fragments – Page 7 – don't confuse the narrator

serial poetry

Currently, my mind seems as empty of poetry as the teasel head is of flowers. But I am used to the emptiness, and the idea of “writer’s block” is not something that particularly bothers me.

Recently, a friend said she would sometimes take “as long as eleven hours” to write a poem. She is a skilled writer, with many small prizes and multiple publications to her credit, so this clearly works for her. But her writing seems to be more methodical than mine, and I gather that she works on each piece diligently until it is complete before starting the next one.

This is not at all the way I work.
Continue reading “serial poetry”

heads, hair, hats

Blue-rinsed and perm-headed
hydrangea matrons
eavesdrop our conversation.

As we breakfasted on a café terrace the other day, the great heavy mops of hydrangeas nodded gently at us like elderly women listening in and approving our plans for the day.

At least, that was my first thought.
Continue reading “heads, hair, hats”

the language of flowers

outside the florist’s,
the bright chatter
of pansies.

Which is strange, really, as the word “pansy” derives from the French pensée – “thought”. It would be logical to expect them to do more thinking than talking, but they always look to me as if they are checking out the passers-by and gossiping enthusiastically.

swallows II

Dark blades slice through the air, turn
sideways to the sun, flash silver, turn
into bright fish that glide in endless blue.

There are no swallows in the picture as they move too fast for my limited photography skills. The sky, on the other hand, is never-ending blue and doesn’t pose the same problems.

The post title is “swallows II” because this is not the first poem I have posted about swallows.

four-oh-four

Recently, I seem to be waking very early. One morning when I checked the time it was four minutes past four; it occured to me I should be writing a poem with the line “4:04: sleep not found”.

That idea didn’t seem to go anywhere, but here are a few pre-dawn lines:

awake again at 4 am

birdsong weaves around the house;
the chorus swells and fades
in fugal waves of sibilance
to spin a spell that teases out
the softening grey.