Maturity

Maturity, more abstracted, more surreal. As the poet matures, perhaps in years, perhaps experience, perhaps expression, so does the poetry. I think this is true of many a writer – poet or novelist, unless their debut is dazzling. I think this is true of many a person, unless what they see and learn of the world stalls them; keeps them locked in place or makes them retreat.
Where it's written, I prefer the more anguished early years; later it's more hidden, cloaked in metaphors. Youth have that freedom; adults must resist it, not speak of it, and not write openly of it. For, angst should have disappeared, as years were gained, as the adult face emerged, beneath the youthful one.

Picture credit: The Poet, 1911, Pablo Picasso (source: The Solomon R. Guggenheim Foundation, Peggy Guggenheim Collection, Venice; Wikipedia).

From journal, September 2021.

Minor

A minor role. A minor song. Minor, not in age but in experience and feeling. A minor woman. A minor human.
A woman, withering, with melancholy eyes. The bloom not quite gone, but beginning to decay. Silver strands; unfading lines. Time, marks her. And marks, too, the mind.
What has life given her? Memory; and childhood imagery. Of sea, as Lorca describes, with 'teeth of foam, lips of sky'. Dreams, with spiders of oblivion, spinning thread. And song, their ancient words still recalled; their melodies hummed.
Life gave, then took. And ceased to give; whilst others continued to live; and grow in ways expected.
The adult, half-crossed out, has no story; only a minor role, a minor song.

Picture credit: Testimony of a Minor, Honore Daumier (source: WikiArt)

See From Book of Poems in Selected Poems by Federico García Lorca (Oxford World's Classics, translation by Martin Sorrell).

Written August 2021.

Framework

The framework on which a novel rests or is supported, its structure perhaps strong in some places and weak in others. The sequencing of events is good, keeps the inquisitive novel-reader hooked, but less so the intelligent, for being devoid of plot there is no plot to thicken. Or the why? is there, but the sequencing is a shambles, leaving both the inquisitive and the intelligent novel-reader confused as to what is happening generally or even who characters are and which of them the story or plot ultimately depends upon or revolves around. Who is flat and who is round? if we wish to critique in E. M. Forster's terms. And yet it could be that the characters themselves, minor or major, are the weakest part of the structure, and fail to act as directed by the writer or in some instances to act at all. The writer has lost control of his cast!
Examples! demand the audience, to which the speaker responds: I speak in general, not of particulars, for how dreary it would be to spend the evening comparing one author with another. Each of you – if you are really readers, or scholars – will know of novel people or passages to which you can refer (and refer others) to as flawed, though you will have to admit there must be some allowance for taste. By which I mean some flaws, if there, can be overlooked, certainly if the writing is good or if the rest of the structure is, for the most part, sound. Novel-readers, inquisitive or intelligent, never agree, you know...
The speaker breaks off to clear his throat and sips from a glass of water. And here too we will leave him, for his lecture, like the novel as it nears its end, shows signs of decay; it will either be too neat and formulaic, culminating in marriage or death, or so messy that one might ask: 'What was that about?' And the writer, in this most trying of circumstances, for her creation is no E. M. Forster, does not wish to observe her creation flounder, as is bound to happen, his left hand is already in his jacket pocket feeling for the crumpled handkerchief to wipe his brow, for it's hot in the hall, under the spotlights, and the audience are not, as he anticipated, sitting in appreciative silence; they are disconcertingly muttering amongst themselves.
And then? No; we shall leave.
Why? Because like some dramas put on the stage or small screen, what should have been strong is weak.

Picture credit:  Who, What, 2006, Alexsandr Borodin (source: WikiArt).

See Aspects of the Novel by E.M. Forster

Journal entry, August 2021.