The idea behind a poem, a memory in this case, a short story of a memory. How do you like you poems? Narratives, with a story running through or photographic, an idea condensed to words. At our poetry evening this month the subject style came up. We talked about how different ideas come in and out of fashion, I tend to write short blank verse, I like the imagist idea of condensing an idea to its smallest point. Paul Éluard is one of my favourites. I like to try different styles, yet time and again I heave out sections and words from my writing, searching for the most efficient way of saying something. Probably the reason I’ll never write a novel, not in a hurry anyway and why my wife thinks I hide everything I want to say. One of the group described it as somehow taking away the scaffolding from the words, then you cast the reader into the unknown, an interesting thought.
A Clocks Workings
When it all ran like clockwork,
before the screens that lit up and you wound
a mechanical world of gears and springs.
In an attempt to save the radios, Grandad
brought home broken watches. Strapless and silent
I was looking for the reason to why they stopped.
I took them apart, carefully regarding the wheels and cogs,
guarding the screws and plates as they came apart.
Working through the layers collecting pins and pivots.
Then there was the time to rebuild them,
my Frankenstein watches. I never did find
the solution for such small puzzles.
What do you like in the work you read?
What about the layout and the effect it has on the words?
And also, can the words just sound good together with little narrative or idea?
Let me know what you think.
This past few days I have been writing with trees in mind, the pictures I have taken on Crook Peak, and other places creep into dreams. Like the Old Man Willow from Lord of the Rings, they can grow to dislike the modern world and its pace that leaves them in an ever decreasing sphere of influence.
Each tree finds a space to challenge a landscape
with time and slow gripping roots.
Talking with the stone,
reaching into the weakness of the earth,
drinking the sun passing through summer,
sleeping when the wind fights back.
You won't hear the words,
the disdain for quick passing moments.
They see your shadow, your death.
They won't know you till the saw bites
and then they understand the difference
between waiting and war.
They say the cold is returning to England. The North wind will perhaps bring snow. One thing is for sure, winter is here and people are waiting to see how deep we drift this year. The old wives tales of berries red and late leaves on the trees tell of hard times ahead. I wait to see how it goes, for now, work to be done and family to attend to, what to get for that special christmas gift? All I have is ideas for the moment.
Walking through the trees, a cold morning. A slight inversion holding some mist low across the levels. All in all a perfect Sunday stroll.
Wide views and Glastonbury in the distance.
I’ve sent off a few entries to competitions this week. Working on some others, below is just a fragment, a piece to be extended, It’s also the 1st December, so now Christmas can be officially started. Presents, family, decorations, I love the build up, don’t you? Just an aside, this is my two three four post, good numbers don’t you think.
we walk into the pool of cool air
beneath the trees to look through
the leaves at the shaded blue of the sky.
The limbs stretch out to hold and hide us.
Each year the tree grows and the leaves fall
in a bright yellow circle on the ground.
Today is the third anniversary of Not Yet Here. Looking back it took nearly two months to get a comment, longer for a like. In November and December 2010 I had 12 visitors.
This past year I’ve beaten my visitor numbers for previous years, I’ve gone over 10,000 visits, and even completed the National Poetry Writing Month in April by posting a new poem every day for all 30 days. Statistics aside, I’ve been writing consistently, getting back into photography and enjoying reading blogs from all over the world. Travel, poetry, photography, stories and essays, I’ve found so many different things to read.
Without the final ingredient though, all would be wasted. And that is all of you who have visited, stayed a while, said hello and followed my blog. Thank you all for stopping by, I appreciate it and welcome the visits and comments.
Thanks for another year of blogging, I hope to keep hearing from you all…
A Marker For The Track Ahead
…to see you on the hills, and as always I hope you enjoy each step on the road.
The journey continues.
We hide what we don't want to see
in the other memories, in the light
crossing the room, the dust in the air.
Trivial details that we cling to,
the nurse who cried while she waited,
all behind the noise of the world outside.
There was no room for this,
no-one who knew what to say.
You think it will pass with time.
It doesn’t. Nobody tells you that either.
That collection of moments recurring,
the image of the dust in the air. In the space,
the silence, adding a layer of recollection.
It’s Free Write Friday again. This weeks Prompt is about circles.
Circle of Life: Death & Rebirth
It’s fall and I watch the leaves change into beautiful colors then trickle down from the trees, skip across the road and fade away, soon to be tucked in beneath a sheet of white. Their passing, even in all its beauty, still leaves me a bit mournful this time of year. It’s both lovely and gloomy at the same time. I begin to ponder the circle of life and try to make sense of it all. The changing of the seasons has always been a wonderful metaphor of life and death for me and in some ways, it eases my fear. It springs up hope for what comes next, with a hint that there has to be something more, something after, that the end, is not really the end. It goes on.
I’d like you to consider the changing seasons and circle of life as your prompt this week. I am really looking forward to reading your thoughts. Should make for some great discussions so be sure to read each others work.
Snow on the hills.
Autumn fades in to Winter.
Those colours we marvelled at
gone to black and white,
to crisp frost and hoar.
A waiting quiet for the storm.
Noisy windswept winter.
The hardness of snow falling
littering the ground with white.
And yet the days will lengthen
again to show everything
has continued while we hid
inside, scared for our cold skin.
I went back to Crook Peak this Sunday gone, a leg stretch and to enjoy a fine autumn day. The depth of view you get on days like this never fail to stop me in my tracks. Some more HDR work and fun with the camera.
Across the Levels
Bright Autumn colour
Finding new paths, new viewpoints in the local landscape is something that leads a walker back to favourite places time after time. On a sunny day the main paths can fill with families and strolling groups. Mountain bikers and horse riders mean you need to be aware of faster moving users of the countryside. Especially when using the bridleways that criss-cross the area. Finding quieter paths is a way to spread the load on this beleaguered landscape, we all want our space. It needs to be used wisely to ensure it lasts for a while longer.
Enjoy the trails as Autumn winds its way towards winter. The cold air opens views and a crisp morning holds the stillness around you.