I am working on the first direction of the “Mist from the Mountains” poem. Counting the number of words I have written thus far, I come to just over a thousand. Far from settled on any particular variation to develop into a final draft, thousands more will be written. Some will emerge from existing lines, others (I hope) whispered by the Muse. By comparison, the final draft for this direction (a quatrain in Iambic trimetre) will amount to about twenty words!
Month: September 2019
Poetic Licence
A poet may take all manner of liberties with words and their meaning—indeed with language itself—yet the pedant purist within me is grappling with the technical difference between “mist” and “fog”—poetically exchangeable but meteorologically distinct.
In “Mist from the Mountains”, I am determined to keep the poem true to the scene that inspired it—one with fog, not mist—meaning that I might forego the working title and certain lines to that end.
This may appear absurd, but somehow to me in this particular work, the detail in question lends to the poem a greater authenticity. There are times when I happily use artistic freedom to achieve a charming line, but “Mist from the Mountains” forbids me.
“Life feels like it takes deeper breaths and moves more languidly there.”
– A wonderful observation by a reader on the “Cracking Cones” video I shared yesterday.
Forgotten Fields 