Last weekend, a series of interlocked poems came to me in my sleep. I wrote all nine parts in a single day, and the experience was more like transcription than creation. To give you a sense of the scale, I tend to finish no more than one poem a week – and this was nine in less than eight hours.
I’m calling the work The Book of Crow, and I owe huge amounts of inspiration to Ted Hughes, Edgar Allen Poe, and Max Porter, all of whom have shared their visits with Crow. The poems themselves took on the nature of the titular presence, hoarding shiny words as they occurred: overcrow was a typo, while “okie-doke” and “grieves” were overheard and were incorporated in the word-nest. The series begins with a nursery rhyme I heard children singing in my dream. For whatever reason, I can’t get the word “medieval” out of my mind in connection with the rhyme, although I know of know historical precedent for it. Refrains and phrases from this starting point blend, reflect, and intermix throughout the rest of the poems. I considered publishing the poems one at a time, but like a murder of crows, each poem is cawing at the others; they should be experienced as a collective. Look for it here next Saturday!
Oh, and this one is certainly more Ceridwen’s than mine.