Lately, I have been struggling to write a certain poem because it makes me feel socially and morally uncomfortable. These feelings are strong enough to inhibit progress.

The motivation I had for the poem was to juxtapose romantic and modern language. The idea was to splice two poems together, alternating the two styles line by line and producing a contrast due solely to our partisan interpretation rather than an actual difference in meaning. When read alone, the romantic lines evoke something displaced but melodic and, therefore, inoffensive. Perhaps even something beautiful. The modern lines are meant to be a direct translation into an everyday and raw language that is purposefully shocking, aggressive and disturbing.

Although the whole point is to highlight the shifting sands of semantics (particularly in poetry), I feel more than a little blocked by wanting to associate myself with what I am writing. This raises the very murky but interesting question invariably aimed at any author: is all writing autobiographical? I think of truth as the seam of gold for any creative, but does it necessarily have to come from within, in the sense that the work is a manifestation of self? Is anything else merely make-believe in its most hollow sense?

I would like to think that we have the ability to transmit emotional and moral truth in the guise of many particular forms. We need to be careful not to misinterpret simply because of the form undertaken. Dreams are a great example of this. Quite often our most memorable dreams are the most baffling. This isn’t because they are irrelevant; quite the opposite. The strangeness of dreams is usually due to the strength of the emotions being subverted. Imagine being judged personally by a diary of your dreams… such is my quandary!

I think I will worryingly persist to the end and then share it privately to begin with to gauge a reaction. If people wonder what the fuss has been about then I’ll publish. If people are sickened by it and no longer want to have anything to do with me then I suppose the poem really works and I’ll also have to publish!

This month's favourites:
   M.I.A., Arular
   F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Collected Short Stories
   Yves Saint Laurent (2014)