It's been a while...

We live and learn.

Well, that’s bullshit;

at least for me.

I make the same mistakes

over and over:

because they taste so

goddamn sweet;

like eating piggy-little cakes.

Oh out they come again -

the old group of grumpy bastards.

They are the sickly, sweet scent of honeysuckle

to a weary bee.

They are that little rowing boat on a vast, lonely sea:

when I think I’m going to drown.

They are the little shit of a fly that you simply cannot

swat!

But worst of all,

they are all the things I neglect to notice,

which I have already got.

Poetry Prompts - Finding Inspiration

In a previous blog post, I had a go at writing a children's poem. Inspired by this, I had a look for blogs about children's poetry and came across a blog called 'Monday's Child' which is dedicated to childrens poetry, stories and verse.

Every week a picture is posted up as an inspirational 'prompt' and you can post up your work. I thought this was a fantastic idea, and when I had a go it really got the creative juices flowing. I posted my poem on the site, but here it is - along with the prompt illustration. I think I'll try this every week!

Illustration by Kay Akers

The Pink Balloon

The pink balloon floats slowly by,

on its magical journey through the sky.

Passing above the busy streets –

the grasping hands, and running feet.

Its round face smiles a shiny grin,

as it dances softly with the wind;

and trips upon the mellow breeze,

that gently moves the summer leaves.

Above a woman pushing a pram –

past the delivery driver man.

Over the fields and churches with spires;

away from the trees and telephone wires.

So happy and buoyant and flying so free;

just think of all the things it will see!

Above the rooftops, above the town -

never stopping, or coming down.

By Emma Barrett

At the moment I am reading...

By Duncan Wu
 

A comprehensive selection of poetry and prose by the British Romantics.

Poetry - the Universal Language

When I sat down to write my week as a poem today, I wanted to write about anger and the associated emotions arising from it. But instead of writing a poem, I am going to admit to a secret. ‘My name is Emma Barrett and I am a sci-fi and fantasy nerd’. There, I've said it. So you won’t be too surprised now to learn that the most immediate thought which sprang to mind was from Star Wars; specifically, from the Jedi, Yoda:

‘Anger, fear, aggression…the dark side are they. Once you start down the dark path, forever it will dominate your destiny.’

I hear you laughing, but don’t be so quick to dismiss Yoda – that little green guy has a lot of very intelligent things to say, and they are worth thinking about.  Some thoughts have universal meaning – they can travel through space and time. For example, I think his ideology concerning anger, has a lot in common with the following poem, by William Blake:

A Poison Tree by William Blake

I was angry with my friend;

I told my wrath, my wrath did end.

I was angry with my foe;

I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears,

Night and morning with my tears;

And I sunned it with smiles,

And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night

Till it bore an apple bright;

And my foe beheld it shine,

And he knew that it was mine.

And into my garden stole

When the night had veiled the pole –

In the morning glad I see

My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

Like the great poet that he was, Blake has cleverly used the simple image of the tree to express the complex emotions arising from anger.  At a basic level, he is saying that if you leave anger to fester, it becomes a ‘poison tree’. The character in the poem expends so much energy on his anger. He waters it with his fear and his own tears. In the end, he gets his revenge – but was it worth what he put himself through? Yoda and Blake are saying the same thing – Anger leads to our own fear and aggression, and that can, ultimately, only lead you into darkness.

So, rather than give in to my anger and sit here writing a ‘poison pen’ poem, I decided to listen to some very good advice from a long time ago, and a galaxy far, far away… After all, poetry is the universal language.

Photo from www.flickr.com/photos/jimkster

What is Poetry Anyway?

I have been thinking this week – what exactly is poetry? How do we define it? It’s something I have often pondered. To me, it’s like an elusive mist - an illusion that takes a myriad of forms, which are all dependant on who is reading the poem at the time.

Can poetry ever be defined, labelled, pigeon-holed, or shoe-horned into a category? One thing I’ve noticed is the human obsession to label – to make sense of things and make them fit neatly. We have to have a reason for everything, and an explanation of it. But poetry simply refuses to put on its name badge, and I love it for this.

I think for different poets, poetry means different things. Poetry has evolved through the centuries, and is still evolving. We can trace poetry back into the furthest depths of time in its primitive forms. So it seems, as humans - as intelligent beings, we have more than a love of poetry, we have a real need of it.

So coming to this conclusion, I thought about what poetry means to me, and why I write it. Poetry is emotional – plain and simple. We can laugh at the clichéd image of the depressed poet, with his black polo neck, dark glasses and regular visits to the smoke-filled poetry reading club in the basement: spewing out his awful poetry to an audience pretending to understand his ‘high-brow’ ramblings; but I don’t mean emotional in this way. I mean that poetry is evocative. It brings the shadow of an emotion, thought, feeling or idea to the surface.

I don’t presume to call myself a poet, because I have a monumental respect for poets. Every time I read a good poem, I feel a high that no short-story or novel has ever given me. I feel a truth and a beauty that, in my opinion, only poetry can access. It’s as close to reality as any form of writing will ever take me.

So I don’t know how the accomplished poets feel, but for me, if I write a poem and one person, just one, reads it and tells me that they felt something, that it touched upon a feeling that they thought no one else had felt or could explain, then that’s where I see the awesome power of poetry.

Children's Poetry

When I studied for my BA in Literature, the final module I took was in Children’s Literature. I went into this module thinking that it might be ‘quite easy’: a ‘break from the heavy going modules’ I had taken, such as Nineteenth Century Literature and Shakespeare. But it wasn’t very long before I realised what a fascinating and complicated genre it is, and I developed what I believe, will be a lifelong passion for children’s literature and poetry.

So what are the characteristics of a children’s poem? Well, all poetry should sound good when it’s read aloud – especially children’s poetry. It needs rhythm and meter – that ‘musical’ quality. Again, as with all poetry, it needs to be packed full of images which convey meaning; whether that’s through use of metaphor, similes or personification, or language that appeals to our senses.

So, I decided to have a go at writing a children’s poem. Where better to start than reading Penguin’s 100 Best Poems for Children. Put together by Roger McGough, it is comprised of poems chosen by children themselves.

I wanted my poem to tell a story – to read like a little like a fairytale. It is inspired by one of the poems in the book: Old Meg by John Keats (http://www.john-keats.com/gedichte/meg_merrilies.htm). In my usual style it is quite dark, and perhaps a little too dark for children, but I think that much of this type of children’s poetry is quite scary – I am thinking of the overall tone of Lewis Carroll’s Jabberwocky for instance. I hope you like it; I really enjoyed writing it.

Photo by Ms Tea - Flickr.com

The Sea Witch

At the bottom of the sea,

in the dark of deep;

The Sea Witch dwells inside her caves -

underneath the hungry waves.

Her loom is made from sailor’s bones,

drowned upon the reef;

and taken down to Davey Jones,

to weave her coats of grief.

‘Beware the sea witch' sailors warn,

In dark, and smoky taverns.

For fear of waking up to find,

They are lost inside her caverns.

Listen well, the sailor’s say, and you may hear

upon the waves,

The bones that clack, and snap, and crack -

As she pushes her loom, forward and back.