Write a thousand pages
then burn them all
without ceremony
or sentiment
Read every poem
and novel
and newspaper
you can get your hands on
before the age of 21
then stop completely
and spend the next
decade stealing from
and killing
your influences
Stay far away from the
writer’s retreats
writing groups
and MFA programs
they can only teach you
obedience and
false confidence
with the pen
Go out and allow yourself
to be beaten
with the 2 X 4
known as life
then crawl back in
and scratch out
one single line
before you pass out
Claw at the walls
of your room
until your fingernails
are gone and
the entire colony
of termites
in there stands still
in awe of your
perseverance
Write
Write
Write
Write
Write
Write
Write
Beg the Lord
not for money
or fame
or publication
or women
beg Him
for wonder
a precarious life
decent ink
After you have
done this
start over
If you make it to eighty
you may write
one poem
One
eternal
poem
That will start
and stop
wars
That will make
killers
weep
That will make
cowards
stand
That will make
the dead
shudder
That will make
the living
wake
That will make
Well, you’ve got the idea
Now go
and type
Photo | Candice Quates (her little HK)
24 responses so far ↓
1 Liz Strauss | 28 May 2007
Less than 80, Far Greater than 1
It takes the math
for words to sing
it takes the math
for music
yes.
and the heart
without heart
how flat
touch my heart
play to my head
too sharp, too piercing
bladelike screeching
fall flat, lay down dead.
it’s the math
the spaces
colors dancing
major and minor keys
not music, but feelings
reality
intentionality
hiding the elephant
revealing what’s not really
whispers
lies
truth
in between the thoughts
in between the breaths
in between you and me
I listen
a melody
where none is offered
I watch
a true story
that hasn’t happened
I feel
a voice touching . . .
a voice poetic
refusing the mathematics
. . . that less than 80
can be
far greater than one.
es 5/28/07
2 candice | 28 May 2007
These days she lives holstered and loaded, in an antique armoire drawer.
But I don’t have a poem to respond with, wow.
3 Alex | 30 May 2007
dig deep
then
dig deeper
then
dig deeper
then
keep digging
keep digging
keep digging
4 Robert Bruce | 4 Jun 2007
Liz, I don’t know how you do that, so fast, so good.
5 Robert Bruce | 4 Jun 2007
C - Holstered and ready, I assume. And wow is right…
6 Robert Bruce | 4 Jun 2007
Alex - Yes. Yes.
7 candice | 5 Jun 2007
one of the next few weekends I’m taking the permit class…
8 Mantooth | 7 Jun 2007
You raise an interesting point my friend.
I have chosen my tools. Bourbon. Guinness. Tempered with the occasinal pot roast for sentimental value. (the aroma alone makes me weep)
Ah yes, and Rage.
Rage at the cursor mocking me form the blank screen.
Rage at the voices that can only be heard through my effort.
Rage at the “haves” who want what’s mine.
Rage at the view of the Hotel Roosevelt from my living room.
Rage at the thought of giving in.
Damn I feel alive.
Yours,
Mantooth
9 J.W. | 8 Jun 2007
Upon whose breast lies the comfort of home?
Upon whose life bears the resemblance of faith?
Upon whose will does the river flow?
Upon whose conscience does time stop?
Stop for a second, reach deep into your soul and wonder
The river enters no tide, no crashing waves will be its home
Life’s breath echoes and falls, plummets into the darkness
In the breast’s cavity, a decade of dust coats its walls
And in these walls, a gentle heart breaks
A heart that has held the burden of which its denizens know not
A heap of broken memories lie below, settled in their misery
The organ beating in my chest comes to a stop once again
One more lonely piece floats delicately into its place
Scared and trembling it finds its home among the pile
One last glance at where it came from
One last hope that it will return
10 Andrew Eglinton | 12 Jun 2007
Robert,
It’s been quite a while. You have persevered in my absence. Respect to you my friend. I enjoyed this poem a lot. You have a distinctive style, I could safely say that this is a Robert Bruce. I envy that. Wrongly so. I should be encouraging. But what do I know?
I’ve had my share of theories on how to write, why to write, when to stop, when to give up. I’ve done the groups, the retreats the MFAs, but you’re right, it’s down to us. We make our choices alone. It’s paramount - it’s basic. As soon as we take heed to impress upon the rest a sense of glory and success, we sabotage our potential.
Some people might ask, so then who are you writing it for if not an audience, a publisher, an awarding body…I say we write for the earth. For the times it was all over. For a woman. A man. For our families. For our love and for our reason. For all the dead masters we’ve sat with for hours. For the fear and the future. For the music, the rhythm the tingles and highs. For us. For us. After all, it is we who ‘are perfect, not the next world’.
11 Wadd | 18 Jun 2007
Um…wow.
I think any of us who are artists in any sense (Poetry, paint, music, etc.) understand this one. Way to put it out there with a velvet sledge hammer Sir Robert!!
Please continue to practice your demons…
-W
12 Robert Bruce | 18 Jun 2007
Mantooth - It’s 8 am and now I’m thinking of potroast.
Thanks a lot.
13 Robert Bruce | 18 Jun 2007
J. W. - You need your own site man. Really.
14 Robert Bruce | 18 Jun 2007
Eglinton - Big compliment from across the pond. I’ll take that and allow myself to feel it through the morning.
Nice link, btw ;)
15 Robert Bruce | 18 Jun 2007
Wadd - Was there still some velvet on that thing? Got to take care of that, don’t want folks thinking I’ve gone soft….
;)
16 candice | 1 Jul 2007
oh, and I bought her a new friend, an eastern bloc that shoots 9mm makarov that fits in my purse.
17 Jacksta | 12 Jul 2007
“….known as life
then crawl back in
and scratch out
one single line”
beautiful
18 Link Karma | Copyblogger | 29 Jul 2007
[...] How to Write a Poem. [...]
19 Pete W | 30 Jul 2007
Sometimes
I wonder if
it’s really worth
the effort we put in
to try and seem
clever
…probably not
nevertheless
it’s an amusing
distraction
nice poem
kudos
20 PoeticIntensity | 30 Jul 2007
To write…
Feeling as though worthlessness is she who has found me…
The block of feeling sinks deeper into an endless ocean…
of creative decay.
Yes, to write is to live.
But to live defines my weakness
my misunderstanding
my inadequacy
my wretched mind
my life.
nevertheless!
to write…
..is to live…
…and I shall live.
21 TRU | 11 Sep 2007
When you look at me like that I can’t move or breathe.
When I look at you…
I wonder if you will disappoint me…
by not failing me.
When I look at me…
well, I just turn and walk away from both of us.
22 maryellen | 20 Sep 2007
at some point
though
its not a choice
it was born with you
in you
through you
and you have to let it out.
it’ll eat you up
otherwise.
no, life will eat you up
otherwise.
the art is what saves you.
23 Rita | 11 Apr 2008
Type a few words
Then hit delete
Type again
Then close the screen
Get a pad of paper
Scribble
Rip it into shreds
Throw your pen
To the wall
And hope it goes through
Try to get
Some fresh air
Walk it off
Get a cup of coffee
Turn on your iPod
Just forget it
Get mad
Scream
Do the math
Three hours
I’ll be ready
Two hours
I’ll hit send
Thirty minutes
I’ll be dead
Five seconds
I’ll live
Tell God that you
Don’t give a damn
Tell him
That he can shove it
What is inspiration?
A writer’s scam?
Do you need it?
No.
You need a break.
You need a shot
One
Poem
That’s all I need
One
Poem
Then
I can
Breath
Then
I can
Sleep
Again
Do it again.
Rita F. April 11, 2008
[[my teacher can shove it]]
24 Finding Creativity « Bachelor of Arts at Red Deer College | 30 Apr 2008
[...] Have a look at some of the poems by Robert Bruce on his site knifegunpen.com (especially How To Write A Poem). [...]
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