I like poetry!

I do, I really do but it took me a lot of courage to say so because as soon as I say that I like it people expect me to be sort of knowledgeable and I'm not.
I can't quote poets, i haven't got a clue about poetic form, I can't discuss it in an academic manner.

When i say I like poetry I mean I like how it feels, what it does to me (and sometimes for me) I can read or hear a piece and feel it so much and I don't care whether it's true to form or written in the poets 'striped cheetah' period, whether it's 'famous' or whether it's someones only ever attempt (and yes, I do think that everyone has poetry within them).

I like writing poetry as well, sometimes I'm silly, or sad, sometimes I'm awesome or bad but it really doesn't matter because it's my poetry, my life, my feelings and as a sort of human being I do have many facets.
Whenever someone shows me a poem that they have written I remember that it is an extension of themselves and \I am privileged to be allowed that glimpse

blah blah

just thought I'd drop in and blow off some steam.

Spent a while this afternoon watching my family disintegrating and feeling as though I was watching from the outside. How strange that I felt no real emotion, that I could see all the anger and the vitriol and do nothing but hum quietly to myself. Hey perhaps I've finally lost it!

Moving on to other things I found I had two anonymous replies on my blog today. One, on a post about England's performance in the rugby world cup final (how long ago is that!) saying that the writer disagreed with me and could provide evidence if I just got in touch via PM errrrr, you're anonymous mate! and do i really care, my blog=my opinions. The second 'reply was on my flash 55 yesterday. Bloody spammer, I do not like people using my work to push their crap, my friends don't need it and I don't want it. I do not want to go down the road of checking stuff before it is allowed because I'd rather trust people to be nice (maybe that is my failing)

On a much more positive note , I'm enjoying writing again and just hoping that people aren't getting sick of me pushing my writing down their throats, going back to helium has done me good, I have re-discovered some old friends and made some new ones. Wow, two of my kids are writing on helium now. Jack lied about his age and signed up and Sophie re-activated her old account and has a poem at the number 1 spot (out of 112) which has made me very proud (and, as I introduced her I will earn a little on her success lol)


There, I feel better now, don't be strangers xx

another wholesale theft from my good friend KB

You Should Be A Poet

You craft words well, in creative and unexpected ways. And you have a great talent for evoking beautiful imagery... Or describing the most intense heartbreak ever. You're already naturally a poet, even if you've never written a poem.

What Type of Writer Should You Be?

what do you think?

following on from my previous posting about my writing ability.
I realised that all poems submitted to the site are available for public rating so follow the link and give your opinion please
MY POEM
be honest, I can take it lol

comment on my writing

I recently submitted a poem to a poetry site hoping that I would get some constructive feedback or (fingers crossed) win a prize.
Some time later I received an e mail rejecting the poem and I quote

'try to choose a recognised style'
'read some of our poets and look at how they use verse'

I was a little hurt but I know that poetry is a very individual thing.

I then submitted a second poem and today I received an e mail announcing that I had won an award! I felt so excited.

Opened the e mail and found that my 'win' entitles me to purchase an award pin, a plaque and a watch in recognition of my achievement.

*sob*

making all things positive

I am having lots of technical problems with my computer at the moment. One of these resilts in me being unable to post long articles in my blog (I don't know the exact length).

What a great opportunity to learn brevity and to practice writing in an economic style.

It's flash 55 time again

They do not stand close together
there is no need
their faces seem distant
both lost, deep in thought.

Her hand, proprietal
touches his arm
lingering slightly longer
than is necessary

telling the world
more clearly than any words
that he is taken,
he belongs.

The old man shrugs her off impatiently
'stop fussing woman!'

Writing group exercise

Part of this is from experience but I won't say which part hehe

See You Soon


The lights shifted, taunting me, throwing me off balance.

As I lay down, the room spun, I felt as though I was slipping, as though I was starting to fall. In free fall across space.

It became impossible to say with any certainty which was the floor and which the ceiling. Spinning, losing control.

I reached out and let my fingers brush the floor, grounding myself , finding a point of reference. The room stopped. My head continued it's savage journey.

Events of the evening flashed by the anticipation of freedom, the excitement of hitting the clubs with the guys and hopefully hitting on someone for the night.

Pictures replaying in my mind, fast forward, playing, pause on that brunette! Running over the action in crystal clear slow motion. The music hammered at our brains as we necked beer after beer. The cheers as I went for it on the tequila run and the hands supporting me as I headed for a seat and found the floor.

Fast forward again. In the street, loud and hard, invincible. Remembering how I started to flag and grinning as my mate slipped me an E.

Blurred images of jeering faces and people on the floor, blood and sirens, running and laughing taking a taxi,

Was it only moments ago falling through my door?

------------------------------------------------------------------------



A figure, dark and silent, face hidden by a deep cowl stands watching me. I struggle to focus, needing to see the figures face but somehow knowing I won't, can't.

I want to turn away, I want to dismiss my tormentor but I feel a coldness around my heart and all I feel is fear as I realise who this is and begin to recount the deeds and misdeeds of my short life.

The figure raises one emaciated hand and a fleshless finger beckons me, demanding obedience.

I whimper and begin to cry out

'not yet! I can't, don't make me'

The figure moves slowly, having all time, and none in which to fulfil it's duty. As it turns away it speaks, no more than a whisper but I hear those words forever

'I'll see YOU soon'

a wish for those moving on

I wrote this for two members of my writer's group who are going off to university but I keep seeing it as my subconscious smacking me around the head


Shame

If you never see beyond today's horizon
or seek an answer deeply hidden
If you only see the seed
and not the flower
and only ever go where you are bidden.

If you cannot reach to touch the sky
and never know the wonders found out there
and life's journey is planned and set and mapped
without the time to stop a while and stare.

If you look back one day and feel regret
and realise then all lives are not the same
and weep for all the chances you have missed
then my friend, that is the greatest shame.

writing group

As usual I really enjoyed the writer's group tonight. I am always somewhat in awe of the talent that some people display and there is always a surprise around the corner. Tonight our oldest member (in her 80's) produced a wonderful piece of fiction concerning night clubs and fighting fuelled by alcohol and cocaine, wow.

Sadly two of our really talented writers took their leave of us this evening as they are going away to university, I am truly sorry to see them go but O know that they are both destined for greatness and they need to take the next step.

Salvaged from Helium scrapyard

A new beginning

Senses begin to awaken
A whisper of warm air brushes my cheek and birds sing in celebration, I taste the tang of salt on the air and, opening my eyes I see the ocean spread before me like an endless plain.
I turn and see the land swelling gently like a soft, green, crumpled duvet.
The breeze carries the scent of woodland flowers and my heart feels at peace.

I sit for a while under the shade of an ancient oak tree and breath deeply and slowly as my mind slips into a meditative state.

I am aware, as though reading from a book, that I have suffered and that I have fought hard to keep my sanity. I know that I bear many invisible scars, memories of battles won and lost, conflict created and avoided, chances taken, chances missed. The principals, no longer performing, parade before me allowing me to see, often for the first time, the people beneath the greasepaint.

The parents who dominated, expected and watched now stripped of their masks revealing anxious, care worn faces.

The siblings no longer competing and squabbling show themselves as strong yet loving.

Partners, not too many and each with memories. Stripped of their costume and role they are a diverse group I am the only common denominator

My children in their roles as tormentors, leeches and succubi where played by young people in need of love and security, good people with good moral sense and hearts brim full of love.

Colleagues pass me too, strange that without their trappings, their uniforms, they seem a lot like me. They worry, they struggle and they hide their insecurities.

A touch, gentle on my cheek, wakes me and I look up into the smiling face of my beloved. A tear falls and splashes on my face, her hand grips mine. I am alive, I have a chance, a new beginning.

back in one of my comfort zones

I started back at my writing group this evening (it started last week but i was working *sob*).

The group runs at my daughter's school and usually has about 6 members. We bring in pieces we have written and read them out giving other members of the group the opportunity to offer feedback. There is a wonderful mixture of people young and old from a great variety of backgrounds and one of the lovely things is that we have members producing short pieces and members working on long term projects.

Writing aside I think the group have become friends and we spend a lot of time chatting. It takes a special kind of person to put up with my weirdness and fondness for double entendre and naughtiness hehe.

I will never forget that, when I was at my lowest ebb it was a special friend and this group that held my head above water until I learnt to swim

it's not easy!

I realised on Friday that a writing competition which i intended entering had a closing date of 31st July. I decided that i could still get an entry in but I hadn't bargained for my usual weekend. It is very difficult to get time for my self on a weekend and by the time I do it's usually so late that I can barely type let alone put together a piece that has any chance of winning.
In the end I have used a short story I have already written, not my best work but at least I entered.

writing group

there are such talented people in my writing group, sometimes i just want to sit and listen. Tonight a couple of people had written beautiful pieces where i had written shallow drivel which i was ashamed to read. I love writing and sometimes I write things I'm proud of but mostly I write to relax and as therapy, I know I'll never be truly talented and that's ok.

Writing Group

I actually managed to get to my writing group this evening. It's been a few weeks due to my work and I'm glad to say they missed me. I hadn't prepared any writing so I did a quick piece while I was waiting for the group to start.

We only have two more meetings before the summer break and I am already feeling sad about that, the people in the group are very diverse but they are all lovely people and they have played a part in keeping me human through the hard times.

They have often commented that my writing is intensely personal and that it is a window to my soul and I think, sometimes, this has been true. The longer serving members of my writing group know me better than anyone in the world barring one person and that is indeed a tribute to their care and understanding.

Taking a plunge

I have decided to include bit's of my writing on my other blog (http://musingtoad.blogspot.com/)now and again. I think it is appropriate because much of my writing is very much where I am and the way my though processes are going