CHRYSALIS NOTES I was asked recently how I composed a poem: did I just let it all flow out?; Did I revise the result? Did I plan [as in a flow-chart] the outline first? Did I follow any traditional model? Since I did none of those things, I was at a bit of a loss. My poems sort of grow they are truly organic. Thus began a search for a metaphor, a starting point. I tried the idea of a piece of grit persuading the tender oyster tissues to wrap layer upon nacreous layer to produce a pearl. But that seemed somewhat pretentious and didnt take account of the fact that some of the process is visible. Growing crystals didnt work either because the process is not so mechanical. The concept of the chrysalis is the nearest I can get: the internal re-distribution and re-assembly of cells of the larva within the chrysalis is similar to the mix of private images [not necessarily verbal and acessible only to me] and ordinary public language which I perceive [somehow] within the structure of the growing poem. The chrysalis case reflects the overall shape of the adult being produced within: likewise I am aware of the general shape of the developing poem, but not necessarily the details. So, for what its worth, this is what grew this time. CORTICAL CHRYSALIS His embarrassment is clear indicated by a sideways shuffle on the seat and a scratching finger abrading an itchless spot just right of the bridge of his nose. He coughs, clears a non-existent blockage from his larynx, and requests a repetition of the . O come now! This is simply silly, a deplorable terpsichorean ploy. Its me Im talking about - so change those hes to Is. Ill come clean, truly I will. I agree Ive procrastinated, prevaricated and postponed my response to the question posed. And youre right even this prodigious alliterative downpour is just another way to pass the parcel. Since theres nobody in this ring but me Ill strip the clinging layers one by one cut the final knotted cord and answer you. The question you pose: how I compose my party pieces and pen my paltry poems, salty tales or plain-writ lines. So close your eyes, my precious, fluff the cushions, recline, open ears and mind, and visualise. Imagine, if you will, a scattered clump of plump industrious caterpillars hump-stumping through the ganglionic cortical maze, nose-nudging a relectant neurone here, sparking a sluggish synapse there; a herd of diligent neurotransmitters winkling out wedges of memory, slivers of speech and great drifts of discussion and debate. You can trace their silken tracks with ease, estimate their direction, describe the lucid structure of every unremarkable linguistic task. Imagine further, as you must, a sudden interruption to this cosy round which sends one such sorry caterpillar all of scurry to find a comfy corner, spin a silvered net to catch itself, attach itself and palpitate alone. Look carefully and youll remark an unexpected hardening of soft skin turned architectural, translucent, crystalline. Within you see in glimpses the roiling moil of mixed and molten images a semiotic stew of private symbols, public signs and, every now and then, a word or two you understand. If youre very careful, and you bide your time, you may slip inside a simile or two or mix a metaphor within the brew. And all this time the exoskelton takes the strain, tectonic distortions on a micro scale, and shows some semblance of the life within and, more important, of the life to be. The shifting drifting reconstructions rumble on until a sudden seismic shudder shakes the case, a crack appears, gapes and gives release to green full-grown imago, wet and trembling on the very verge of flight. In the sunlight, wings full spread, the butterfly takes the air: and I can pin and pen the fulgent new-born words upon the pristine page.