Free Writing
How curious to be told
to write freely,
to ‘do’ free writing,
and then be given a subject!
That’s unfreeing my freedom.
Thank you, but
I don’t want to think
about this time last year.
As September was
September is,
brim-full of wondrous light
now flowing ‘cross this table
as I write – as freely as I can.
Nobody is going to tell me
to write freely and then
give me a subject, tell me
to write for two minutes
then give me five.
The Memorial Hall
There was a continuity of safeness
in these grounds that frame
this unfortunate building.
Memorable and unforgettable,
the ‘Mem’ Hall was a travesty
by Clough William Ellis.
All balustrades and pineapples,
his signature touch, chosen
it’s said (this architect that is)
because he designed the Bath Club pool
whose famous cup this swimming school
inevitably won year upon year.
Walking with Alice
Grey day this Sunday
And a morning walk
Through the estate
To the edge of fields,
You here to collect
The season’s fruits,
Not to eat,
But for the dyer’s vat.
And I, just to crunch
My boot on stubble
And cross the wide acres
Ready for the plough.
For Jeanette
Her last day in Amsterdam
and a brief break from the Powerbook;
she was playing the flâneur.
In the late afternoon
she came across this painting
in a window, in a gallery
at Van Ostadestraat 294.
She was transfixed.
The painting demanded her attention
and her time. After an hour
(and it was by then nearly dark)
she returned to her hotel
and cancelled her flight home.
For the next three days
she went back to the painting
in a window, in a gallery
in Van Ostadestraat 294.
She had begun to learn to look,
not glance, but look, to stand still
for an hour or more - and look.
She was rewarded by a world of detail
no glance could have brought forth.
She was transfixed.
She was transformed.
Red Point
Leaving the fishing station
to the cows on the beach
through each kissing gate
we passed, we kissed.
The steep road ahead
with the horse and the boy
hid our cabin home.
The sea channel,
the red sand,
the distant rain
glanced us by.
To my children
You’re out there
Living famously
All the way down
And back again.
I do think of you
As birthdays pass
And Christmas letters
Demand attention.
You’re out there
To represent my way
Of baking bread,
Sailing the boat,
Walking too fast,
Winning at Go.
Whether in Qatar,
Kansas City or Deptford
You’re me in disguise.
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 2:38 AM UTC
Free Writing
How curious to be told
to write freely,
to ‘do’ free writing,
and then be given a subject!
That’s unfreeing my freedom.
Thank you, but
I don’t want to think
about this time last year.
As September was
September is,
brim-full of wondrous light
now flowing ‘cross this table
as I write – as freely as I can.
Nobody is going to tell me
to write freely and then
give me a subject, tell me
to write for two minutes
then give me five.
The Memorial Hall
There was a continuity of safeness
in these grounds that frame
this unfortunate building.
Memorable and unforgettable,
the ‘Mem’ Hall was a travesty
by Clough William Ellis.
All balustrades and pineapples,
his signature touch, chosen
it’s said (this architect that is)
because he designed the Bath Club pool
whose famous cup this swimming school
inevitably won year upon year.
Walking with Alice
Grey day this Sunday
And a morning walk
Through the estate
To the edge of fields,
You here to collect
The season’s fruits,
Not to eat,
But for the dyer’s vat.
And I, just to crunch
My boot on stubble
And cross the wide acres
Ready for the plough.
For Jeanette
Her last day in Amsterdam
and a brief break from the Powerbook;
she was playing the flâneur.
In the late afternoon
she came across this painting
in a window, in a gallery
at Van Ostadestraat 294.
She was transfixed.
The painting demanded her attention
and her time. After an hour
(and it was by then nearly dark)
she returned to her hotel
and cancelled her flight home.
For the next three days
she went back to the painting
in a window, in a gallery
in Van Ostadestraat 294.
She had begun to learn to look,
not glance, but look, to stand still
for an hour or more - and look.
She was rewarded by a world of detail
no glance could have brought forth.
She was transfixed.
She was transformed.
Red Point
Leaving the fishing station
to the cows on the beach
through each kissing gate
we passed, we kissed.
The steep road ahead
with the horse and the boy
hid our cabin home.
The sea channel,
the red sand,
the distant rain
glanced us by.
To my children
You’re out there
Living famously
All the way down
And back again.
I do think of you
As birthdays pass
And Christmas letters
Demand attention.
You’re out there
To represent my way
Of baking bread,
Sailing the boat,
Walking too fast,
Winning at Go.
Whether in Qatar,
Kansas City or Deptford
You’re me in disguise.
I went to my first poetry workshop and wrote six poems. Here they are. Thanks to Ann and Peter of the Poetry Business.
Request permission to use this poem