Progress in Poetry

 

Poetry reading at the Redroaster, Brighton

 

I'm pleased to say that my poetic attempts are making slow progress: the Stanza Group I belong to in Brighton had a reading in Brighton last week, which was my first experience of reading my creations in public.  And quite scary it was, in prospect.  Once in front of the microphone, however, the nerves calmed down.  An audience of about fifty people listened with interest and some were even kind enough to tell me afterwards that they'd enjoyed hearing them.  Generally a boost to the ego.  I've put a recording of the five poems I read on Soundcloud under the name "Brighton Reading" - just click on this link and then click on the squiggly graph and the sound should come out of the speakers on your computer.   

 

I'm not sure where this is all going, but in spite of the builders I'm reading a wide variety of poetry each day.  I managed to get through the major part of Ezra Pound's "Cantos", and am currently reading his other poetry.  Also Sylvia Plath, whose iconic status among feminists tends to obscure her daunting achievement in a sadly brief life.  And an excellent anthology of poetry from Skelton to Dryden, edited by Michael Schmidt.  On 20 February I'm due to start an online course with Catherine Smith.  I'm a bit wary of creative writing courses, because I think they're producing what someone has referred to as the "commodification" of poetry, but I've enjoyed the workshop sessions with the Stanza Group, and we'll see where this goes.

 

I'm still attending the monthly meetings of the Hastings Poetry Group, who are less earnest in their approach.  The theme for the next one is "Candles".  I do a serious poem and some light verse, as two separate contributions.  Here's the light one:

 

THE CANDLE

It began with a gift

from a visiting friend:

I opened it, sniffed

a peculiar blend

of patchouli and spice.

“Thank you,” I said, “very nice.”

 

Scented candles were new

- this was quite long ago –

and I hadn’t a clue

as to where it should go:

so I placed it for then

in my ex-husband’s den.

 

I’d not managed to banish

the smell of my ex

that I’d thought would soon vanish

but it stayed like a hex.

Though I’d had the den painted

it smelt somehow tainted.

 

So, later that night

I lit the small wick

and left it alight.

“That should do the trick,”

I thought with a grin

as I poured a stiff gin.

 

 

The next thing I knew

was a slap on the cheek

and a voice saying “Sue,

are you able to speak?”

I was out in the street

but somehow felt heat:

 

 

when I opened my eyes

I saw my house burning,

flames high as the skies,

and felt my head turning:

“W-what happened?” I stammered.

“You fell.  You got hammered.”

 

 

The insurance came good

and I rebuilt the place.

Paint, plaster and wood

have removed every trace

of the smells I had tried

to expunge from inside.

 

 

There’s a gentle perfume

throughout the new space,

and I’ve scented each room

with diffusers and sprays:

pomegranates and lime,

apple-blossom and thyme.

 

 

Life’s now smelling sweet

but the lesson I’ve learnt

is: get close to the heat

and your wings will be burnt.

Best to live on your own

in a candle-free zone.

Antony Mair