I have always found poetry to be a forgiving medium. It allows us to manipulate language and the various poetry styles with ease simply because of the shorter length. However, that doesn’t mean what we do is necessarily brilliant or even good, or dare I say, even a fair effort. As a teacher I am very conversant with the war cry ‘not poetry Miss, it’s so boring’. In spite of the lament, having students work with poetry and certainly writing their own is a lot simpler than you would imagine (once you get them over the whinging hurdle).
The plus I can offer them and these days myself, is the fact that trying again and perhaps again, is not difficult or overwhelming. Editing poetry, firstly is subjective and once again due to the shorter length less intimidating. We can for the most part hold the whole story in our hands as opposed to editing an essay or currently for me personally, some thirty plus odd chapters. It offers students a wonderful opportunity to reflect on their work and they can carry that through to other things they are required to do.
I have three poetry books out there and also an anthology. Some pieces are good but some not so good. What is good though is how much I learned from the experience. The chance to play with different forms was exhilarating. Also, it offered me the unique experience of looking at my other work with a more critical eye. Sometimes we say too much without saying much at all. Does that make sense? I cringe at some of my poetry, but I also see the places where I got the words right.
I recognise the areas where things gel, and the places where I tried too hard. You would be surprised how gazing at something in print can prove extremely insightful. One day I will go through those three books (I made it easy for myself by creating an anthology) and work on them and possibly re-publish but in the meantime, I like to hold them in my hands and remind myself nothing is impossible in life as long as the willingness to try exists. I actually created and published.
This particular piece below is another of my sonnet writing efforts. A big fan of Shakespeare and his ability to cross genres both in his plays and his poems, of his ability to manipulate words and the incredible contributions he made to the English language, I discovered this mad desire to write a sonnet. I did and I did a few of them. If I can manage brave I might do another post with one I wrote about my children. It was difficult but also fun. The inspiration for this came as much from the master as it did from Wordsworth. Something about daffodils stuck in my brain.
I wander and I wonder
I wander aimlessly content,
admire clouds that wave to me.
I wonder without real intent
and just enjoy what I see.
Spotting then, the golden bloom
I readily let go of everyday doom.
It’s not that I watch reality fade,
but rather that nature’s gift
under trees that generously shade
provides a much-needed lift.
The scented fragrance gives me aim
as I walk along the way I came.
If we look with our hearts,
and are willing to see the truth inside
we can join the necessary parts.
Perceive the world, let it confide
the secret delights on offer free
available to you and me.
I’d love to have the world surround
and cushion my lonely soul.
The beauty is there all around
providing the air to make us whole.
I wander slowly and breathe with grace.
I smile, accept the sunshine on my face.
Till next time