I am from the Adirondacks of New York state and have lived here very nearly all my life. That environment probably shapes my writing experience as much as my Catholic faith and outlook.
Have any specific authors or poets been an inspiration to you? If so, which ones?
As for poets who have influenced me, my appreciation of known poets came after I had been writing for a few years. John Keats was briefly an influence, and WB Yeats and more recently Matthew Arnold. In truth, I don't spend much time reading poetry. Truthfully, I am more influenced by classical music in my emotional and formal approach to writing poetry. In finding the more well known poets however, form as such, did seem to become more of a priority to me, although I can't say that any particular poet has influenced that form which is mine.
What kind of things inspire your poetry?
Music, any music, perhaps more than any other creative external factor, inspires my poetry. Current events however, my Catholic faith, and people that I encounter, images I might encounter, also fuel my creative poetic imagination. I have found that the most random and unexpected events can inspire poetry and often produce the best results. As a rule, almost anything can inspire a poem.
What is your writing process like?
I have no set process for writing my poems. Sometimes I start on paper and then go to the computer for a deeper composition and correction of form and length. Other times, and more often these days, I write when the mood is encountered while at work on my computer. Evenings at sundown and night time are probably the best times for my own writing.
If you could meet one writer, living or dead, who would it be?
I wouldn't say that there is any poet that I would like to meet in person. I'd probably rather meet someone like Hilary Hahn whose commitment to her musical craft is an inspiration. Again, music is really more of an influence on my poems, particularly English composers of the late Romantic tradition, pastoral music of the British countryside, such as that of Ralph Vaughan Williams. Emotion does play some part in my poetry, but I prefer to use my poetry as a lens through which others can see the world as I see the world.
What emotionally 'moves' you? Do you incorporate your emotions into your writing?
Many of my poems, while not autobiographical, are of first person witness and empathy with the world around me and its occupants. A beautiful face, a beautiful melody or some image in nature, or reaction to a real event, are all things which can in a moment cause me to write a poem. I try to avoid first person personal pronouns and leaving my emotional baggage on the page.
What kind of hobbies other than writing do you have?
As per writing as a hobby, I'm not even I would qualify writing poetry as a hobby, rather more of a creative requirement of my existence I should say. I have always had a need to create physically, whether that be paintings, photographs, playing music, or writing poetry. These days poetry is my primary mode of creative expression and can be found on the web at The Woodland Realm: http://brianfrancishudon.blogspot.com/
By Brian Hudon
Stranger of the song, stranger of the night,
you play by the stars and play for the season.
You play with the heart in its lonely plight,
for sound and for love and an ancient score.
I listen for music and I listen for a reason,
I listen for beauty and for something more.
The green of spring is for our telling a tale,
the warmth of wind, the warmth of the sun.
Like gold in water are reflections and pale,
under a sky listening, where tears would fall.
Ringing through the trees a sound is begun,
a ghost of wood and ghost of strangers tall.
Beauty as the dusk, as beauty of the dawn,
your bow is rich speaking to men of silence.
Your strings are bright and as arrows drawn,
to bring souls alive with hopes believed few.
Like waters falling are thoughts in alliance,
where unto the cool of earth gives life anew.
Stranger of the seas, stranger of the wood,
our skies are trembling and leaves are falling.
You played in the storm and yet withstood,
for another day so soon to quietly withdraw.
Yet unlike the leaves our memory remains,
remains and grows to warm the winter thaw.