writing

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 – diary

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Perhaps I already had an inkling about the year of the poem.  But I had forgotten all about it.  My sister-in-law hadn’t however, and among my lovely Christmas presents was a Faber and Faber Poetry diary.  This asked-for gift came into the category of things I absolutely did not need – I already had very serviceable book and iCalendar diaries after all – but had an instant on-sight irrational desire for.  I wanted to own a Poetry Diary even if I never even really looked at the poetry diary.  I wanted a Poetry Diary even if a real poet would never use such a self-conscious wannabe item.  I wanted a Poetry Diary because somehow it conferred on me a magical inclusion in the year of poetry doings and poetry imaginings that and things that are important to Poets.

Needless to state, such a wanted but not actually that useful item stayed in its bag until the 10th January.

But on Sunday, there was a moment of glimmering quiet when I felt like getting it out.  It turns out that I do have a use for a Poetry Diary, and I am using it to record my postings and ideas for things.  I do have a normal daily journal where I write down poem things, but if I finish the journal before I use the idea, it gets a bit lost.  In the Poetry Diary, I can record ideas as I have them, as they flit in and out, and then when I have forgotten how to write, I can flick through and stir them all back up into a flutter.

And I can record mini milestones – ‘most likes ever; 18’ – and overlook poems that turn to blog dust – [no likes whatsoever, not even accidentally] – but see a developing journey that helps me recall that I am on my way to somewhere, and coming from somewhere and although it is a vast unknown, there is a little thread of titles and ideas and thoughts that is held in place neatly by days and weeks and months, and I can ponder the mysterious and beguiling thought that the diary has gone ahead of me…

And then, when I look at the diary’s other pages, I am immersed in the evidence of a quiet hum of poetry across time and space, inhabiting the hearts of those who sit quietly and allow the deepest realities to surface, or who catch joyful moments in their nets and tickle them into words.

And I feel love.

It seems that my relationship to the Faber and Faber Poetry Diary 2016 goes far beyond need.

a beautiful diminishment of beauty

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Get ready
for a beautiful diminishment
of beauty.

I am braver.
Expect the ragged,
messy and bits of
mud and blood,
thorns and straw
poking everywhere,
astray.

I will drag through a hedge
backwards and
not care a jot.
I will go flying,
fall face down and
laugh
brazenly,
with tears.

I will wade into
a torrent,
snare my bare
foot in stones
along its bed,
soak right through and
nearly drown,
with longing.

I will try so hard
to form the impossible
that it will form
in me,
and you,
so beware.

Beauty is on its
way out because
it’s coming.

 

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.