Strength in Numbers

Good evening readers.

This week, the theme for the blog is numbers. I decided to wait until almost 6pm, 12 hours after normal to post this, I figured more people would be home from work by now- and numbers are key.

In relating numbers to poetry then, I got to thinking just how many little sequences there actually are. Numbers are clearly a maths thing, not a words thing but when you can draw graphs of poems, label up rhyme schemes and count stanzas, stresses, syllables and such like, I think numbers certainly DO apply to poetry.

The plan for this evening was to encourage you all to write more. I feel a bit like a rebel tweeter in the middle east in asking you all to voice your opinions but, the harsh reality we face is that a silly pillock with no real grasp of everyday people’s values and the morals of a scab is charged with running the country. An even sadder fact is that a public school tosser has his hand up that man’s arse and is actually running the country- he knows the things people hold dear but frankly, couldn’t give a toss.

So, when it comes to making ourselves heard, a riot for an afternoon is tomorrow’s chip wrapper, a hashtag rant over #bbcQT or a public breakdown- complete with a shotgun and (later) a fishing rod  are probably not the ways to do anything lasting. What will be knocking around in thirty years though, is that old book of poems you wrote down and passed on. That book in the hands of your potentially unborn grandchildren will be a voice of reason in amongst historical notes about cost cutting saving or not saving the economy. That book, alongside your friend’s book and the books we go out and buy all the time- they are the truth. They are the history and what people should be remembering from these times, not the scaremongering headlines or rhetorical false promise speeches.

The emotional history of a period is, I would say, a more accurate reflection of the time and in order for that to happen, people need to write what they feel. I put it to you, dear reader, that a poet is a wild bird. We write our songs unnoticed and chirp away until our hearts are content, usually to a small audience of bystanders. Take away one of our voices, you may not notice at all. Stop all the birdsongs though, and the world is a much less spirited place.

On the flip side of that same coin,  just think of all the noise we could make if we all keep moving together.  Our regular events are nearly always standing room only for the latecomers now and, as a result, people like the mayor and library are having to notice the group. A couple of years ago, being somewhat frozen out of the Wordpool meetings, I’d have doubted that could happen. We’ve got strength in numbers people, and we need to keep our mass squawking going.

I had planned to share a poem with you all today. I took a special walk on my lunchtime to finish the thing off but, somehow being organised has let me down today- I’ve left it at work! I’m not about to do an 8 mile round trip for a first draft so, I hope you’ve enjoyed reading- that is all you’re having from me today.

Cheers for reading, S.