Life, art and poetry need both patterns and surprise

All poems need both patterns and surprise: so I was told by a wonderful poet-professor long ago. Getting the balance has always been the challenge. Too much pattern and you get doggerel, so people snicker or nod off. Too much surprise and you get chaos.

That’s oversimplifying, of course. A super-gifted poet can smash the rules and often sails deliciously close to the border. Heavy patterns of rhythm and rhyme were perfect for Dorothy Parker and Spike Milligan, and nowadays slam poets use both for different effects. Bill Manhire hits us in the solar plexus with his humble (super-sophisticated) patterns. On the other hand, some great poets do chaos on purpose and that gets exciting. (I can’t think of one right now.) I tip my hat to them.

The same is true for all the arts, and for our personal lives. And as you age and life changes, it’s good to check the balance between order and chaos in your life. Is your life too boring or just nice and safe? Do you need more adventure, do you need a shock to the system? Do you need to tweak the balance between pattern and surprise?

Morning scribble: a surprise every day

I often do a morning scribble. It takes seconds, not minutes. Doing the scribble is a pattern, but the result is always a surprise. I look at today’s scribble and see a pattern — the curves, the pencil lines. In the “subject” (there is none, but humans hunt for one) I find surprises — Is that a flower? If so is that a stalk or a waterfall or a ponytail?

Today in Aotearoa New Zealand it’s National Poetry Day. I’m going down the road to an event at Undercurrent bookshop. Nice title: Love: Tried, True and Toxic. Meantime, here’s my own contribution.

Patterns and Surprise: a poem

Poets love patterns and surprise
and I get both each morning
a routine and a shock.
I wake at six and think some thoughts
excitement rising all the while—
I woke up! I get to live another day!—
and meditate and feed the cat.
I celebrate schedules and rituals
and habits and models and clocks.
Outside now in my bare feet
under a sky that’s a child with a secret
that won’t be a secret for long
I do t’ai chi in the same old place
in a world that is new every day
(is it frosty is it misty is it rainy is it fine?
Am I in South Georgia or Geneva or Fiji?)
Surprise! Surprise! It’s a brand new day.
And when I’m finished I swallow the sky
and I say, “Good morning world.
I am still with you”
or “Thank you for having me”
or “What can I do for you today?”