What makes me write is the rhythm of the world around me - the rhythms of the language, of course, but also of the land, the wind, the sky, other lives. Before the words comes the rhythm - that seems to me to be of the essence.
Interpretation
The quote emphasizes the importance of the natural world's rhythm in inspiring creativity and expression.
John Burnside illustrates that the act of writing is not solely about the words themselves, but rather the underlying rhythms that permeate life and the environment. He suggests that language is influenced by the sensations and movements of the world—nature, other individuals, and the ambiance that surrounds us—highlighting the interconnectedness of experience and artistic expression.
In practice
In a poetry workshop, one could use this quote to explain how our surroundings influence our creative writing.
Every bit of me is devoted to love and art. And I aspire to try to be a teacher to my young fans who feel just like I felt when I was younger. I just felt like a freak. I guess what I'm trying to say is I'm trying to liberate them, I want to free them of their fears and make them feel that they can make their own space in the world.
I'm a brown girl from a Punjabi pind raised in Toronto. I don't expect literary critics and purists to understand the nuances of my experiences, and the experiences of the people around me... And my tradition holds that there is a magic in the written word. So how I write, what I write of, and why I write all comes naturally.
Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.
Today's photographers think differently. Many can't see real light anymore. They think only in terms of strobe - sure, it all looks beautiful but it's not really seeing. If you have the eyes to see it, the nuances of light are already there on the subject's face. If your thinking is confined to strobe light sources, your palette becomes very mean - which is the reason I photograph only in available light.
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of the night.
Beauty is something wonderful and strange that the artist fashions out of the chaos of the world in the torment of his soul.
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