Today it's National Poetry Day. Herray!!!
And there were all sorts of wonderful events happening all over the country to celebrate it - readings, competitions, film screenings, launches... The Telegraph newspaper even had a Poetic Tweet Competition going on. You can read more about it here. I love the one by Naele Denaro.
As a writing form, Poetry is one of those elusive skills I wish I could conquer. I can't tell you how jealous I am of some of my writer friends who seem to just burst into rhymes at their lunch break inspired by nothing but the cafeteria's blank walls. Annoyingly talented people, I'll tell you... In a good day, I tell myself it's because English is not my first language. On a bad one, I just admit I can't do it.
Throughout history, England has been filled with great poets - from Lord Byron to the more current Jane Duran. And when I say that, I also include lyricists who not only write poetry, but can make them into songs. More annoyingly talented people!!!
When I was thinking of how to celebrate National Poetry Day I realised that, for all my talk about writing and reading, I have never let you see any of my own writing. It would be far easier (and possibly much better) if I just quoted one of the most well known English poems. But I decided I was going to do my little bit for this special day - take a deep breath and commit verbal suicide by letting you read one of the very few poems of mine I would actually let anyone read. Since prose is really my forte, I'm sure you won't be surprised if I say it's free-verse poetic prose. By that I mean it tells a little bit of a narrative and it doesn't rhyme. *whispers - the easier type of poetry!!!*
This one was written last year, inspired by a writing exercise where we were given a situation and asked to pick one of the emotions elicited by it to write a poem. I picked 'Anger'. And I hope it doesn't make you angry to have wasted your time reading it! *_* Good luck and may the force be with you.
She was angry.
After everything she went through,
after taking all the risks,
listening to everyone’s opinion,
fighting her corner with her nails and soul,
justifying herself to everyone.
After explaining it wasn’t what they thought,
after screaming from the top of her lungs that it was everything...
Just like that it was gone.
It meant everything.
She was the one.
The one wanted,
the ideal, all powerful woman of someone’s dreams.
The one on the phone,
the one on the photograph,
the one waited for, lusted over.
Then she was nothing.
She didn’t matter.
There was no apology,
no trying to change the outcome,
no chasing, no asking and no pleading for second chances.
There was just...
There was most certainly someone or something else too.
Nothing just gets dropped without a reason.
And she wanted to cry,
to break things,
to scratch the skin on her face off,
to punch someone, a certain someone.
To dig a hole and jump in it,
to pull the hair off her head,
to break someone’s nose.
Then she wanted to escape,
to forget and yet not let it be forgotten.
To fester over it but never speak the words again.
And although, after time, it has dulled a little...
A certain song,
will bring it all back like an avalanche
and she is angry.
Angry at being forgotten.
Angry at being ignored.
Angry at being wrong.
Angry at being foolish.
Angry at someone.
Angry at the situation.
Angry at me.