The first writing I most often did from being quite young, and which continued until I was in my very early twenties,; however, was poetry. I don’t have much of it, a few younger pieces, some not bad for a person of that age,; however, of course, quite a lot although not terrible, wasn’t that marvellous. I wrote stories as well, mostly unfinished, because even then I was plot and character driven, and didn’t think enough about the language.
Now I’m older, I have lost the confidence in writing poetry that I had then, I compare myself to my fellow writers who are poets and I feel diffident, uncertain about how to start, how to translate my thoughts into verse. Writing prose – without being boastful – that’s easy, I am well-well-practised, I do it every day. Even when words are not being written they are rattling along in my head, all those characters nattering away to each other, all those voice-overs giving a running commentary on what’s happening, describing the scenery and setting. But poetic thoughts, writing in a different form – condensing, economising, ordering and playing with order, rhythm, balance, boiling ideas down to a jus, the essence – yes, I’m suddenly full of cookery analogies! Maybe I should use my knowledge and experience of cookery and apply it to writing a poem. For example when I’m making a soup I’m looking for a balance of flavours, some so subtle, some more bold. I’m also thinking about texture, smooth or chunky, I want it to be pleasing to the eye, I want it to have substance – bold or refined. I’m getting a bit carried away here.
I often think about poetry (as well as reading a lot of poetry) but why has it risen to the surface recently? We were in Winchester a couple of weeks ago and we sat beneath a tree in the cathedral grounds. It was a gloriously blue-skyed day, and the leaves of the big tree which may have been a beech, were a brilliant, vivid green against the cerulean above. My mum and her sister were born in Winchester, it seems shocking to think that was almost a hundred years ago! They were the youngest two of four children, their brother and sister were seven and four years older, and those two may not have been with them in Winchester, they may have been living with relatives. My grandparents marriage was not particularly happy, they were completely unsuited partners for each other, but there was never any cruelty just a mismatch of character and a lack of money. I know my grandmother had friends in Winchester, so if she was on her own with my mum and sister, grandpa working away, then maybe she wasn’t unhappy. I imagine her walking in the cathedral grounds (they lived nearby) and maybe she sat with her two sweet little girls on the grass beneath a much smaller tree, a much younger beech. I could write a story about this, of course, but I just want to write a poem. A piece of poetry is much harder to write than a story of any length!
(I knew cerulean was a shade of blue, but when I looked it up to see what shade it was, to make sure it matched the sky when we sat beneath the tree, I discovered that it literally means sky-blue!)
And these were the shoes I was wearing as we sat on the grass beneath the tree.
Lois Elsden 