Connections Between Art and The "Real" World

I was skipping through the rosy pink world of the blogosphere (cough) when I ran across this request on Michael Spenser's blog, internetmonk.com. The post is called Blogs I’d Like to Read (or How To Perk Up A Boring Blogosphere)

I’d like to read blogs by artists discussing the artistic process, particularly writing poetry, acting and film-making. I’d enjoy hearing about the connections between art and real life. I don’t want to read technical, insider geek info. I want to understand the moments of insight and inspiration; what draws us to create in the first place.

I fit into the poetry writing category----and, well, writing every else, as well.

One particular statement caught my eye.

I’d enjoy hearing about the connections between art and real life.

I'm not sure how to get this across, so I'll put it bluntly; art is real life. Writing is not automatic, such as breathing, but it is as "real life" as using a hammer. But, I will try to oblige with a personal anecdote as to how those worlds intersect.

Real world: I am sitting in church. I am not listening to the sermon. In fact, I am, but trying to block it out. I am more interested in the swift snowfall outside. Finally, frustrated by what I do hear, I stop pretending to take sermon notes. The poem begins.

The Art---the poem that results.

God shudders with anticipations
as he pulls on his boots.
Ready to roam, explore the old
stomping grounds. Earth, freshly
spiced with snow,
settles into winter rhythm.
He tramples through drifts up to his knees
and his hair glitters
with snow; snow softening into water beads
as he sits down by the fire and
tugs off his boots and then settles back:
satisfied, drunk on weariness, winter-wine
running through his veins.
Yes, winter, beautiful, very beautiful.
It’s lovely to be alive
while everyone is asleep, sleeping
peaceful---sleep peacefully, my loves.


Now, this poem stems from my very real frustration with distant and fuzzy pictures of God and my personal interest in the snow. In the real world, does God wear boots and trample through snow drifts? Well, I might make a case that Jesus wore boots...anyway.... The art lies in the form. The real world seems absent, but it provided the foundation for the entire poem.

I almost think that the worst poetry results from when someone sits down and decides to write a poem. Cold. Starting with no idea, other than to "write a poem." It's a good exercise, and some people use it successfully, but if you have no ideas, you'll end up writing a revved version of roses are red, violets are blue.

I'll probably address his statement further, but I am attempting to avoid longer posts...bad habit.

Signing off.