I adored my parents and extended family reciting nursery rhymes when I was very little, then moving to poems of such as the Owl and the Pussycat, then the wonderful rhythmical magical world of Hiawatha and on and on and on. At parties my family used to perform "party pieces" and I loved my Grandpa and Uncle and Dad perform very humorous poems that made me giggle a lot. I loved poems that would transport me on a journey and I could easily dream up fanciful images. I loved the strange mixture of words and surprising rhythms.
This is one of the first poems that I ever learnt by heart when I was little:
To the sun
Who has shone
All day,
To the moon
Who has gone
Away,
To the milk-white
Silk-white
Lily-white star,
A fond goodnight
Wherever you are
At school I recited Robert Burns poems in competitions and I particularly remember performing the Twa Corbies. It's a bit gruesome for a primary school pupil and that's why I probably liked it
The Twa Corbies
As I was walking all alane,
I heard twa corbies makin a mane;
The tane unto the ither say,
"Whar sall we gang and dine the-day?"
"In ahint yon auld fail dyke,
I wot there lies a new slain knight;
And nane do ken that he lies there,
But his hawk, his hound an his lady fair."
"His hound is tae the huntin gane,
His hawk tae fetch the wild-fowl hame,
His lady's tain anither mate,
So we may mak oor dinner swate."
"Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane,
And I'll pike oot his bonny blue een;
Wi ae lock o his gowden hair
We'll theek oor nest whan it grows bare."
"Mony a one for him makes mane,
But nane sall ken whar he is gane;
Oer his white banes, whan they are bare,
The wind sall blaw for evermair."
Growing up, I used to sit ontop of my dressing table and look out my bedroom window for hours at the sunset and the twinkling taillights of the cars as they snaked towards the Forth Bridge and get lost in poems, reading them and writing them. It was Frequently All about unrequited love and heartbreak! Here’s an example I came across today – I’m not sure what age I was – the teenage years:
Reach out and hold me
Someone!
Anyone!
I cry for the ache I feel.
A lonely pain in a busy room.
Miss Insignificant.
Miss Forgettable.
My head erect, my best dress on and
My pride in a matchbox by the door.
Someone talk to me.
Someone care.
Why do you skirt around me?
Look at me, I’m wonderful.
Can’t you see? Can’t you see?
I have an endless heart.
I have warmth to melt even the two poles.
I am soft and oh so special.
Why must you manipulate me?
Why do you use me?
I’m a vulnerable, shy and sacred soul
On a quest for my pride.
Will I find it or has it been
Lost
Like the grail?
I Didn’t believe in Anything I wrote and my low self confidence made me Stop writing anything. I began to not understand the poetry at school and start to turn from it. I Didn’t connect with the likes of John Donne for example. I didn’t have the poets I needed in my life – there was no Mary Oliver/ Rumi/ Kabir... in my life back then.
But Poetry wouldn’t let me go, it is Everywhere if you look. I Still see poetry everywhere and come across poems all over the place. Words zoom into me and touch me and affect me and stay with me, even the magic of song lyrics as well. Perhaps I don’t always intellectually understand or get every nuance but the power of this art bypasses the mind and intellect and touches my heart and I know it, witness it and experience it at a different, deeper level. I just can’t get enough.
A couple of years ago I was invited along to a beautiful evening poetry recital in Edinburgh with the Glorious Kim Rossen accompanied by the most Spine-tingling, Sublime cello music by Jami Sieber (on iPod). I wasn’t sure how I arrived at that space and why I had accepted the invitation to attend,
I felt Very unsure as I stepped into the room like I do when I really know something is about to happen and a change is in the air. I just knew at that point I wasn’t ready for the whole weekend workshop as I really didn’t believe in my abilities to write poetry anymore – although I wrote poetry growing up as a way to express myself, I blocked that idea fiercely, my inner critic pounced and screamed - how dare I think I would ever have anything of value to say and contribute.
I felt Kim's energy as she twinkled and glowed – I was mesmerised and captivated by her smile as she delivered a piece by Dereck Walcott (Love after Love) The minute the molecules were transmitted into the air I Felt their vibration. It was one of those times when the clock stopped and the room became empty and she was Only talking to Me, to My soul. She talked about living a poem and I embodied this one and knew it and it still speaks to me very deeply.
Love After Love
The time will come, when with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror,
and each will smile at the other's welcome
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you.
all your life, whom you have ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.
Dereck Walcott
I notice softly that my poetry is beginning to quietly purr again. A couple of months ago I pushed myself and went to a poetry writing workshop, it was glorious and a lot of Fun!!! Today I went to an amazing day of silence, poetry, music and movement. I wrote some words and spoke them aloud to a group of people who witnessed and received my offering. Maybe I’ll start writing more poetry?