Tuesday, 6 August 2013

New | Poetry Corner

I've been writing poetry since I was in primary school and can't imagine ever stopping. Although I go through phases of writing all the time and then not writing for a while, I always come back to it. I love playing with words, clicking them into place as if solving a puzzle. I love the sounds of words, hearing the waves and edges as they string together when reading poetry out loud. I love the look of words, the curves and circles, lines and sides. When I'm sad, or happy, I pour it all out in a big word explosion before meticulously combing through the first draft until I hit upon the last, final draft. The process of writing poetry is so satisfying. I get a kick out of creating something 'new', something that's all mine. 

Reading poetry goes hand in hand with writing poetry. You can't truly enjoy writing unless you read a bunch too! Below are some of the poetry anthologies and guides I used when studying a creative writing module as part of my OU degree. I get a little post-it note crazy when I'm reading! One of my favourite things to do is pick a poem I'm particularly fond of or intrigued by and then try to create my own poem using an idea held in the original; be it a rhyme scheme, sound pattern or theme. 

The idea for a weekly Poetry Corner feature on the Bluebird & the Robin came from rediscovering a stack of old notebooks containing various drafts of half finished poems and a conversation I had with Megan from the wonderful Little Miss Average. It turns out Megan not only also majored in English Lit too but she also writes poetry! She shared one of her  brilliant poems with me and that gave me an extra push to get going with writing my own poems again. I absolutely loved the creative writing module I took and I received really encouraging feedback, so I'm biting the bullet and diving back in to the world of sonnets, vignettes, iambic pentameter and alliteration! 

For the first Poetry Corner I thought I'd share some of my previous work rather than something new, as a way of easing myself back in gently... I have to admit I am feeling quite nervous about this as it's always a little nerve wracking when you show your work to the world, but I'm approaching it with a healthy dose of denial and assuming no-one will see it so what does it matter?! I've actually posted the following poems on one of my old blogs in the past when I was having a 'brave moment', so if you've seen them before feel free to skip to the end! I've included the first and final drafts of 'You passed, and so' because I thought it might be interesting to show how the poem changed and developed from the original idea to the final version. I hope you enjoy reading! *covers eyes and hides*


The first time we wrote a poem together it
was as if
a word bullet blasted apart everything I'd
ever read,
sending paper streaming from my 
bookshelf, broken biros
coating my hair, my fingers, my lips with 
your ink, 
the tips of 't' and the curves of 'c', every
letter saturated-
a carnage of multi-clausal sentences, 
full stops, exclamations, words perched
on edges of pages, tumbling, 

a shower of word bullets, firing at my skin
quick bee stings. 

You passed, and so (first draft)

you are in the cracks between
the paving stones- I'm sure I've felt it-
you swim and expand, sliding 
through the roots of

the sticky tree, that drops 
sap on our parents' cars during the
hot summer, dads scraping 
in vain at windscreens;

in the burnt red bricks that 
make up our houses,
the low grey walls, ours void of hedges,
the squeaky gates swung open;

in the soft slap-slap of trainers, 
and the rattle of the postman's cart,
and the sweating glass bottles 
jingling in the back of the milkman's van;

in a day where we are hanging 
crisp white sheets in small gardens, a 
cool breeze licking the backs of our 
you became our street. 

You passed, and so (final draft)

you became our street. 
Sinking between cracks in the paving
beneath dining room floorboards- chink of 
in curves of spoons, glass tumblers, we 
catch you,
briefly. The soft slap-slap of small trainers, 
in the red bricks that make up our houses;
flitting between billowing crisp white
we shake and hang to dry in our gardens,
a cool breeze licking the backs of our
you became our street. 


There is a fox in my garden. 
I see him from behind smudged glass. 
Fur as red as a new two pence piece,
a blanket of autumn,
gold and yellow flecks among
the ginger canvas. 
He watches me, head cocked;
sweeps his feather duster tail
around his feet. 

I create finger prints,
ghosts against cold glass. 

The fox stares. 
I watch him extend his lithe body, 
before leaping and pouring 
himself over the fence, 
champagne flecks catching
the light. 

In next week's Poetry Corner I'll be posting a brand new poem that I'm working on. I'd like to post about published poetry as well but I'm not sure if I'm allowed to what with copyright, so for now you're stuck with my poetry ramblings! However, I'm always keen to read and share poetry, so if you'd like to guest post for Poetry Corner and have your own poem (or poems!) featured send me a tweet @Imogen_Massey, email me imogenmassey23@gmail.com or feel free to comment below. The more the merrier, I say!

                                                       post signature

No comments :

Post a Comment

Thanks for taking the time to stop by! I read and reply to every comment and would love to hear what you think x