An allegory for today - (yes, really).
So the poet has the germ of an idea, an instance, and begins to construe his thoughts in the form of poetry: his chosen form of idea-communication. He will spend an extensive amount of time lovingly inflating this idea, expanding its possibilities with images and sounds, words and phrasings. Form and structure even begin to affectionately work their way onto the page, and the poet sees this and he is pleased that all these parts of the poetic process are happening.
But for any of you familiar with the character of Absolon (the sickeningly lovesick sop from Chaucer’s ‘The Miller’s Tale and Prologue’), you will know that his ‘love’ – if that’s what you can call it, more bordering obsession – for the beautiful Alison was never returned. Furthermore, he was mocked and lampooned for his desires to the point of wanting to take full-on revenge in the form of a red hot poker being inserted somewhere less than attractive.
I suppose my point is this: that the poet will spend this inordinate length of time working hard on his poem. However, this does not guarantee that the poem itself will return this affection back to him. It might sit there squatting happily to itself on the page, where in a moment of lucidity the poet will look and think ‘no, this isn’t working at all’, or ‘why the heck did I originally think this idea?’ At which point, the poem, having been slavishly adored and constantly reworked by the poet has not only lost its original intention – it actually begins to deride the poet for ever trying to write it.
The question then is whether it’s worth continuing. Does the poet go and grab his flaming iron rod to take his petty revenge for all the wasted hours writing, ultimately making him feel like a fool for trying? The equivalent of this, I guess, would be obliterating it off the face of the earth by savaging it with a pen or excessively pressing the delete key.
My personal opinion is to resist being an Absolon, to save whatever is written, to drag the Word file to the far reaches of some folder somewhere or to condemn the notebook page to the drawer. However tempting it might be to exact revenge on your own work, with a little more thought, time and space away you might eventually find infinite worth in what you said.
So the poet has the germ of an idea, an instance, and begins to construe his thoughts in the form of poetry: his chosen form of idea-communication. He will spend an extensive amount of time lovingly inflating this idea, expanding its possibilities with images and sounds, words and phrasings. Form and structure even begin to affectionately work their way onto the page, and the poet sees this and he is pleased that all these parts of the poetic process are happening.
But for any of you familiar with the character of Absolon (the sickeningly lovesick sop from Chaucer’s ‘The Miller’s Tale and Prologue’), you will know that his ‘love’ – if that’s what you can call it, more bordering obsession – for the beautiful Alison was never returned. Furthermore, he was mocked and lampooned for his desires to the point of wanting to take full-on revenge in the form of a red hot poker being inserted somewhere less than attractive.
I suppose my point is this: that the poet will spend this inordinate length of time working hard on his poem. However, this does not guarantee that the poem itself will return this affection back to him. It might sit there squatting happily to itself on the page, where in a moment of lucidity the poet will look and think ‘no, this isn’t working at all’, or ‘why the heck did I originally think this idea?’ At which point, the poem, having been slavishly adored and constantly reworked by the poet has not only lost its original intention – it actually begins to deride the poet for ever trying to write it.
The question then is whether it’s worth continuing. Does the poet go and grab his flaming iron rod to take his petty revenge for all the wasted hours writing, ultimately making him feel like a fool for trying? The equivalent of this, I guess, would be obliterating it off the face of the earth by savaging it with a pen or excessively pressing the delete key.
My personal opinion is to resist being an Absolon, to save whatever is written, to drag the Word file to the far reaches of some folder somewhere or to condemn the notebook page to the drawer. However tempting it might be to exact revenge on your own work, with a little more thought, time and space away you might eventually find infinite worth in what you said.
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