Did I mention that Josh Young -- one of my characters -- taught me
to write better poetry? Given that Josh doesn't exist except for pages in a
book and in my mind, this would seem impossible. But when I wrote Josh, I
created him as a talented English major who got teased in grade school because
he was too beautiful, and who has grown into a formidable young man with
mystical leanings. (Whether he is still beautiful or not, I expect, depends on
personal preference, but his girlfriend/wife Jeanne thinks so.)
Josh, as an avid student of English literature and composition, learned about the same things I learned in that poetry class in college, but he took them more seriously. He identified as a poet, so he understood metaphor and developed the ability to distill his thoughts in the purest way possible. I, on the other hand, wrote entirely out of emotions, and my poems are of three sorts: "There's this guy, I'm so blue, and I'm so blue because there's this guy". (My husband would argue this is still the case, bless him.)
Josh, as an avid student of English literature and composition, learned about the same things I learned in that poetry class in college, but he took them more seriously. He identified as a poet, so he understood metaphor and developed the ability to distill his thoughts in the purest way possible. I, on the other hand, wrote entirely out of emotions, and my poems are of three sorts: "There's this guy, I'm so blue, and I'm so blue because there's this guy". (My husband would argue this is still the case, bless him.)
When I wrote Josh's poems in "Gaia's Voice", I had to write as Josh. In reality, that meant pulling up all those technical things I learned in my poetry class (long LONG ago), and pull Josh's thoughts through that process. In my imagination, it looked more like this:
Josh stood over my shoulder. I hadn't heard him approaching
me, and I blamed my hearing as much as I credited his Aikido training.
"Have you thought of holding back your passion?" he inquired as he
read the words over my shoulder on the screen.
"Holding back?" I asked dumbly. I defined myself,
if by nothing else, by my passion. I highlighted a block of text to delete it
--
"No. Don't deny the passion. Channel it. Play with it.
Hint about it. Concentrate it like a laser beam and zap someone with it at the
end of the poem." I turned around to see him push that unruly lock of
black hair out of his eyes.
I stared at my words on the screen. They made "How do
I love thee" sound coy. They bludgeoned, they overwhelmed. They didn't
tease the way first love would. They did not capture Josh's feelings. Moreover, they did not capture mine.
"Poetry captures an
experience, not a speech," Josh noted. Then, just as quickly as he had
appeared, he walked off into the white existence of my imagination.
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