nature – Page 42 – don't confuse the narrator

images

There are times I can see the appeal of Twitter for a writer, particularly for poets. I often ‘find’ an image that I know will probably one day find its way into a poem, but that I don’t have time to think through and connect to other things right away.

So, in 140 characters – or less, to make it easily re-tweetable – I could capture that image in a kind of tweet’ku.

There again, I already spend enough time updating the blog, so perhaps I’m better off posting such things here, particularly as I can include the photo directly. Like this:

Cob nuts in mob caps

light interlude

Having very little to write about – and very little time to write – I thought a photo would brighten up the page:

This was taken by the Severn Estuary this afternoon and is, I think, typical of British summer weather where even a cloudy day can have a tremendous luminous quality.

the wayside flower (green and pleasant)

It’s a cliché, but England really is green, and I was amazed at the exuberance of the plants and wild flowers growing on untended verges. There’s a tiny blue cornflower tucked in the among the yellow and red here, and I couldn’t believe how truly blue it was. Here in Spain, they seem to come in a shade of over-washed lilac.

Still, it was a Spanish wayside that inspired this vignette:

Poppy-petal butterflies ride
at anchor on a charlock sea,
while in the depths below
ox-eyed monsters lurk.

dry’ku III

Ragged leaf veils
geometrical precision:
butterfly eggs.

In case anyone cares what sort of leaf it is, it’s a kiwi leaf, and the ones above are grape vines. And there is, indeed, something odd about the chaotic tumble of vines juxtaposed with the tiny perfect arrangement of insect eggs.

the way it really happened

Discussing the draft of a new poem last night, I found myself close to using the phrase “but that’s the way it really happened” as justification for including an apparently inessential word.

This startled me. After all, I’ve made it clear that I don’t think of poetry as autobiographical. Life is a stepping off point for poetry, but I think facts can – and should – be sacrificed if they interfere with the poetical worth of the writing. So what made this particular occasion different?
Continue reading “the way it really happened”