By WR Jones
I always felt poetry, to be blunt, sucked. I want to be told clearly and concisely what the author is trying to convey.
I recently engaged in a conversation with a woman who mentioned she wrote poetry. After haranguing her about my painting I felt it was polite and rather big of me to inquire about her poems. Reluctantly she sent me a few. I was surprised at my reaction to them. I liked them all. She granted me permission to use the following poem in this post:
In early morning,
the mountains appear
rough, like uncut gems,
propped up against a platinum sky.
I run now, while it is quiet.
Under the dark-blue canopy,
a scrub jay flutters in the bushes and
coyotes prance wily on the trails.
I contemplate the blues of phlox and morning glories,
the grey-blue of stones and pavement,
the silver of first shadows cast by the rising sun.
I get lost in thoughts of colour and
wonder how it is that I have not noticed before;
heavy and light, muted and sparkling,
hushed and strident.
In this hour, under cover of shade and dawn,
the rainbow seems unnecessary.
It reads like “painterly” words that have been brushed onto the paper. This piece made me concious of the fact that writers like painters must learn observation, to really “see” the world around them. Then they interpret the world through ink instead of paint. I have a romantic image of Nancy setting at a desk in a long white dress with a high neck. Her hair is up circa 1901, and she is dipping her pen into the ink bottle, writing in a beautiful flowing script then blotting with a well worn blotter passed down to her from her father.
Sometimes I’m as full of shit as the Christmas goose. Still, isn’t this a marvelous poem?