Back in Aotearoa

Back in the Antipodes
The land of the Long White Cloud
Aotearoa
New Zealand

Beaches, Barbecues
and Jandals
Awaiting the
Long Hot Summer



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The Naming of the Poem

The name comes last you know
You have to write the poem
before you call it
anything

Its like a baby
fresh from the womb
Whose name follows the placenta
self evidently

God knows
what this ones called?

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Today I Ate a Woolf

Today I ate a Woolf
Not a Common Woolf
or even a Common Reader Woolf

Instead it was a Diary Woolf
Volume Four, 1931
and it slipped down a treat

Like a well aged Wine
Aged Woolf
Tastes mighty fine.


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Poetry is Such Hard Work

Writing poetry is such hard work
That I avoid it at all costs
But cunningly the muse
Sneaks in and in her
most persuasive way
Gets me to put fingers to
the keyboard
and write...

How she does it
I don't know
but better men and women than I
have tried to resist her alluring charms
and failed miserably

So the Score is Muse One, and Me Zero



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The Night Watch

Tears and worries
multiply through
the abyss of the night

But mornings rays
disperse the murk
and despair
and restores
the soul

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]

Proust on Poetry

I am reading Proust's In Search of Lost Time and enjoyed this snippet on poetry.

"My mother had to abandon her quest, but managed to extract from the restriction itself a further delicate thought, like good poets whom the tyranny of rhyme forces into the discovery of their finest lines" (Vol 1, p31).

While we live in an age of blank verse this thought still holds true. The force of writing and the discipline results in good poetry.

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