via New starts…
SallyJ on The Young Yew Sanfra Curtin on The Young Yew Polly on A Tête-à-Tête under a pearl… SallyJ on …in mind of Maya An… Sandra Curtin on …in mind of Maya An…
Share on Twitter
For the first time in years National Poetry Day passed and I found myself bereft of words.
As is often the case lacking words of my own sends me scurrying to shelves of poetry books and yet still inspiration proved elusive.
My last experiment in writing was to toy with the guiding principles of the ‘Language Poetry’ movement, if it can be called that…though it seemingly failed to gain purchase on the UK poetry scene.
I found the whole idea of no structure, even no meaning, daunting and could only embrace the idea of borrowing from existing writing yet drilling down to only the words which called out to me as I read.
I returned to an old favourite, Gerard Manley Hopkins and sought inspiration from a letter he wrote to R Bridges in 1871…
…the intelliGent artisan
the too intelligEnt artisan
most inefficacious – stRenuous
bat-light and shoot-at veNture
in the midst of pLenty
wrEck and burn
nothing but Harm
cannot be exPected to care
and deservedly black-wrIte
no more Summer between
The title which best expresses what I felt as I was working was either – As it was, so it is – which is hardly original. Accordingly I have decided on Summer of 2017 instead
Many of you have already written and at least drafted your entry for the Paragram Paradox Prize however, for those who are still thinking and wondering this blog may be just the nudge you need. The…
In benign spring sunshine the field waits, as all fields are waiting, for the burst of bud and spurt of blade to finally wake after the long winter. Dotted about are signs of scattered feed for vanished ponies. An abandoned bucket, its garish pink foreign in the muted landscape, steals the eye. The silence of the field is profound, the thud of pounding hoofs, joyful snicker as winter coats are removed, soft whinny to greet open palms offering apple cores a mournful echo.
Behind the fence at the field’s margin the tree stretches its barely formed, darkly needled branches, as a cat might stretch to greet the unexpected warmth of the sun. The scar on the young yew trunk seeps sweet sap as it rises to greet the call of the season. The sapling is ignorant of the deadliness of its wound.
Hanging in the air are the anguished screams of the girl whose pony sinks to the ground with a sigh. Rendered ungainly in death by the poison in its blood it stumbles, rolls, stops. She falls to the ground by its side, burrows against the fading warmth of its belly. Night’s peace rent by sorrow, harrowed faces leaping by torchlight as the field is cleared of companion ponies. The shadow that remains of the girl almost the last to leave.
Revealed in the scant light of dawn a shape, muffled, beneath grey tarpaulin…and at the extremity of the field the scratchy design of the young, condemned, yew.
The field waits in the Spring sunshine for it knows not what…maybe forgiveness for sparse growth, for not yielding sweet scent strong enough to mask the invitation of rising sap which tempted the horse to nibble poisonous bark.
I wait for time to blunt the screams that woke me in the night, the sight of the dead horse in the field beside my garden which was revealed as the light bled into day.
The yew waits, probably to die from its necklace of exposed core.
The room was packed and there was a buzz of excitement and not all of it was because of the wine. The Paragram Chapbook Challenge winner and ‘Spotlights’ poets were gathered at the Poet…
Source: 4th March 2016…Oh what a night!
In the words of Shelley: “The cold earth slept below; Above the cold sky shone…”
… and flowering long before its time, this little narcissus. Damp and bedraggled it may be but light from its petals shines out. Crouched beneath a bare, leafless shrub affording little shelter I found this little fellow today, the first cold day I’ve noticed this winter and the first time I was glad of the scruffy gloves stuffed in my pockets as I wandered around the garden.
The sky, stripes of pearl pink and glinting silver, high, high above the scribbled branches of the naked cherry tree. Birdsong, such birdsong for January, crisp in the chill air. Notes like needles follow tits and finches as they sweep and dart from and to the feeders. Fat pigeons waddle on the sidelines, wishing we would all get a move on and go back inside and leave them to feed on fallen husks.
With glowing cheeks and tingling ears I follow the dogs on their accustomed path between the dozing flower beds noticing a peek of green here and there as slumbering perennials shoot tentative spears into the winter air. Wondering…as I am…whether the worst of the winter weather is yet to come and wishing it would just get on with it!