Purple sheets and iron rings
A trumpet whore.
But I prefer the subtle strokes
of half-guessed thoughts.
Aslant leaves all to be desired.
It’s my favourite time of the week: Open Link Night over at dVerse Poets Pub. Come and join me for some fun, a real community vibe and good poetry, of course!
not at all
what to find in dredges
of my mind: appealing rhymes, rocking sounds,
or free verse galloping to the hounds, ideas so abstract,
sly turns of phrase, precise descriptions, felicitous haze. I wake with words crawling
refusing to battle
leading, coaxing, bullying more. Nothing
licks them into shape, so let them swarm gently, leaving agape,
Meaning, words drift asunder, while the Poet chases rainbows. It’s a perfect blunder!
This has been an interesting experiment of mathematical meter over at dVerse Poets. I wrote a rhyming and metered poem yesterday which I have now redone to fit a Pascal Triangle, that is, 1-3-6-10-15-21 syllables in each line. I am not sure it adds to the poetic experience (the rhymes have gone awry, of course, and I’ve had to lose or change words), but it’s all part of exercising the poetic muscle.
I’m afraid I am reblogging myself instead of creating a new poem. Yes, to such grim depths have I sunk – with three fussy patients in the house fighting the flu. Still, it expresses so much of what I feel about writing now. And how that has changed in the last year or so since I got serious about writing again.
Well, as serious as you can get whilst making tea, milk with honey, chicken soup, hugging feverish youngsters and so on.
Submitted for Open Link Night at dVerse Poets Pub, the friendliest place to meet and greet poets.
Then and Now.
I’m poet-ed out.
My words, once so deft
at finding me,
now stand chastened
like moon-faced schoolboys
caught truant once again.
They’ve let me down,
skived off when most needed.
They’ve left in a scramble of deafening noise.
I tripple, weary, through mock-landscapes of meaning,
I gush and jargon with the best,
as, achingly, I long for sparseness,
hard-won meander, richness to digress.
Ideal conduct of desire,
harbinger of eloquence,
I snatch at shadows
flitting just outside my vision.
There is no rhyme
there is just reason
in my life and on my page.
- The Pit of Poetry (thereadingworkshop.com)
- Poetry Questions (poetrycurator.wordpress.com)
When all is said
some word remains,
hanging smartly, hanging loose.
When all is done,
some deed compels
to scratch afresh, to find new root.
They’ve mocked enough the pale surmise,
they’ve overcooked that sweet surprise.
They’ve rattled, counted beans of their trade.
They’ve filed all corners and watered down juice.
It’s all here.
To fill with your meaning,
Take on your colours,
Succumb to your fears.
This month, and, above all, this past week, I have had to shed my creative self like a snake-skin and slither back into my smooth professional self. There are many things I enjoy about my work (performing in front of a mostly attentive audience, having my opinions mostly respected, getting paid most of the time). Yet I can see that it is not conducive to writing.
So diametrically opposed to writing is this kind of itinerant consulting life (there, I’ve said it, that’s what I am!), that I found myself struggling to write even those book reviews I have been planning to write for the past 2-3 weeks. Not just because of travelling, being tired, faulty or overpriced wireless networks at hotels… but because my words have all been used up.
When you use persuasive language, corporate jargon and the left side of the brain exhaustively, it becomes nearly impossible to fall in love with words again. I no longer want to play with them, soothe them with a lullaby, tease them with a come-hither look, bend them to my will or surprise them and myself. All I want is blessed silence.
And escapist books to read.
When they uncovered the last of the bones
they placed them so gently
alongside the rest,
and brushed with soft caresses
the mould blooming in cavernous skulls.
When they found paths of eerie beauty
where particles had met
and shuddered to a halt,
they held up mirrors of foggy fascination
to conjure up bold dances to music overload.
When the lab mice get injected
to thrill to slightest sound,
vibrate in nervous tension,
they travel through synapses at speeds you cannot measure –
those words blushing with excitement at waking up on stage.