Aiming at something like William Carlos Williams

Yesterday I wrote another poem about my car crash from last week. The previous poem is quite different in style to this more recent poem.

I was aiming at capturing just one important thing, and was thinking as I wrote and edited it, about the spare and clever work of the much loved American poet William Carlos Williams.

If you don't know his work, and you like or love poetry, or even if you hate poetry, I recommend you click on his name and learn about him. I love his work.

So here is my little poem:

away from me

my clearest image

from the accident

is what I saw

as my car

hit the safety fence

the first time –

ten or more cars

on the other side

of the road

rushing northward

away from me 

as fast as they could go

Did I capture the feel I was aiming at? I think so. I have no idea if this poem works for anyone else, but when I read it, I can see those cars again. The cars that would have crashed into me and possibly killed me if the safety fence wasn't there.

Please, please, please leave a comment here, I have a strong need to know how this poem touches or fails to touch others.

Creative Writing is my Personal Healing

I had a car accident last week, on Monday. Something went wrong, I lost the steering in my car and I crashed. The car was the first car I've ever owned myself, all the other cars have been in my husband, Graham's, name.

When my car came to a halt, I realised I was pretty well completely unhurt. I thought about what to do, but a wonderful lady arrived to help me. She took charge of it all, and invited me to sit in her car while I waited for various emergency people and my husband to arrive.

I looked at my car and was sad. It looked far sicker than I was. It seemed strange that my car could be that damaged, but I was fine. I thank the people who make things safer for us all. If it weren't for the safety fence, my seatbelt and safety features in the car, the result would have been tragic rather that merely sad.

Anyway, I thought about all of this, and I dealt with the sadness in my usual way, I wrote a poem about it. Creative writing is my way of getting my head around things. Writing the words down, editing them, playing with them and then sharing them helps me to understand my life, myself and the world.

I truly believe that creative writing has healed me, getting me over my grief at losing my car (it was written off by my insurance company). Creative writing has also helped me to deal with the various issues I have had in my life.

I feel that creative writing is a fine tool for a person to have to help them get through the challenges they have in life. It is a thing I wish to assist people with. That is what I wish to spend the rest of my life doing - assisting people to write their way to a better life.

Anyway, here is the poem I wrote about my car accident. I hope you find something in my words.

It could have been traumatic

Control lost, spin around, crash and spin some more.

Safety found, deep breath and look around.

Help approaches, mobile in hand, she calls for uniformed

help. She saw it all, soothes me, comforts me, a quiet heroine

‘It’s wasn’t your fault’ she says, ‘not your fault at all’

Two more people arrive, soothing, helping, bits of my car

taken off the road. She tells the cop the same

when he flashes up, and starts asking questions,

‘Not her fault,’ she repeats. Mission accomplished,

the helpers all leave, taking with them a new story to tell.

I sit in the cop’s car and he tests me, questions me,

soothes me too, we chat while we wait. ’Not your fault,’

he says. Graham arrives, tow truck arrives,

cop leaves, we leave, returning home,

where life is in control, no spin at all.

I feel soothed not traumatised.

Carolyn Cordon 2011

If this poem says anything to you, please feel free to leave a comment here, thank you.

Final Farewell to Dad

I've written two blogs about the poem I'm going to post here. The poem was written about a ceremony my younger brother, our mother and I performed on Sunday morning just gone.

The time had come to scatter my father's ashes. Murray West was my father's name. He was a horse trainer before he died, a well known and much liked one before he became ill. He died a year ago, and Sunday was just after his birthday and the one year anniversary of his death. I met with my mum on the day and we caught up with me brother Greg at the back track at Globe Derby Park, the main harness racing track in South Australia.

The plan was to scatter Dad's ashes at the finish line on the main track. My older brother Jeff, who died nearly 18 years ago has his memorial stone at the finish line in the rose garden just across from the finish line. Jeff had been my father's horse driver, driving many horses to victory.

So we gathered together and did the deed. I knew I was going to write a poem in honour of this occasion, and I was thinking about the theme of my weekly writing group. The theme was 'Recovery'.

I was busy for the rest of the day, but my subconscious kept turning over what we'd done, and the writing theme. I began writing the poem on Tuesday, I had a first draft. I wasn't ready to let anyone else see the poem at that stage.

Then I decided I would work on it some more on Thursday, after I had written a totally different poem with the theme of 'Recovery'. That poem came to me yesterday morning as I was lying in bed and enjoying the feeling of  being safe there. So I got up, fixed breakfast and wrote my 'Recovery' poem. I read my 'Recovery' poem last night, and everyone liked it. I liked it too, and was satisfied I had hit the theme well. The group shared some deep and meaningful words last night, a handful of fine poems indeed.

Then I opened up my poem I'd written for Dad, and worked on a second draft, tinkering with lines and words. I was happy with that poem, it felt good to me, and I knew I had to share it with my mother, who I go and visit most Fridays. This morning I polished up the  poem, and I was finally happy that it said the things I needed to say. I went and saw Mum and gave her the poem to read and to keep.

I watched Mum as she read, seeing her face as she reacted to the words. She finished reading, and I asked if she was OK with me putting the poem 'out there' for other people to read. I felt I had to ask her permission first, it wouldn't have been fair to her otherwise. She said she was OK with that.

So that's the story behind this poem. It's a story of poetry, grief, harness racing, family and caring for loved ones. It's a story I give to the world. So here is that poem.

The final race

Crow’s mournful cry heralds the beginning

of my journey. The road I travel is a slaughterhouse

in grey - avian corpses sad prey to car’s

supremacy. These thoughts travel with me

to Dad’s memorial destination. Contact made,

we three, his spouse and his offspring, approach

the place, ashes in hand, plan decided –

finish line a suitable place. The youngest

does the deed, releasing the final remains

of our father, my mother’s spouse. Breeze aids

the scattering, and I remember other times, times

when the finish line brought us joy, and I finally

feel a kind of joyful serenity. Remaining ash

is spread near our dead brother’s place, their

oldest son, and we can all imagine Jeff and Dad,

communing and celebrating former times –

horses, races and glorious wins. We shared

these things as a family, now we can remember

it again and embrace a final peace.

a First Draft says it's not quite ready to come out yet

Yesterday I wrote the first draft of the poem I spoke of the day before yesterday. The poem came easily enough once I had a quiet time to begin writing. It felt good to get the words down. The problem is, I'm not quite ready for it yet, and it's not ready for being released to the public yet.

These things happen sometimes. I think the fact the poem is about something so personal, that also relates to other people I love, means I have to be more careful with my words than usual. Getting this wrong feels like it could hurt other people, and maybe hurt me too.

So, it may happen soon, or it might only be a thing between me and the words of the poem. Whatever happens, the writing of this poem feels like it's helping me.

Writing about a loved one who is now dead seems like a normal part of my grieving process. I wrote a sonnet that I read at my father's funeral a year ago. The sonnet helped me say what I wanted to say, and I was glad to be able to give a copy of it to my mother.

The poem I'm working on now is not in any formal poetic style, but it still conveys much of what I'm feeling inside about my father. It's all a little difficult because the Dad I knew and loved has been gone for much longer than the year since his body died. Dementia took Dad away slowly but with a cruel steadiness. His mind slowly left us and we struggled to find hints he was still there.

I'm afraid to say I had difficulty in seeing Dad in the vacant face that looked unseeingly at me when I visited. He was gone, and I could only wish it wasn't so. I hope this never happens to me, or to anyone else I know and love. Dementia would have to be one of the cruellest things there is.

Writing these words is a conversation happening in my mind, and on the page. I do some of my best thinking when my mind is in charge of my fingers, keying in the words. If I didn't do this, I don't think I could stay OK.

When the poem calls, but you're not sure you're up to the task

Yesterday I met with my mother and Greg, my younger brother, to deal with my father's ashes. Dad died a year ago tonight, and the time had come to do the task.

My father was a successful harness racing trainer for much of his life. He had his funeral service at Globe Derby Park, which is the major harness racing facility in South Australia. Dad had many successful races there during his training career.

Globe Derby Park is also the place where the ashes of my older brother, Jeff, were placed. Jeff was Dad's reinsman, driving the horses to many wins. Jeff died at the age of 33, nearly 18 years ago.

So I drove to Mum's place, and along the road I kept seeing metaphors. Crows, and the bodies of dead birds in particular, were a recurring theme for the initial part of my journey. While I was driving, I was thinking about the poem I would write in honour of the event. The scattering of ashes is a powerful thing, full of thoughts and images and feelings.

Once I arrived at Mum's place, we found out where Greg was and met with him at the track. We took the ashes to the finish line and Greg released the ashes. There was a breeze to assist and I felt a deep sense of rightness as I saw the ashes leave the urn.

Once Greg had nearly emptied the urn, he gave it to Mum. We all walked over to Jeff's memorial stone and stayed with Mum as she released the last of Dad's ashes. They were laid to rest next to the stone, amidst the rose bushes there. It was easy to imagine Dad and Jeff finally able to get together again to talk about horses, as they often did when living.

The rest of yesterday was taken up with poetry, the Poetry Readings at the Pub in Gawler. I'm on the committee that runs this event, which happens once a month. I continued thinking about the poem I had to write, but wasn't able to write it. I had a strange happy/sad afternoon. I was tied up with the goings on, but also tied to what I'd done in the morning. I felt good taking my part in the proceedings, so wasn't resentful at not having the chance to pen my memorial to Dad. I felt I could easily do it when the time was right.

Now though, I'm sitting at home with not much to do, and I still haven't written down any words. I feel almost afraid to start, in case I mess it up. There are several things I've said I'll do today, and they are affecting me in some way and the words don't feel ready to come yet. I can still feel them though, sitting within and warming me with their love.

This is a thing that I want to do, and I need to do. This is a thing I will do.