On 13/3/06 10:05 AM, "Caleb Cluff" <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
> I don't know what it is; but when it's there, sometimes it's not me at all.
> It's as though someone else has moved inside me. I just wish they'd stay
> longer. I like them so much better than me.
Whatever that person is (Borges' wolf/other?) my commoner feeling has been
relief when he/she leaves me alone; sometimes I think it's like a
disability. But on the other hand, I'm never happier than when I'm working
hard on something. I don't know if that's inspiration, though.
I am suspicious, like most people, I suspect, of the notion of inspiration,
that romantic cliché of wild-eyed poets clutching their pale foreheads. I
think it's both more banal and more mysterious than that. I do know that
when I am writing well I feel much more mortal, much more on the edge of
things, much more aware of the fragility and vividness of things: I suppose,
more alive, more aware. And because of that feeling, you can be forgiven for
the illusion that it is something that comes from outside.
On the other hand, the last poem I wrote came to me while I was doing the
washing up, line by line by line. I would put down the cup, go to my desk,
write down the line, wash another couple of things, and repeated that until
I finished the poem. It was all very undramatic, lines quietly floating up.
Editor, Masthead: http://masthead.net.au
Home page: http://alisoncroggon.com