I blame Robbie Cheadle. Something she wrote anyway. You couldn’t blame Robbie per se. Far too nice.
The thing is she started me thinking about poetry. My poetry. Writing prose is a joy but often writing poetry is hard. Really hard. I feel its constraints, the way it is so very easy to fall into cliché and cheesy repetition.
For those whoever been following this blog a while you will also know my dad wrote poetry and he, too, sweated blood over it. And never once did he express himself satisfied ‘just doggerel, boy’ he’d say if I praised him and there was little false modesty about his self deprecation.
So how is it I find myself contemplating publishing a book of poetry? That’s where Robbie comes in.
But before I do, is there anyone out there who is prepared to be brutally honest with me and have a look at what I’ve pulled together and see if they think it has merit. I need real honesty here. I’d not mind it if I was told to put my ego away. Really. Part of me – the part that feels the pain of writing it, the part that echoes my old man – would probably be quite pleased.
I’d love you dearly. As a quid pro quo I’d happily read anything you wanted an honest opinion on. And two of my books of your choosing, in paperback and signed, are yours to receive in the post – wherever you are in the globe – I draw the line at aliens and creatures from any parallel universe – the post is notoriously fickle across the space-time continuum and there is the risk you might receive it before it has been written which will cause all sorts of copy-writhing issues.
So, anyone? A note in the comments of a mail via the contact me button and I’ll be made up, as they say – goodness is that a stupid expression? Made up into what?
Anyhoo, who’d like the gig? (groans….)
Wherever we place our faith, in God or nature or another’s face
Once verdant boughs now sad skinned wraiths begrudge permissive youth its place;
December’s death has gripped the land, once luscious leaves just left to rot
Brittle skeletal, hope’s becalmed in our lost Eden that God forgot.
We fight the urge to hurry past, desert cold Earth under pleated sky
And turn away from its last gasp, all dry and seer where no cloud will cry.
Yet stop we must, hope’s always there in amongst this season’s dying
It draws us close, it makes us care as life prepares for a new year’s living.
Spring forecloses on Winter’s debt, enough to pay for Summer’s lease
Succour comes borne on a breath that turns the key for each year’s release.