So, You Want to Write a Poem?

(by Raoul Beyderov)

Today let's take a peek into the sanctuary of a poet, his scriptorium, as it were. For those who want to follow the thought process, please choose not to look at the poem which will be provided toward the end.

Okay? Ready? - Right! Let's go: The poet in question - who was also a cab driver at the time! - one day sat behind his wheel, waiting for customers and looking at some trees and occasional birds passing by right in front of his eyes. At that stage, all he thought was, 'What lovely trees!' and he fell into a prolonged spell of contemplative reflection.

It was fall. Trees were painting their leaves in the most delightful colors and shedding them to the ground. Seeing all that - of course, subtracting all the other cars and concrete buildings around him - made lots of great memories come rushing in. It reminded him of his childhood days and many other pleasant times he'd had.

So, after work, at home now, having enjoyed a nice supper - together with his parakeet, who was the only living soul present apart from him - he opened his notebook and began punching into a well-known word processor program, in fact spitballing now (what he wrote is here reproduced, ... with all the possible mistakes that occured):

'leaves a-falling,

snowberry, boxwood, wild rose, dogwood

Last year's glory, this year's grace,

If ever there was a beauty,

swirling - twirling'

Hmm, okay, he thought. Well, that's a start... But I need some more thoughts... - So he spitballs some more:

'blazing/flaring colors, glittering(ly) gold(en) leaves,

leaves floating in the air, leaf perching on a neighboring bough, delicately balanced (out on a limb), before tumbling down to earth, ... suspended (on the edge of a branch),

leaf: hesitates, then headlong rushes/hastens to meet up with others on their journey down - to unite with Mother Earth.

Tree shedding its leaves like a snake sloughs off its skin, (only) to wake up to more/greater beauty, a new existence, a new lease on life, zestfully embracing what lies ahead.

Fall strips trees and bushes of their leaves, ... trembles in every limb eager/agog to/for what lies ahead,'

His brainstorming all the ideas and feelings that come to his mind go on for a while, and he writes everything down. (Some of his notes are not given here, to conserve some of the magic)

He wants to mention, he ponders, some specific trees and their leaves that appeared before his eyes. So he researches deciduous trees and migratory birds:

'deciduous trees:

sallow, black poplar, alder, mountain ash, lime, elm (tree), Norway maple, buckeye/chestnut, buttontree (plane), locust tree (robinia)'

'migratory birds:

Nightingale, turtledove, swallow, stork, warblers (wood warbler, sedge warbler, blackcap, whitethroat, chiffchaff, leaf warbler, garden warbler, grasshopper warbler, willow warbler, reed warbler), cuckoo, crane, (red) kite'

Now he tries to put everything together and writes a first draft:

'Working Title: "Fall"

<a poem by R. B.>

O how far away you seem now, hidden behind your furrowed bark.

Strong (imperturbable) you stand.unperturbed by roiling leaves.

Who's imbued you with these gaudy colors?

Home of lush and verdant green (verdancy)

Trembling leaves scintillating in the dying sun.

Dank and musty smell. a burst of colors

Who has painted you so bright?

Elm tree and you mountain ash, black poplar and sallow.

The little wooded knoll above my childhood river (or, the river of my childhood) has turned its sober (green) head into a burst of yellows and ambers, vermilion and spice, an outcrop festooned with spots and patches of gilded yellow and fawn.

The world is awash in reds, oranges and yellows, ginger, russet and tan.

Greens drained from your feathery coat, on the cusp of standing barren, stark against the sky, you are not perturbed, brave as a lion you defy the world, heart of oak, you do not flinch (shrink).

Your trunk, your bark a buckler, a shield 'gainst those who'd dare you...'

He looks at it, reads it, ... again and again. And again. Meditates everything for some time (The whole process takes him several days. Under different circumstances it may take much longer). - Then - at last! - he's all poised to write down the final version of his poem, the way he wants it to be published later:

 

'Fall

(a poem by R. Beyderov)

(1)

The little wooded knoll above the river of my childhood,

Has turned its sober head into a burst of yellow and amber, vermilion and spice;

Trembling leaves scintillating in the dying sun,

An outcrop festooned with patches of silver and gold, pheasant and fawn;

(2)

O erstwhile home of lush and verdant greens

Drained from your feathery coat,

On the cusp of standing barren, stark against the sky,

You hold your ground, stay unperturbed!

(3)

And rightly so, for you have sent your blazing envoys out into the world,

In waves of orange and yellow, russet and tan;

They dance and dance, a dance of hope,

Soft-hued, mellow, sturdy and strong;

(4)

Autumnal odors like incense, bemusing and poignant,

Douse the air with childhood dreams;

Slake my thirst, stir up in me a sense of greater beauty!

For a new existence, a keen new lease on life;

(5)

O elm tree and you mountain ash, black poplar and sallow,

You turtledove, blackcap and swallow bisecting the autumn sky,

Will you not fill up my senses, o Fall, pre-torpid surcease of life,

Steel my resolve to go on until next year's regeneration?'

---

(©Beyderov, 2009)