wet breath upon my ear.

Till all the photographs have disembarked
and I am left alone on the gangway,
swinging over land and sea and air.

And still, with less remorse,
and more welsh wilfulness,
outside, it rains and rains.

 

©John Brewster, September 2008