poetry

poetry is easier

Winter leaves with reflection

Why it’s easier to be a poet than a photographer:

  1.  It is not expected that you go somewhere exotic, grand, or far-flung in order to write a poem.  You can make one anywhere, about anything.  It will not be seen as a worse poem for being about your toddler looking at the moon (Ted Hughes), a fork in a woodland path (Robert Frost), a blade of grass (Brian Patten), or a haggis (Robert Burns). It is recognised that something big can be said by writing about something small.
  2. A poem is not thought to be better because you climbed a mountain and trekked through thigh-deep snow for hours in order to write it, nor because you had to get up before dawn or risk your life on the edge of a slippery precipice.  It is not thought better because you hefted several kilos of pens and notepads to the location where you wrote it.
  3. It is not necessary to keep upgrading your pen and paper to be any good.  Nobody will think any the less of you, nor judge your poems according to whether you write them with a biro or a Parker pen.
  4. Nobody ever asks what kind of poet you are and expects you to define yourself as a landscape poet, or a street poet, or to say you specialise in sonnets or villanelles.  It is enough to say that you write poetry.
  5.  A poem is not thought to be good because its grammar is exact and perfect, and its spelling exemplary.  A good poem breaks as many rules as it keeps and it needn’t be instantly clear and obvious.  It is recognised that there are many ways of creating a good poem and that all good poems do not have to conform to a single ideal, but are allowed to be good in their own way.
  6. A poem is not expected to describe exactly, but to distill its subject down to its essence and, by changing it, show it as it is.
  7. It is expected that a poem be edited and polished before it is released.  It is not regarded as some sort of cheating if you change the words of the first draft and crop out superfluous phrases.
  8. Finally, nobody ever says: ‘that’s a great poem, you must have a really good pen.  Oh, and what sort of notepad do you use?’

 

 

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winter blues

Lamplit window, Newark

The colour has gone from the world.

December drips and drabs along into the dark time,

grey rain drizzles from an oozing sky,

and the murky light glooms its way to nightfall.

Birds are silent; the world smells only of damp dead leaves.

In houses, in streets, squares of warm yellow – reminders of an absent sun.

Gilly Walker

I don’t mind the cold of winter, or even the rain as such – it’s the grey gloominess of it all that gets to me.  I would welcome snow and ice, sparkling frost, tumultuous skies full of stormy life, pale blue skies with a wintry sun, even rain that comes down in torrents – anything other than this drip and drizzle and monotonous greyness. It’s the one time of year when I regret our temperate climate and long for some ‘real’ weather.

I woke up one December morning – very early, I thought, but it was after 8.00am and the light was so dim and poor that it didn’t seem as if the day had got started yet.  My heart sank a bit on seeing how dreich it was (Scots: dreich: – a combination of dull, overcast, drizzly, cold, misty and miserable weather; at least 4 of the above adjectives must apply before the weather is truly dreich) .  I’ve been writing bits of poetry lately – usually in the middle of the night, and this certainly felt like the middle of the night – so I wrote a little word picture and got it out of my system.  I found this photo that I took a while ago, and it worked quite well with the words. Sometimes you just have to go with things as they are and make something of it, and by doing that you can rise above it.  The great thing about writing and photography is that everything is fuel for creating, even the bad and the dull.

Some of you may have seen the film of The Road, an adaptation of Cormac McCarthy’s post-apocalyptic novel of the same name.  A man and his son make their way through a grim world inhabited by survivors who are quite likely to kill you, or even eat you in order to ensure their further survival.  It’s a sombre film, made more so by the unrelenting rain that teems down on father and son, and the lack of any colour but greys and browns.  This alone is enough to make you wonder about your motivation to stay alive in such a world, even without the threats and danger from others, and the whole would have lost much of its power without the absence of colour and that endless soaking dull rain. No wonder the ancients worshipped the sun.


 

I have big changes in mind for this blog, although it may take me some time to implement them.  The first thing is to change hosts as Hostgator is getting ridiculously expensive for a simple blog that doesn’t make any money.  But changing hosts is the easy bit – I hope – as I’ll get someone to do that for me.  I also want to expand the scope of what I write about to more than just photography, and that will involve a new name for the blog and a new design, too.  I’ve found a theme I like, but it’s pricey and January has been full of unexpected expenses, so I may have to wait a couple of weeks for that.  I know that the theme I’m using has problems and I’m not tech savvy enough to know how to solve them.  I hope the new one will be a big improvement.

 

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With apologies to Philip Larkin

I’m a bit off photography at the moment, so I’ve turned to poetry (of sorts).  So with apologies to Philip Larkin’s This Be the Verse, here it is:

They fuck you up, these snoring men
They may not mean to, but they do
They keep you wide awake, and then
Next day you feel dead tired and blue

They themselves don’t suffer much
Except when kicked by peevish wife
The snoring pauses at her touch
Then starts again with renewed life

Man hands on misery to spouse
By snoring like a drunken elf
So find a spare room in your house
And go and sleep there – by yourself!