Why write poems?

by roymarshall It may have been my reading of something on Maria Taylor’s blog this evening about why she writes that triggered the poem below. Or perhaps it was the dreamlike state induced by listening to David Bowie’s album ‘Low’ that got me writing this. The title and the size of the stanza’s might change. Tonight I like the poem, but it’s brand new and it’s sometimes hard to tell if I’ll like it tomorrow.  Anyway, here is a draft for you. Why Is it the desire to renew, to start again as often as possible that we write? I don’t know; I only know that when a poem happens, I exist beyond time, beyond anything imposed. Is it then, an exercise in control, a wish to be lord of all white space? Some say the purpose is to make sense, others to take risks, to experiment, to find out what we know. Our lives vanish in our wake, and then our wake vanishes. Today, making space for more books as if books themselves weren’t vanishing, I took the midwife’s notes and our wedding album, boxed them, slid the attic closed. I wonder what version of me, assuming it is me, will climb the ladder next. How often will I drag heavy shapes from darkness, spill light into covers and lift settled skin? Is a poem made for this; to keep our lives close and lock light in?

THE LADY

      some people in our lives
can’t be thanked enough for things they 
  do you see they are being themselves
  Rebecca you are one
  from the bible I will treasure you and your name
The lady as my son refered to her
since and always I will do the same
a very special lady
beyond being a nurse
your voice I still hear so wonderful
like an angel sent from heaven
placed here to help on earth
I thank you from myself my son
for being who you are
not a nurse much more by far
on us first meeting im sure 
our dear lord released a special star
for the comfort we received in my sons
hour of need
was definitely sent by a higher power

        through Rebecca
    THE LADY

Sandra Cameron
       X

March Hare

 

 

 

And she spotted the blur at once.

 

Standing stock still

 

the spaniel took a stance

 

of anticipation.

 

 

 

One single solitary hare

 

jinked and swerved to the

 

tune of a month’s madness;

 

I attempted to restrain the

 

anxious beast but

 

she was gone, too strong;

 

a gundog unleashed,

 

Instincts released,

 

quarry insight,

 

on comes the night.

 

 

 

Two shadows:

 

weaving amongst grasslands,

 

the hare all speed,

 

the spaniel all duty;

 

I view the spectacle

 

with admiration;

 

beauty and nature

 

as one;

 

as hundreds of years ago.

 

 

 

The spaniel stops in disgust,

 

snorting rapidly;

 

the hare turns, I’m

 

sure he laughs,

 

and takes a bow:

 

the spaniel and I depart:

 

silhouettes showered by moon dust.

 

 Stepthen  Holloway