The Birthing Pangs of a Poem
I’ve got an issue with privacy. I’ve never liked open plan offices, I don’t like people coming into my study at home, I don’t like showing my work in progress. Psychologists may see a link there with the fact that my mother read my diaries and opened my letters when I was a teenager. I just call it personal space: I’m happy for those around me to have theirs, and hope they will allow me mine. So it’s unusual for me to show you a first draft, but I thought it would be interesting (for a later version of me too, perhaps) to see how my poetic mind works. This is still too explicit, personal and verbose. It leaves nothing to the imagination. It was written after a rather frantic weekend alone with the children. I will come back with an edited, perhaps even a final version and would welcome any suggestions for improvement.
It’s been a day of shouting
Coffee-ad family picture frayed and curled,
burnt up in blood-hot temper.
Sullen moods, sulk and whine, heave and lift
of bone-breaker words:
careless second of uttering,
then a lifetime of regret.
It’s been another day of failing…
my children, my ideal, myself
and all the compensatory cakes I bake
turn to sand in our mouths.
I’m left chasing words on empty beaches,
finding other people’s discarded treasures
more plentiful than shells.
I pick up a conch and pour my anguish in its ear.
I pour all my inadequacy into a jar,
screw on the jam-stained lid so tight
then fling it back into a sea just lukewarm.
So my poems are merely turgid,
my thoughts piddling, my family average.
We muddle on and on,
imperfect and random
victims of illusions
drunk on lost words.
I’m linking this to dVerse Poets Pub, a friendly community of poets who support and help each other.