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
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.
We think syntax can join everything back again.
I am thinking of Bertrand Russell recently released from prison (as a conscientious objector) who was in the centre of London when the Armistice was announced. He wrote: ‘The crowd was frivolous still, and had learned nothing during the period of horror. . .’
When a sky sinks to float in the shallows
earth forgets the vibration of colour
and returns to some original state,
some kind of damp cloudy subtraction . . .
Back home viewing my handiwork with a casual flourish of the mouse, nine Black Swans appear flying south.
The eastern horizon is still dark; the city to the north is alight in a complex transfer of power.
200 million years ago our star powered swamps whose plants and trees bequeathed their
remains, accumulating layers as peat.
I turn my back once the sun comes up, concentrate on how stone and wood
work together . . .
A weak form of the Capgras phenomenon and Double Drummers, Jagun
Eos wants to rewild my mind . . .
Where we live – three walks ~ poems and photographs Wednesday Oct 4 The wood’s exhalation is palpable after two days of rain, after 4 months of dry, black bars slant shadow across the aqueous air. Above our heads a Golden Whistler sings from a rickety branch, his whole body vibrating urgently responding to a […]
orange trumpet flowers
from a mistletoe scatter the poem without end . . .