I've always had an interest in poetry - discovering Live-Poets here reawakened it and I was fascinated, watching the art and craft of its creation. Only as an onlooker, you understand, a point of view I mistakenly committed to print.
This, of course, prompted a friend to challenge me: didn't I think I could produce some verse? Err … no, was the short answer but all that did was to make him prod me again: why not? Well, because…. In the end we agreed to never say 'never' and left it at that.
One of the games on the forum lends itself to poetry sometimes – usually short snippets of witty, rhyming verse and on this particular day we were deluged with it. Imagine my horror when, taking a bath, I found myself composing something similar … And I had to get out of the bath early to write it down, otherwise it would have slipped away. Is this 'infection' temporary? I asked my friend. His answer of No sounded far too happy for my liking.
During the time I wasn't logging onto GA, I read some of his recent poems - I don't mean I studied them, I skimmedthem and some of the reviews. Almost as soon as I moved away, things started fermenting: words, phrases, images started bubbling up. It was so suprising and almost as if I was sharing my head with someone else.
Anyway, I find myself now a slightly bewildered writer of verses - I can't help feeling this situation is temporary and normal service will be resumed - soon.
The following poems are dedicated to my friend, without whom nothing here would have been created.
while the silence echoes
until the moment for applause
now preparing, then one
glorious sound triumphantly
shimmering perfection dying
slowly away until
mind wandering, eyes turning
inward, ears hear without listening
dull senses are snared, firing up,
alert, 'Where are we? There,
I think. That's my
casting light into the
rapt, list'ning dark until at last