Feathers and Water
The day is slipping by. At 6.48, after one of those nighttime visits my age demands, I decided to go back to sleep. The postman woke me when a heavy parcel fell to the floor with an emphatic thud, and 8.02 I rose. After checking emails (nothing of interest) I answered my WP comments and looked up butterflies on websites. The USA has 750 species, Australia has 420, the UK has 55. I feel, yet again, that I am the poor relation. Then I wrote a poem. It is now 9.58 and mid-morning approaches, signaling an end to what I always feel is my most productive time.
The “poem” that I wrote is far from complete, but it is a promising start. In human terms, I have the skeleton in place, and mostly in the right order. Some of the limbs have flesh on. More a zombie than a human, and more a grotesque pile of words than a finished poem, but it’s a start. Every journey starts with a single step, every pearl with a grain of sand, and every poem begins when you put a few words together to form a thought or picture. They aren’t always the right words or in the right order, and they don’t always appear in the finished piece, but it’s a start. It’s already on its second title . . .
I’ve been worrying about my poetry recently.
View from Bangor Pier
it’s 10.22. I have eaten cereal and fruit, drunk tea and watched birds. At one point we had 16, possibly more. It’s difficult to tell when they are milling about and perching inside shrubs. It is a great advance from the handful we used to get when we moved in last winter. How much of teh change is due to a gradual build-up, and how much is due to seasonal changes, we don’t know. I will have to look up kaleidoscope in the dictionary.
Invented by a Scotsman, patented 1817, it seems to have been regarded as a serious bit of scientific kit in its day, rather than the child’s toy it became. See, I wanted to look up a word to use in writing about a whirling mass of birds, and ended up reading about Scotland, science and the Disruption of 1843. That’s where my time goes.
Another view from Bangor Pier
Back with my poetry thoughts, I’ve been worrying that I have become one of those poets I used to view with suspicion – friendly with editors, prolific and widely published. But have I written anything of merit, or have I just found myself a groove where I churn out the equivalent of greeting card verses for poetry magazines?
That’s something I will be thinking about over the next few weeks. For now, as the clock nears 11am, I will add tags and photos to this post and think about what comes next.
Coffee, sorting books and worrying about the direction of my creative life. It is enough.
Pictures are from July 2019
Hoverflies on an orange poppy
Do whatever brings you joy, Simon, in the grand scheme of things, that is all that really matters. However, don’t forget about that book of poetry I have been waiting for you to write. 🙂 Your poetry is too good to let slide.
I had to look up Kate Bush. I will look into her music. A kaleidoscope I do have. It is one that was passed around from child to child in my mother’s family, a long, long time ago. I love kaleidoscopes!
We had one that I bought in a box of bits at auction – not sure what happened to it.
Feathers and water and Hoverflies suggest you should be more serious about your photography
I was at one time, but being a hermit and writing seemed to take over. I must get out more.
Having doubts is very understandable but allowing them to bring you to a halt when you are going so well would be sad in my view. Kate Bush may be a perfectionist but we would have enjoyed a lot more of her excellent music if she wasn’t.
I would hesitate to place myself alongside kate Bush, but I take your point. Thank you.
I think most writers worry about their writing. Is it good enough? Somehow, mine never matches the image I have in my head. But writing brings me such joy that on I go. Despite my fears.
I often think of a beautiful phrase in my head, but it never goes down on paper as nicely, so I( understand what you say. I’m sure I will get over it.