Addiction

Why waste my time on words that fill these blank pages, that no eye but mine will read. Why waste my time on dialogue that spatters across the screen stuttering and starting until it flows like waves to the sea when no ear but mine will ever hear. Why waste my time moulding these characters that dance, or slump, or slouch, or stomp, or race, or riot, or drag their feet across the story I outline for them, when nobody else will meet them. Why waste my time on this thing that compels and drives, this creature inside me that claws at my heart to get free, purring rhythm and diction even as it spits syllables and punctuation that doesn’t quite fit. Why waste my time when the sun shines and the weeds grow and the dust settles and the washing up totters on its pedestal. Why waste time lost in stories that exist only in the tips of my fingers as they stumble about the keyboard. Why waste time that could be better spent on anything but this, this relentless longing to free the thoughts that clamour in my brain and pulse through my veins and throb down my arm to be free. Why waste time with people who are made only of clumsy adjectives and worn out cliché. Why waste my time, only concerned with what is within, when there is life out there? It is the sweetest addiction I know.

Some thoughts on poetry

I woke up on Wednesday morning thinking about poetry.

Why?

Well I think it's because I was at Winchester University the night before listening to Rebecca Alexander talk about her experience of making the transition from MA student to fully fledged published writer. One of the things she remarked upon was that when editors were thinking about taking on her book, they looked to see what else she had written and Rebecca is a prolific blogger (see her blog here ). I have tried on various occasions to blog regularly and have not had a huge amount of success, largely because I never know what to blog about - I worry too much that nothing I say is worth reading. Rebecca described her blogging experience as being more of a journal. She used it to chart her experience of writing, had posted short stories, ideas, thoughts and poetry and had thought of the blog as writing to herself.

This approach made sense to me because I often have an internal monologue (perhaps all writers do... perhaps everyone does) and maybe blogging could make use of this monologue. It would get my thoughts out in the open, where I think they flourish and grow, and it would encourage me to write regularly (theoretically).

Rebecca mentioned that she had posted  poems on her blog and I thought this was a brave thing to do. Poetry can be personal, abstract, deeply meaningful, moving, beautiful and terrible. I write poetry and have always written poetry. I love poetry. I don't think my poems are particularly good. They are too abrupt and lack depth, but neither do I think they are terrible. This is how I feel about poetry:

I like short poems. I like poems that are simple and direct. I like poems that are strange and abstract. I often feel that most poems get to the point in the first two verses and then waffle on for a bit longer. I think some song lyrics are poetry.

I like poems that seem fragmented and alien when you first read them - you have a sense that there is something beautiful being created, but you can't quite see it. Then when you read it again and the pieces begin to fit together, the rhythm and cadence settle and you start to understand. Good poetry is like a stained glass window. Beautiful when you first see it but also a blur of colour and images; the closer you look and the more time you take to decipher the images, the more you see.

I can't write poetry like that. My brain just doesn't work that way, my words don't flow so wonderfully. My poetry is about capturing a moment. I don't have hidden meanings in my poems, they are droplets of time, a distilled memory. I have decided to share them on this blog, because why else do we write if not for others to read? My poems are imperfect, bare boned and often in need of texture, but they are part of me and how I write and how I capture the world I encounter.

The first three poems to share with you in this post were written while I was travelling in India. Every time I read these I am taking back to the moment they crystallise. I can see the colours, taste the air and feel the heat of my skin. India is a country that gets in under your skin and stays there waiting for a moment to bubble to the surface again and take you by surprise with a strange home-sickness.

Eels of Arambol

Scattered in the surf

stripy eels lie twisted

like sock puppets

fallen between washing machine

and line,

mouths gaping

silent astonishment

at the air that drowns them,

dreaming

of the spin

once more.

Tide line

Beneath the cool waters breathing

scallop shells shimmer

pricking my sole.

Splash by splash

footprints fade

sucked back to be

prints within the sea.

Firewood girl

Wrapped in pinks and greens,

firewood bundled
like hair on her head,

the girl is caught:

twiggy strands snagged

on a power cable

hanging too low.

I lift it.

She giggles

and is gone,

flitting

through palm trees,

a butterfly released.






This next poem was an entry I sent in Mslexia on the theme of Skin. It didn't get anywhere in the competition, but I did get a nice letter back saying that it had been highly considered, which was not a bad thing to get.

Landscape Face

Dimpled skin of the earth  

rising to mountains and falling to valleys,

thick craggy skin that craters,

that rolls and bursts;

the soft light of evening

undulating

over hunched backs of the Quantocks,

of the Pennines;

the dips and shadows of dell and dingle...

We stop and breathe and wonder.

Not so my face:

the Lake Districts of blemishes across my cheeks,

the Yorkshire valleys of scars

have no allusion to wonder.

Caves that pockmark the cliffs of Dorset,

with rustic allure,

make nothing but rubble of my expression.

Better for me to be a landscape.

Then my pitted, polished, rocky

skin

would cause people to gaze,

dumbstruck with admiration

while the bare, un-cratered contours

of faces that roll 

and swell like quiet water

would be ignored,

put to shame for their emptiness.

That's all for today. Maybe I'll post some more in the coming weeks.

Until next time,

RBH