Poetic Reflections: inspiration’s perspiration

Yes, you read correctly. This is about perspiration. But not just any perspiration. No, no. The stuff of inspiration. More to my point, the sweat of inspiration. I’m not talking about sweaty armpits. I refer instead to the beaded brow of an artist slaving feverishly to convey the resplendent vision of an illuminated mind struck by . . . you guessed it . . . inspiration.

I am going to be uncharacteristically redundant, so please bear with me.

I tend to find inspiration in the oddest places: looking at the wall; washing dishes; listening to static; hearing bumps in the night; taking my sense of humor seriously; tuning out reality; watching dust float; resting my eyes; twiddling my thumbs; thinking idle thoughts; staring into space at my desk or actually anywhere; ignoring a mysterious creak; playing with my Poe, Dickens and Shakespeare action figures; walking the dog (if I had one); pretending I’m meditating; remembering to breathe (I tend to forget); procrastinating; remembering to drink water (I tend to forget that too); failing to stay focused while watching a movie or show, or when someone is talking; perhaps focusing on the fact that I need to come up with an idea on one of the occasional occasions when I have not been hit by a deluge of them like falling stars.

It isn’t Rocket Science. It isn’t an exact science, yet Science may creep into the vapor-spewing formula.

Neither is it brainstorming, barnstorming, even rain storming. Although I find rain to be the very best of inspirations.

And then again, the creative trigger, that elusive lightbulb switch, could be the sound of a chainsaw. A blade being sharpened. The wind howling my name. Crickets chirping. A siren. My ears ringing like a siren. The drone of a fly in my ear. Or a disturbing mental note.

My brain is a somewhat goopy glurpish bog in which there is much bubbling and churning going on, kind of like a volcano with indigestion that is never satisfied by the sacrificial offerings shoved into it.

Now that I have painted you a pretty picture, I will go on to say that an overactive imagination — like a volcano — can be inspired by just about anything. Or nothing. Nothing at all. At least mine can. It’s funny that way. I might feed it a steady diet of the macabre or unleash it to roam freely across eclectic pastures, down teeming lanes and boulevards, through stupendous natural splendors. And then again I might just sit in a corner pondering my inner sanctumonious periphery, head spinning like a carousel of leaping monsters, wrapped in a cloak of introspection. Sometimes it’s best to contain the delirium, confine the madness, keep it safely locked inside.

I believe inspiration to be a sacred thing. You cannot go back and erase or revise it if you have cause for regrets. Random or otherwise, an inspiration can nag and distract you. It can also vex and disappoint you . . . whether an author of fiction or nonfiction; a graphic artist, painter, sculptor, poet or songwriter. Yet it is there, or it was at the precise magical moment of conceivery; thus it becomes a part of you in that sense. It becomes a landmark along your path — the journey of an artistic soul. (Or, with me, a demented one.)

Now and again I have created verse and prose from a single word or title that popped into my head. I have also crafted poetry inspired by famous persons, a photograph, the painting “American Gothic”. I have composed pieces based on a specific poetic form, as well as in collaboration. Most of the time I give birth to poems that come from within and loosely or distinctly fit a certain topic. Likewise, I have written stories for anthologies and a novel for a contest incorporating a simple basic theme.

Inspiration can be a delicate balance. We are always influenced, however subliminally, by experience and the world around us. That is an integral part of the creative process. But to tell the truth, when writing fictional prose I prefer to maintain an isolated rather insulated perspective and do my own thing. Pull ideas out of my own hat. I love reading yet am reluctant to read the work of others when I am working on a story or novel, particularly something of a similar genre. It conflicts. I can do something else — watch a movie, listen to music, play cards or a boardgame.

Reading inspires me. It makes me want to write. I usually don’t need inspiration for that. And there are so many ideas floating around these days, it can be overwhelming. Daunting. Authors at any level face more competition than ever before, and it is a staggering feat to stand out and be noticed. I think the best way of doing this is by doing our own thing, not somebody else’s. That’s what makes us special.

I strive for originality as much as possible. Life may filter into what I write, but I prefer to maintain the integrity of my ideas and respect the ideas of others. Not everyone will appreciate my efforts to be different, let alone the preoccupation with balance and flow, my unconventional language and obsessive need to avoid unnecessary redundancies. Love or hate it, my voice is my voice; my style is uniquely mine, and I won’t change it because somebody else thinks I should. (It happens.) And then there is the fear of being copied before even becoming known.

That said, creativity must embrace a wealth of ideas and passions to remain creative. Just as the enraptured toils of talent are never misspent. Labors of love endure, a permanent thing removed from any source. The world of art is connected and held together by the invisible threads of those who inspire us. We can all inspire each other, which is a beautiful thing.

I present three poems that were conjured after viewing an artist’s paintings, in addition to a piece about meeting an actress, a spoof of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, and verse inspired by “inspiration” itself. I hope you will enjoy these perspirations.