year of the poem – thoughts

~ extraplorer ~ 1 Comment

Having christened 2016 the year of the poem, I have been continuing to ponder the actions that will honour the name. How can I weave a path that eschews the rigidity of pre-planned milestones and preempts the risk of listlessness?

A living structure is starting to emerge.

It turns out that somewhere in me, a poetic year is unfurling itself. I want to talk about poetry, I want to ask people about poems, I want to explore poem things. The year of the poem is on its way seemingly of its own accord. Milestones even as an idea are already redundant and floaty listlessness seems remote as the momentum gathers itself.

While it is still early in the year, I am coming to understand that the year of the poem declared itself. It was going to happen and I merely announced its arrival.

So instead of worrying about the year of the poem becoming a place of constraint, or requiring a battle of wills (‘the year of the poem‘), or a list of ‘poetry resvolutions‘, I discover a curious peace, requiring nothing more than my own love and attention.

Some more small notes:

* An interesting question occurred to me:  What if my mother (and fan of extraplorer) was not complimentary about my writing merely from motherly duty, but because she –  an adult woman lover of literature in her own right – really saw a gift?

* What if I was not excited about my own poetry merely because I love myself (ego, ha!) but because I could recognise something good there?

I do not usually think of myself as someone who is unduly self-critical, but as I give myself a little shake, I notice the dust of a million tiny arguments belittling my writing drifting away from me.

all your silence

~ extraplorer ~ Leave a comment

I am sitting
in all your silence.
Who knows
if it is the silence
of neglect,
or instead of deep
processing of
all our questions.
Who knows, indeed,
if it is the silence
of busyness,
or of distraction;
internet gaming and
endless repeats.

It is a choice,
I know,
to sit in
all this endlessness.
I could turn my back
and the silence
to you.
Leave you alone
instead.

Some inner
music,
that even I
cannot hear,
holds me back
from turning.
A music playing
silently,
to which I listen,
which I obey.

And so I sit around
in all our
endless silence.

A calm descends.

It is out of my
hands now.

 

ode to a bobble hat

~ extraplorer ~ Leave a comment

There’s a bobble
kind of wobble
to the walker
on the cobbles.

If you oggle
at a bobble,
it will never
be a gobble.

Not a woggle
nor a goggle,
not mistaken
for a toggle.

There’s a wobble
to a bobble
that can only
be a bobble.

Not a giggle,
nor a wiggle,
and not a hint
of wibble.

There’s a wobble
to a bobble
that can only
be a bobble.

If you snog-gle,
if you snuggle,
you will never
feel a tuggle.

There’s a wobble
to a bobble
that can only
be a bobble.

the year of the poem

~ extraplorer ~ 2 Comments

Almost the minute I pressed ‘publish’ on the post discussing ‘poetry resvolutions‘, I felt the sick feeling of having overcommitted myself instead of maintaining a ‘free spirit’ feeling about the year.  Why make something  a ‘project’ that is perfectly happy being a joy?  Why imprison something fleeting and mysterious in a cage of expectation?  I contemplated deleting the post, liberating myself from my own too-quickly imposed concept.

Well, I haven’t taken the post down yet.  Instead, I decided that I will be in charge of what the ‘year of the poem’ means to me, and it will certainly not involve anything that compromises joy.

The idea of the ‘year of the poem’ is to be an enabler, a permission giver.  By orientating my attitude toward poetry, I make it more likely that I will devote space in my life to poems, words, silence, story, experience, contemplation.  These things bring some of the deepest joy I experience in myself, a different joy to the joy I experience in the presence of other people, a very valid and precious happiness of my own.  I know from my observations so far that space for poetry is the quickest to disappear and the slowest to return. It is easily overwhelmed by to-do lists, travel, chores, demands and needs. While I don’t want to slip into a battle metaphor I do want to be alert to everything I can do to create a little space for poetry whenever it wants.

Like a pet, maybe!

(I am now completely distracted by the idea of poetry as a pet, and a thousand thought avenues of pondering whether this is a good or bad metaphor for poetry itself.)

Come back, come back!

I’m still not quite ready to make resvolutions (maybe I will put a question mark in the post title to let myself off that hook), but I can report that I have so far found two possibilities – a WordPress poetry boot camp in April, and a series of residential poetry courses.  I have asked my poet friend to recommend which of these he thinks would be the best for me.

Two small notes:

* A friend sent a message to say that they wish for a poem to be published in 2016.  Thank you!

* I read a poem which included the line ‘you are truly the poetry of God’ – a phrase of such power I had to put the book down. What could that possibly mean for my life? For all our lives?

So I think these things are the kinds of things that the year of the poem means, and I will try to be open to new ones and to growing and to what is still unknown…

 

I cannot face the hopeful girl

~ extraplorer ~ Leave a comment

I cannot face the hopeful girl,
not tonight.
I’m OK sitting
in the firelight
that burns.

She knocks,
hopefully, and with some
restraint
on a door wedged in now
by damp, and rain.

I could get up
and welcome her
but I sit still longer,
safe with my
weary despair
well worn as
old slippers.

I can hear the rain
beating down
on her, feel her
presence flattened
for protection
against the wall,
or window, even
(the blinds are down)

Dare she knock again?
I wonder, not knowing
what I wish for,
on red-alert,
but poised to
dive for cover.

Inertia reigns.
What if she tries
another door,
gains welcome there,
instead? An
inner shriek
runs through me
at the thought
but still I sit.

‘Get up!’ rings
all around me,
a ghost chorus,
infiltrates the wild wind,
real, but powerless
to move my arms
and legs.

‘Wait!’ I call out,
barely,
and hope she will.