MAKING OF A POEM
297
does not matter whether genius devotes a lifetime to producing a small
result
if
that result be immortal. The difference between two types
of genius
is
that one type (the Mozartian) is able to plunge the
greatest depths of his own experience by the tremendous effort of a
moment, the other (the Beethovenian) must dig deeper and deeper
into
his
consciousness, layer by layer. What counts ip either case is the
vision which sees and pursues and attains the end; the logic of the
artistic purpose.
A poet may be divinely gifted with a lucid and intense and pur–
posive intellect; he may be clumsy and slow; that does not matter,
what matters is integrity of purpose and the ability to maintain the
purpose without losing oneself. Myself, I am scarcely capable of
im–
mediate concentration in poetry. My mind is not clear, my will is
weak, I suffer from an excess of ideas and a weak"sense of form. For
every poem that I begin to write, I
think
of at least ten which I do
not write down at all. For every poem which I do write down, there
are seven or eight which I never complete.
The method which I adopt therefore is to write down as many
ideas as possible, in however rough a form, in note books (I have
at least twenty of these, on a shelf beside my desk, going back over
fifteen years). I then make use of some of the sketches and discard
others.
The best way of explaining how I develop the rough ideas which
I use, is to take an example. Here is a Notebook begun in 1944. About
a hundred pages of it are covered with writing, and from this have
emerged about six poems. Each idea, when it first occurs is given a
number. Sometimes the ideas do not get beyond one line. For example
No. 3 (never developed) is the one line:-
A language of flesh and roses.
I shall return to this line in a few pages, when I speak of inspiration.
For the moment, I tum to No. 13, because here is an idea which has
been developed to its conclusion. The first sketch begins thus:-
a)
There are some days when the sea lies like a harp
Stretched flat beneath the cliffs. The waves
Like wires burn with the sun's copper glow
[all the murmuring blue
every silent]
Between whose spaces every image
Of sky
[field and]
hedge and field and boat
