Category: writing and writers

à propos April

In the United States and in Canada, April is National Poetry Month.

Although we don’t actually celebrate the month in the UK, focusing instead on a single Thursday in October for National Poetry Day, the concept of “national” celebrations has become very blurred in recent years. With modern tech and global comms, it’s sometimes hard to ignore the sheer number and volume of voices taking it for granted that what’s true in their region must be true everywhere.

So there is a little bit of my mind that seems to think I should be writing or posting poetry throughout the month.
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small gratitudes

There’s been a lot written in recent years about the importance of being grateful.

The traditional definition of gratitude is probably focused on the recognition and appreciation for things we receive, or actions that benefit us, particularly when we’ve done nothing to warrant these.

The problem with that idea, though, is that it implies the existence of a benefactor – someone who does something for us, or gives something to us. There are so many things in life to be grateful for and many of them just seem to happen without any external intervention; if you don’t believe in a Higher Power, there’s no one specific to thank. Perhaps the thing to do then, is to convert gratitude into an attitude.
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the same but different

March has been an odd month and although I did just remember to mention St David’s Day and the start of spring here on the blog, I was a bit late with both of them.

Today, of course, is Mother’s Day, and to tell the truth, I’ve been late with that, too. Sadly, even the fact that the clocks changed last night and we lost an hour hardly provides me with an excuse for failing to get a card posted to arrive in time at my mother’s house.
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spring is sprung

I find it impossible to see the signs of spring and not to want to take photographs and write poetry.

But springtime has been written about so often by poets that it’s become almost a cliché in its own right. Anyway, whether it’s due to global warming, geographical location or faulty memory, the seasons just don’t seem to be as clear cut as they used to be.
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lacking inspiration

Once more, my mind is as empty as a dead teasel head.

I’m sure it has plenty of potential spaces for ideas, but there really doesn’t seem to be anything in them. And just at the moment it seems unlikely that there ever will be again.

Even the next poetry reading that I am appearing at has me stumped: the theme is sport and I really don’t have much in my files that is in the least appropriate.
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