Time is one of those things that is impossible to avoid. It scares me. It makes me feel under pressure. It makes me feel wasteful. It makes me worry. In fact, I can't even have a non-digital clock in the house because that tick tock feels like nails being hammered into my brain. I even refuse to wear any type of wristwatch that has ticking hands because, believe it or not, I can still hear it counting my life away.
Poetry is about time. Ideas require time to mature. And once an idea has been captured on paper, it requires even more time. Editing time. Time to be away from the poet, locked in a drawer and allowed distance. More editing time.
Poetry isn't easy and effortless. It requires dedication. It requires you to give it a significant amount of your time. It is like a needy child that never grows up.
I'll conclude this post with a little piece of silliness. I sometimes think it is good to just play with language, have fun, and write something that isn't polished (and which you have little intention of polishing). It takes the pressure away (sort of).
s
d
r
a
7:24
a.m.
w
at the entrance
– banging & bleeping p
machines
as commuters rush – I send smoke rings
u
before joining
Slipping
into black-suit currents that give
the
direction I am yet to discover. Swarming d
Posters
sing out dream, o
excitement,
sun, escape w
Sliding past as the stairs
clunk n
taking us further beneath the city.
The
new sun, green foliage and yapping Yorkie
is
distant now. LOST
to
tunnels, stale urine light and a voice
(neither
robot nor human) that warns of gaps
I
forget what above ground is like
The
scents and sights of High Barnet’s
open
platform fizzle into darkness
Down
here, rats scuttle
below feet
steal
and move at speed.
An
artificial breeze as tube arrives
packed
– humans as sardines – I wait
for
the next
Take a seat
at
7:38 a.m.
remove a book
read
poetry until I reach my destination.
Thank you for reading,
Lara