In some ways, writing poetry is speaking in a different language about the things we are experiencing in the world, and we feel that ordinary language does not comment on those experiences effectively enough. It's not an exclusive club; anyone can join.
The Poet
I have rarely met the poet myself,
he hides in a place on a bookshelf,
quite familiar with techniques and forms,
not lacking experience in what performs.
From the Land of the Prince Bishops’,
unfashionably beautiful countryside backup,
plethora of inspiration to generate words,
as plentiful as a murmuration of birds.
A darker view spawns negative feelings,
associated with human dealings,
generating a hackier mood,
the poet may tend to brood.
A walk on the sand or plodgin’ in the sea,
massages the senses to set the poet free,
from any darkening influences,
and bugger the consequences.
But it’s the people that really count,
we need to deal in some amount,
to engage our range of emotions,
and translate their interactions.
The poet finds equations can be prickly,
leaving the psyche rather sickly,
researching types of avoidance behaviour,
providing alternatives as our saviour.
The natural world provides some sanctuary,
in its wealth of colour and variety,
with the uncluttered nature of species,
and their obvious biological abilities.
Looking for dolphins from the pier,
smartly dressed with their superior sneer,
as if aware of human failings,
yet prepared to indulge in occasional savings.
Eating winkles with a pin from a hut on the front,
dodging noisy herring gulls on the hunt,
for scraps falling from our table,
fish ‘n chips the inappropriate staple.
Loving the ebb and flow of sound,
marvelling at power as waves pound,
sighs of relief from sand and pebbles,
as sea recedes gathering for future battles.
But the poet still needs to deal,
to interact with some level of feel,
without contracting sense of self,
to the size of a wizened Christmas elf.
©David L Atkinson November 2024
God Bless
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