Hey you, Happy National Poetry Day!
At school I always thought poetry had to
follow a set rhythm, like nursery rhymes, the times tables or the alphabet
- which on a side note has changed
rhythm, how the hell did that happen?!
But maybe not so much anymore, now I like poetry that doesn’t
always fit together, but comes alive by jarring at the edges. I still get a bit
intimidated by spoken word, and that’s more a reflection on me than the artists
who write and perform. I think it’s because I find it so confrontational, the
words aren’t on a page patiently waiting for me to grasp the poet’s
intentions, instead the poet is right in front of me, daring me to think
differently and provoke a reaction. I need to get braver at that and go to more
slams - if anyone can recommend London/Essex
sessions please let me know!
And guess what? One of my poems Dance has been included in an
anthology, The Great British Write Off 2015, out 30th November, so that’s COOL.
READ AS NOT COOL, ACTUALLY VERY NERVOUS FOR OTHER PEOPLE TO
BE READING ACTUAL WORDS.
In other news, the black tabby is still up to mischief and
has taken to jumping at shadows on the wall which is both hilarious and adorable.
Named after the smallest member of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s tribe of Cats inspired
by TS Eliot, (not Puddleduck, Khan or Rooper as some have guessed) she is our
own little literary homage.
I’ll leave you with these lines from my favourite poet, Jo Shapcott - her poem Hairless has stayed
with me since I first read it in her collection Of Mutability, four years ago.
Having lost a dear friend to cancer after a fight that lasted most of my life,
the image of a strong woman roaring and singing with strength was all too
familiar and I was and am still grateful to her for portraying the warrior rather than
the victim.
