Winter is here and so is Monday. The moon is nearly full and it's freezing out. Time to put on the scarf and hat. Brrr! A nice cup of tea in front of the fire would be a plan. So, it's decision time. Will I go to the writers' group which is in under two hours? The last writers' meeting was very non writer like. A disaster - that's what I'd call it. We had: fake enthusiasm and feedback relating to how great the writing was. Any romantic notions I had of being a writer or the benefits of a writers' club were smashed on its head. What really should have taken place was a good feedback and comments session and what one could've done to improve their piece of writing. Because I was a bit taken back by this I only managed to lend my thoughts on not using the word stoned as many times as the poet did in their piece and suggested substituting it, perhaps once, for another word. And that was it. I read my poems and not a word of criticism came my way. Move on - next writer. I didn't join for silence. I'm a very harsh critique of my work and it's nice to hear any genuine advice. I've some work done for tonight, if anything maybe a writers' group is good to get me writing and practice reading my poetry out loud to an audience.
Here are two pieces of poetry. Perhaps I'll record them one day.
I remember when we nested atop
that old wooden porch between chitchat
and mouthfuls of wine we peered through
insect clouds swarming floodlights.
When weary of aerial assaults
we crawled as centipedes
back into our woodwork,
where we lived, monastic, confessing
sins we had done or thought to do, muttering
novenas, whispering incantations, lighting
candles for the dead.
Moths take flight, circle lampposts,
swarm floodlights, dance in neon signs,
beat wings, dart, hum, then drift away.
At night we shuffle in sleep.
You and I housed comfortable and close.
We live like memories, flick like pictures,
move like leaves, speak like neighbours,
travel like a train. We float on last year’s
coats, tumble onto folded shirts, settle
on threads of a knitted wool jumper,
hug fibres of a winter coat. Then settle
on camphor and disappear into white.