becoming

year of the poem – action

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Hot on the heels of the revelation that the year of the poem arrived of its own accord (‘thoughts‘) was the impetus to take immediate action.

So I did:

* I researched a poetry course
* I asked for poetry course tutor recommendations
* I rang up the poetry centre
* I booked a poetry place
* I ordered the poetry books of the poetry tutors

My lurking fear of my poems being annihilated by the glare of flesh and  blood onlookers seems to have lurked its final lurk.

I may say that this is in no small part due to you, readers of extraplorer, who have performed a fairy godmother-like ting of wand onto my poetry, turning it from ether to real by the mere click of your ‘like’ button.

Thank you.

(The poetry course is not for a few months so I am excited to see what unfolds in the ‘year of the poem’s adventures in the meantime.)

 

inside out

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I sat at the long table the other day
under a window that spewed sunlight
onto me, and onto my chair.
Sat with the same old brand-new
journal
in the same old stance
at the same old beginning of
the new year.

The customary pen
hovered quite
unexpectedly,
did not pick up the
thread, turned back
to me pointing
questions.

Which I could not
answer straight away,
which I had seen flit by,
but they had been
minding their own business.
Now they looked me in
the eye.

Reached inside and pulled.

My feet left
the ground,
somersault in
existential wonder,
zero gravity,
disintegration and
very me,
distilled,
substantial,
astonished,
delighted, dizzy
with relief and marvelling;
a new-born truth:

I have become her.

I had no idea
it was even possible.

year of the poem – thoughts

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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

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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.

 

I cannot face the hopeful girl

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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.