Introduction to poems
I write poems all the time, but publish haphazardly. The poem comes first and the creative process is so different and so much more interesting than the business of poetry – if it can be called that:
“After all, it’s rather a privilege
amid the affluent traffic
to serve this unpopular art which cannot be turned into
background noise for study
or hung as a status trophy by rising executives,
cannot ‘be done’ like Venice
or abridged like Tolstoy, but stubbornly still insists upon
being read or ignored.” W H Auden
I have won major awards (The Newcastle and David Tribe) and have had some generous critical responses: “The Judges were unanimous . . . ‘Kitchen Music’ stood out for us not only for its ambitious intent, but also because of the strength and power of the language and its evocative magic. The way in which these elements have been so organically integrated into the work is a tribute to the poet’s language skills and the richness of his imagination. We felt there was a strong sense of vision, an impressive array of knowledge and a deeply connected sensibility behind this fine poem.” Judith Beveridge.
It is a shame that this artform is so undervalued in developed counties where visual entertainment has taken priority. Poetry is still admired, recited and talked about in countries like Bangladesh and Arab speaking countries.
You are being moved to a hospice, yet two weeks ago
walked ‘John’s walk’ as you call it, past the Domesday forest . . .
Chalk-white puffs and eggwhite cumulus billow with a little oil
steeping your sky, but the sea’s too blue and the horses too white.
The water is warm far side in the sun and venous flow to sea,
leaves play slow tag . . .
Love brimming and with God crying wolf . . .
a Turquoise Parrot spinning colour on jewelled wings
Addendum: Poetry at first light – a poem Here is one of the poems you heard: c3’40 Spring can’t wait ~ September, Jagun – extract A Golden Whistler sings from a low Bloodwood branch, flycatchers are chasing a cuckoo and honeyeaters chase each other with tenacity as spring charges forward. Not a breeze in the sky but [...]
I have forgotten his birthday, the noise of frogs . . .
ricocheting white light as their snowy bellies levitate back into the euphoric boundless blue . . .
tree ferns fan a portfolio of fantastic fractals in Jurassic green while underneath . . .
They stand, one stretches a wing then jumps the other, too quick
for my lens, all over in a second, the female bending her body . . .