Poetry can be many things ~ and many styles ~ Romantic, Political, Urban, Free Verse, A Voice ...
POETRY can be LIBERATING
A poem can be many things to many people
It can convey Information …
It can portray Vivid Images …
It can be a Story written in Verse …
It can be Lyrical …
It can be a Declaration of Love …
It can be an Idea - an Opinion - an Experience …
It can uphold Identity: Gender – Culture – Sexual Orientation ...
But Poetry is DEFINITELY about FEELINGS and EMOTION.
I can hear some groaning …Yes, Poetry can be full of heartache and loss [maybe why many of us don’t want to read it], but in a time of suffering, we might relate to ‘loss’ in poetry - in a similar way that we might relate to a Trauma in a Soap Opera - or a Letter to an Agony Aunt [or Uncle].
Writing poetry can be Constructive, it can help us assert our own Identity, Authority, Ideas, express our Emotional Selves, Voice Opinions, even be a Place to Rant.
We can go back as far as primitive man who chanted to externalise emotions for the tribe’s well-being.
… So, Poetry can help be Uplifting:
It can be a window into our inner selves
An outlet for pent-up emotions
It can take us forward …
Let yourself free on the page – It’s a Place to Grow Ideas and Hope
So, Yes, Poetry does have a future, in us.
Gillian Hesketh 2007/10
Living Room
In gem-stoned carnival,
a newborn baby cries
red in transportable cradle
his mother, singing the blues
in soft hues, tears for naught,
she aught to pull herself
together, scrambling over foam filled
cushions her toddler clambers, tips
the murky stench of springtime daffodils
over self and
sofa, now patterned with grey wet
patches, a slice of swirling jam roll
squashed between the cushions, marking
the place where the mouse dared to go,
seeing its tail, leaving its trail
rejecting
impromptu clientele nipping in
for a quick manicure
before the school run, pushed past
by puppy skidding in from the rain
on lacquered wood floors
jumping up with brown muddy paws
at white polished doors,
sniffs out the crumby jam swirls
licks them up, curls up
on the chair just as
eliminated toys make way
for dinner, beef and two veg served on
a tray; baby soft babbling
replaced with football chanting and
the murmuring of a mother’s milk
with the swish of beer.
all sleeping now,
the news ends with a flash.
Gillian
Onions
Peeling onions makes me cry
I think of you
Layer after layer
Lie after Lie
Wet
Stinging
Acid
Tears
Huge
Heart Felt Drops
Gillian
The Contents of my Fridge are Lonely.
Leftover lasagne for two
lurking at the rear,
alongside, one can of beer.
A half-empty bean tin drying,
sharp lid lying
on a slimy mushroom head
beside the solitary bacon, one slice left,
curled up, out of date, hate
being lonely.
The chalky egg sits
lopsided in its crate, awaits
ready-grated cheese, anticipates,
what a state.
Slam the door.
No-one is hungry.
Gillian
Socks in the Laundry
Odd Socks in the laundry
Teaspoons in the bin
Teenagers with headphones
Listening to that din
Lights left on, doors unlocked
Shoes on stairs, parents mocked
Half empty juice cartons
Where’s the gin?
Sons!
You just can’t win.
Gillian
