Hi all, hope everything going well for you.
Went to first meeting last Tues of local poets group in Northampton - LovePoetsxxx. Theme of the workshop was "discovery".
I drew a spiderdiagram; placing discovery in the centre and then drew in some legs labelled: internal, external, "Love travellers" (i.e. a relationship of discovery) known/unknown, life journeys, places. Basically aspects of what discovery can mean.
As an aside: T.S. Eliot, From Four Quartets, "Little Gidding":-
"We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time."
Did the person change or the place? Perhaps both.
In my library; Music CD's on exploration:
Vangelis 1492 Conquest of paradise
Jean Michel Jarre, Waiting for Cousteau (title track)
...back to the workshop, theme discovery...
I decided to cut up the word discovery itsself to see if I could work the bts into some sort of poem, here's my attempt:-
Dis me not, me real.
No mask or cover.
Roots riddim @ tha disco
stranded in a corner,
red spotlit cove.
Very in tha light, naked
I believe that David Bowie, used a similar technique in cutting up old diaries and re-arranging the words.
I also tried to do the first draft of a longer poem, realising afterwards that Shakespeare had written a line in one of his love sonnets - Sonnet 19 - re "times antique pen".
Yet I Don't Know Yet (working title!)
All attempts are pointless
In time my skin became the map
all creased, furrows, lines.
Places inked: "here", theresville",
"boredom gulch", "lovers rest".
All attempts pointless, to map before time.
You'll try - we all do-
It's no crime.
Be patient, my tip for you.
I think I'll also try to work in /develop the idea of experience leaving a mark - internal watermark on us. I will just mention the book by Philip Roth, The Human Stain as well worth reading:
I will round up with one of my own poems - "Beachcombing" - keep safe till next time. Louis :-)
Beachcombing out my life,
Of ends of cheque books, written and spent.
Of events and costs recorded,
The pages rent.
Though the tides recede, these things rest and mingle;
With the tidemarks in myself,
As sifting through life’s shingle I find:
Some photos of a last day out,
Last letter from Mother before his death,
Grandfather’s pit recorded;
Some rosin for the doghouse bass,
To let the bow grip the string, give breath.
When next at St. Bees beachcombing
Beside the sand and seaweed frond;
I “think on” as my Gran would say,
Of strands that link before and now, to beyond.
And my wind and April sun blessed ears listen;
As the sea speaks murmuring,
Through breakers’ foam and glisten.
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