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Waiting

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I am waiting
for spring to emerge
from the pavement
laid for
work, business, invoicing,
fee discussions and
constant demand.

I am waiting
for cracks to widen
suddenly and maybe
even causing
horror filled with wonder
as I fall in-
side out.

I am waiting
for you and for them,
and for looking back
bewildered on
the past order,
full of tired and
worn-in happiness.

Note: This poem is from the ‘poetry retreat series’.  We read ‘I am Waiting’ by Lawrence Ferlinghetti and were asked to write a poem in six minutes about something we were waiting for. This is unfinished and I would like to go back to it and bring the image of ‘breaking through’ into greater clarity and power.

writing to order and other new things

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So it’s been very interesting to be on a poetry course.  Spending time formally considering my own creative writing makes me realise that the last time I did this was when I was about thirteen years old, in English class, before everything turned into A-level essays on this and undergraduate degree studies on that.

Things I have done today that I have not done in the last twenty-seven years:

  1. Write a poem to order.  Here’s a poem about waiting.  Now you write a poem about waiting (here is ‘Waiting‘, unfinished)
  2. Read my own poem out loud to other people.
  3. Read my own poem out loud to a tutor and receive feedback.
  4. Have other known people (than my mum) take my poetry seriously.
  5. Listened to other people read their own creative work aloud to me.

The morning made me feel intensely passionate and vulnerable and dishevelled and lagging behind and out in front and questioning and excited.

Writing to order made me trip over words, try to be too clever, hit on a line of beauty, tumble over a cliché and want to go into hiding, and to come out of hiding.

Listening to others made me in awe, moved, wry, patient and outraged.

I have rarely had this many feelings in such a short space of time.

High point of the day so far:  A real poet said my  ‘wild night run‘ poem was ‘lovely’.  And she gave me some very interesting feedback about how to make it stronger, which I will work on in due course.

I am tired!

Now I must go and get some poems ready to read aloud later on.

Thank you for your encouragement!

 

washed up

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She set sail
for distant shores
from home.
She stayed indoors.

And all the world
unfurled in that
small hand and
took shape as
large as life could be.

Her poetry, afire
set out to sea.
Glass bottled
tears adrift on
waves of time.

And laughter too,
And beauty, loss
and tiny sparks
of tender feeling
rolled up and tied

with lines of pen
and ink
bobbed as currents
pushed it to and fro

and so to me, in
my small hand,
a visitor on distant
shores where she
would never tread.

Where Emily would
never go, her
poems went
instead.

 

 

 

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.