Messing About with Poetry Again

I have had a long absence from both reading and writing poetry. It is hard to identify when or why it began but it has been a chunk of my life rather than a couple of years out. The why, I suspect, does not reflect me in a pleasant light and probably has something to do with me turning into some sort of snob.

Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres. Luigi Cherubini...

Lately I have started to creep back, though, gently prodded by other bloggers who are unashamed to post poetry of their own and of other people (namely Barbara Lane and Robert Rife) and by others who advocate enthusiastically for poetry (Xe Sands and Marly Youmans). So I have been listening and reading again, and writing a tiny bit.

When I was younger and more prolific in the poetry department, it was one of the main ways I made sense of the world around me because it enables us to capture and hold something in a cage of words without destroying it, defining it or curtailing its mystery.  The kind of poetry that I really connect with is the stuff that brings elusive, ephemeral, intimated truths into focus and holds them for a moment, leaving the afterglow of an impression rather than the proof of a fact. Some things in life are like that – they will never stay still long enough for us to get them under a microscope, but that doesn’t make them any less real.

I need to recapture some of that stuff. Then, there’s the other thing I had forgotten: Poetry is fun. It is safe to experiment. It is a sandbox of words. So I don’t need to be so uptight about it. In the past, I have always written stuff that needs to be read aloud to be put in its best light, but this one probably only has any chance of making sense when seen on paper:

Six Years

Six years passed the grass has grown and been cut
Over this house although it never was this long before
Six seasons of spring mornings the same dew has perspired
Just like this one upwards still the relentlessness
But the thing that of laundry and dishes on the
I awakened to under today’s sideboard has been
Sun was that one day was all I can manage these
Too much like the others rhythms this cycle pinioned
What has happened to this house
What has changed for six years?
I cannot say.

A Poem: Waking Journey

I recently unearthed, from the deep litter of several years of paper, a folder of poetry that I wrote between 1994 and 2001 when writing poems was one of the few ways I could make sense of life. I have always written not only for personal pleasure but from a desire to connect with other people. So many poets and authors have helped me to feel less alone that I have long kept in mind the conceit that what I write might help someone else to feel less alone. So I’m letting a few of these poems see the light of day again like messages in a bottle brought in on a fifteen-year-long tide.

Waking Journey
I didn't sleep at all
And dawn discovered me
Watching a projection of myself
Packing up this little room
With sighs

Books into boxes
Clothing to be given away
Getting back to the core of me
Papers of unfinished scores
Waiting still

Surely goodness
Will follow me where I am going
In the way it always has before now
And mercy I will get as much
As I need

When was I last
So true to myself as to drop
The trappings of expectation
And rewrite the script
By inspiration

And now I write
Like I have not written for years
Stumbling back to an old haunt
With another notch
On the staff

A little more
Wisdom in the eyes
Makes the old land look changed
The hair a little longer
Feels the breeze

I will return
To conquer the past
I will pack a few possessions
And leave the rest behind
For a while

(July 2001)

I did, in fact, return –  seven months later – with a few more notches on the staff and a little more wisdom in the eyes, and the place looked different; but I still have a few unfinished (musical) scores and balancing inspiration with expectation is an everyday battle.

More of my poems from this blog

A Poem: Common Things

I can look back to a time when writing poetry was one of the main ways that I had for making sense of the world around me. The creative output from this time in my life actually staggers me – although sometimes I cringe at the quality – I was certainly prolific. I thought I’d share a few poems over the next few weeks, verses that would not otherwise see the light of day; but I’ll start with one of the few that ever got published. This appeared in Emerge, an anthology of poetry, prose and drama, edited by Jude Simpson and Jane Campion and showcasing the work of the Subway Writers group.

Common Things

Some things are fairly common
Like waking up
In a meadow of rolling linen

Hearing over the hills
The breathing of a mate in
The tide of their own dream world

Stopping long enough to mark the
Progress of a shadow across
The yard

Holding a hand under
A running tap waiting
For it to warm

Falling silent on the hour to
Hear the chiming of the outside world
In the newsreader's voice

In saying these things I
Keep your company in
The moments you thought you were alone