writing and writers – Page 155 – don't confuse the narrator

poetical preconceptions

Last night, not having very much new to take for discussion at the writers’ group, I took along the poem That certain feeling (included in last week’s post not enough poetry).

It is such an old piece that I didn’t think anyone in the group would have seen it, and although I don’t really expect to go back and re-write it, I thought it might provoke some discussion, particularly as it’s quite unlike the pieces I’ve taken to the meeting in recent months.

It did in fact provoke some interesting comments about line breaks and line length, as well as drawing my attention once more to the subject of narrators.
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fragmented thoughts on haiku

The other day I tagged yet another post as ‘haiku’. Later, in the comments, I admitted that the description was probably inaccurate, and it occurs to me that any reader who clicks to read other haiku posts on the blog might infer that I don’t actually know what the word means.

There are plenty of factors that may be taken into account when defining a haiku, including number of lines, syllable count, subject, kigo (season word), kireji (cutting word) etc.
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seeing for yourself

As I’ve said before on the blog (of pigs and poetry), I’ve had in mind for years now to write a poem about la matanza, but have never actually witnessed a pig slaughter. I’d just about psyched myself up to do so this year, but when the time came, the neighbour and his helpers only hobbled the pigs with ropes and then drove them away squealing.

Even this tile – given me recently by a fellow poet who hoped, I think, that it would inspire me to finish the piece I took in to the writers’ group for commentary back in December – isn’t a lot of help as it doesn’t seem to show the actual killing.

I was reminded of the fact I was prepared to witness a slaughter in order to be able to write about it when I was reading during my coffee break this morning.
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yesterday’s poem

I was thinking about poetry yesterday, even if I didn’t manage to find time to write anything on the blog about it. Indeed, I found something very like a poem at the bus station in Madrid – far busier on the Monday before Easter than the quiet small-town bus station in the photo.

I’m not sure if the concept of ‘found poem’ exists in Spanish, but if it does, I think this must count as one (line breaks have been tweaked, but the wording is as found):
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april

Laundry day

Spring blossoms scent the air;
the kitchen smells
of Marseilles soap and ironing.

April is not only the cruelest month, it’s also National Poetry Month. (Though I suppose that may depend on what nationality you are.)
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