Releasing more #poetry into the wild: "In concert", the second poem in #AnachronismΨ. I'll tell you more about the music in it after the poem, but first, you can just read it unfiltered, in the thread below...
You should be here.
The crumbling leaves and chilling brilliant sky
are all the ochre golds and blues you loved, and I
can feel the wheel of fate: you will appear –
you should be here.
You should be here.
You’ve always loved the ancient stone of vaults.
The piper’s dirge and steady cello-surge would jolt
your soul with love of old if you could hear –
you should be here.
You should be here.
The churchyard holds its breath. The bushes glow.
I watch the stately lamplit gate and wait. I know
this moment’s made for us. The night is clear:
you should be here.
Here's the #poem in full. You can also see it on my website, here, mdkerr.com/Poetry/Anachro…, where I'm gradually collecting all the poems I release into the wild.
Rather magically, for someone who struggles with names, I remembered the name of the band that was playing that night, twelve years ago, @TellingBees, since sadly disbanded, but you can still hear their music: tellingthebees.co.uk. Even more magically,...
one of my first writing students, now a close friend, has introduced me to various of her friends, including Josie Webber - who I then saw again at the poetry night, Hear the Word, playing the cello and taking my breath away. Her playing is unbelievable. josiemusic.net
I saw her again this May Day, playing outside St Mary's Church, at the Vaults and Gardens, and again I lost time and dimensions changed just hearing her play, and wrote her a poem about her playing. Then at a dinner party a couple of weeks later, she was there, and guess who...
... she used to play cello for? Telling the Bees. So with absolute zero memory for faces, and only a shaky grasp of names, I think I've found my original cellist from that extraordinary, painful evening. ❤️
unroll please!
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Releasing more #poetry into the wild: "Song for the Wounded". I'll give my spin on it after the #poem, because I believe quite strongly that people should be free to read a poem however they like, just as we all feel free to take song lyrics and make them OURS.
With songs, we can take lyrics and apply them like poultices to our own wounds or joys, "yes, like THAT, it's exactly that!" - and ignore the lyrics that don't fit. And I believe we should always feel free to USE #poetry the same way. That's not the only way possible, of course.
There's a different pleasure in unpeeling and interpreting a #poem only on its own terms - but even then, I'm a death-of-the-author believer: if the words in the poem offer you that meaning, that's yours. What I *intended* is neither here nor there. You own its meaning now.
I'm doing #NaPoWriMo - I won't share the draft poems cos I like some sheltering privacy to write freely, but I love seeing other people's prompts and starting points, so I'll share mine too.
Day 1 of #NaPoWriMo (yesterday; haven't done today's yet): I wrote a draft of a list poem, listing one experience in terms of just its sounds, just its sights, etc. It was a really interesting exercise because I was writing about chronic pain but not about the actual sensations.
Day 2 of #NaPoWriMo: my #writingprompts came from my partner who suggested I wrote him a poem, and gave me two options: "futility", and "waiting for summer". I used both, for a free-write free-verse poem.
I had another EPIPHANY at Hear the Word (Oxford's loveliest poetry evening) - it always reminds me what poetry is FOR, in different ways, always around the crux that this is just a normal thing that humans do, the same way we cook and sing, and that it's something to share.
I read early on, and in the first break, someone came up and asked me if there was anywhere she could find my poetry. Very apologetically, I explained that I'd taken it all off my website, as journals and competitions see that as "published", and so they won't accept it.
I gave her my card and offered to just email her the poems I'd read, instead. Then after the music, I had almost the identical conversation in reverse, with someone whose poetry I really wanted to see more of - and this time it was her apologising, and giving me *her* card.
We're halfway into the first paragraph and... we've already reached the thigh-spanking.
Sweet Christ.
*falls off the bed*
*continues reading on a cold hard floor, which might help*
But you know, it's not just about the sex. (That might be the cold hard floor speaking.) The man has a lovely way with words and eye for an apt metaphor, and... Oh look, it's all slid gracefully and discreetly back into DEFCON 1 sensuality.