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portrait – writers

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Fourteen writers,
heads bent, pens
scratching, grey hair,
blond, dyed (mine, that is),
imaginations aflutter, fleeting
competition resolutely pushed
aside. Faint mewing outside
‘shut up, Ted’.  Is our four
minutes up yet, we thought,
breathless.

Note: This poem is from the ‘poetry retreat series’.  We read ‘The Bean Eaters’ by Gwendolyn Brooks, noted the Van Gogh-like style and tone, and were asked to writer our own painting-poems in four and a half minutes.  As my first attempt ‘portrait‘ took only one and half minutes, I spent another two on this.

portrait

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one child much smaller,
party skirt, top with
‘3’ and dried tomato
sauce (is it?) lags
lags behind, pulls
herself up, tries
to follow, eek, slips.
She is no match for her
brother (batman outfit  –
probably pyjamas) and his
new shoes.

Note: This is from the ‘poetry retreat’ series.  As our first exercise we read ‘Subject Matter’ by W. Hart-Smith and were asked to write poem that paints a picture in four an a half minutes (this took one and a half, I think). 

extraplorer on tour

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I’m back!

OK so the ‘year of the poem’ has not turned out exactly as envisaged in my January posts.  The year of the poem turned, quite quickly, into the year of hardly any poem at all.

Until now.

After months of almost continuous business work and travel, devoid not only of any written down poems, but of any poetic moments at all (maybe they were there, but so fleeting that they escaped before I even had a chance to notice), I am on a poetry course.  Four whole days of thinking and writing about poems.

So I thought you might like to join back on the adventure of extraploring…

To get us started, last night we did a welcome unlike any I’ve attended on a course (this is my first ever poetry course).  We didn’t ‘go round the table and say our names’, no, too prosaic by far, we went round and said our favourite words.

I was in immediate and total bliss: ‘swipe’, ‘splash’, ‘twilight’, ‘botch’, ‘gossamer’, dollop’, ‘interstices’, ‘lime’, ‘splendid’.  A (to be honest) motley collection of us all suddenly united under the banner of ‘I love words’.

And then… well, I will keep you posted with our exercises and writing and you can see how we get on.  One thing to note: This is an ‘editing poetry’ course so some of the questions I have sometimes asked might get answered here.

Wish me luck!

 

 

And if I loved forty

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And if I loved forty,
it would be for the sweet joy
of confidence in a room.

And if I loved forty,
it would be that I
knew my place
– inside out.

And if I loved forty,
it would find me able
to sit awhile with someone sad
and mourn.

And if I loved forty,
it would be to see dear friends children
grow old enough to make me
a cup of tea.

And if I loved forty,
I would embrace quiet,
evenings by myself
a blessing of solitude.

And if I loved forty,
it would be for long views still
of growing, and of grandeur.

And if I loved forty,
it would be for patience,
and for knowing
that all things are made new.

And if I loved forty,
my friends too would be
grown and worn into
comfortable grooves of
loving kindness.

And if I loved forty,
I would be wise.

all kinds of twilight

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A moment in the lit night
Appliances hold their breath
while order turns the house
inside out.

Dying, toes in heaven,
whispered conversation
trust eternal trust
and a fleeting goodbye.

Just-born tiny being
paused a long moment
silently sleeping –
were you even there? –
the ward’s time teetered.

6am on Christmas morning,
we played outside the door
to bliss, unheated in a cold
December grey.  You didn’t need
a jumper.

A glance and moment’s wonder
forty years light-sped
into a pause, fleeting,
richly full and awkward in
pregnant expectation.

Long silhouettes spear
dazzling sun.  Lunchtime
crowds turn mysterious
My city is haunted.

All kinds of twilight.