Recently I had opportunity to participate in a writing exercise run by
Australian Speculative Fiction, and requiring a complete story to be written out of the contemplation of a photographic image posted on their ASF Facebook site.
Writing to images is an activity that I have done a great deal of in recent times and I find contemplation of images is a rewarding pastime that can add an extra dimension to a piece of writing. For example, in my work I seek to create word imagery. I like my reader to be able to come along on a journey, with just the words to steer them along. Listeners can close their eyes and experience a kind of travel.
With the use of a picture – an image allows a pre-existing point of contemplation. This in turn becomes a point of departure for the poem, and adds a requirement for the reader to revisit – the picture – the poem – back to the picture, and so on. Potentially, form of enhancement of the reading experience.
Going back to the example I referred to above, the good folk at ASF chose a poem I’d written to publish on their web site (among a number of other high quality responses), for which I am very grateful, but that was the second piece I had written for that particular image, and it set me to thinking about the nature of these contemplations. Where looking at an image today produces one piece of work. The same image tomorrow results in a completely different contemplation and poem.
I found that I wanted to give each poem an airing, rather than discard the non-selected piece. After all, what do you do with a piece of writing that is particularly derived from an image when a brother/sister piece is the chosen one? Discard it?
No discarding today. What I thought I’d do is put the two poems side by side beneath the picture, as an illustration of the varying possibilities that arise out of ongoing contemplation.
I’d be most interested to chat about or receive any thoughts you might like to share about this.
| George | only the wind (is free) |
|---|---|
| I know where this mist comes from I know the reek of lizard I know the heat that moves the air to make a swing squeak aloud … so mournful … my armor snug my visor low I have a lance I heft the weight of Sword the balance in my right hand trusty good my right hand now is the time to bend my knee to bow my head my helmet whisper a prayer for safety and an end to all the things that are this lizard the things that are all lizards I know the smoke that drives away the innocent and the naïve the nostrils of this worm make for quake and quiver but not me not I I am strong in heart great in thew and I know where the reptile lies hiding end my prayer I end my prayer with murmur then a shouting so loud it is the dragons turn to whimper uttered into this foetid air: my name is george yea yea MY NAME IS GEORGE! ~ | here in the graveyard of abandoned dreams the ghost in the wind is free to play listen … the squeal is the rhythm of a swing grown too rigid to back and forth by wistful breath the rattle of the branches speaks urging come on come on but the ghost remains opaque even as it moans a hollow to the sky oh oh oh-oh the slide is a shriek of shivers of a fingernail and a drag from the top right to the bottom of the cry and somewhere disappearing is a remnant of the laughter of a child ha-a ha-ha-ha ha-a ooo-oo-ooo oh the ghost in the wind is in the mist and in the fog it is not free it cannot play ~ |