Whenever anyone mentions writing poetry, something inside me balks and shrinks away. I’m a creative writing graduate, but poetry… Poetry makes me feel distinctly amateurish.
I’ve written a grand total of one poem in my life, in a burst of creativity at four in the morning as deadline pressure mounted at University. I’ve never repeated the act since, nor when people suggest prompts for poems do I ever feel even slightly inclined to have a go.
Tonight at Writer’s Club, we had a guest poet in – a performance poet with a flair for the funny and unpretentious. She encouraged us to write a poem under one of three headings: A magic box poem (a box into which you put all the things you love), a character poem that starts ‘It’s always, always the same…’ or a list poem, describing someone through objects.
I felt the familiar pang of panic as I stared at a blank page, but a line came into my mind, quickly followed by another, and I wrote my second ever poem.
It’s not particularly sophisticated, nor does it have many hidden meanings. But I did think it aptly captured the character I was trying to convey.
So thank you, Brenda Read-Brown, for a fascinating and inspiring session. My Nano words for today have been sorely limited by it, but it was worth the bite into my reserve words.
And here’s a poem. (Warning, it is really cheesy – I never said it was a good poem.) I might even have a go at the character one next. The more I think about it, the more I think the male lead in my current story would probably say ‘It’s always, always the same.’ Probably about the female lead’s antics.
A misplaced coffee cup, half full, gone cold.
A photo in your underwear, who says you’re too old?
John Denver on the CD rack, right next to Eminem.
A puzzle book left open, to dip into now and then.
Knitting needles, cast on, making zombies, skulls, the Queen.
A mountain of fresh baked cupcakes topped with buttercream.
Worn out clogs sit by the door, bleached by summer sun.
She’s chaotic, crazy, beautiful,