17 May 2017

There are so many poems now, Marcus, blooming everywhere, like wildflowers on the spring slopes, everyone is writing. There is the exquisite and the banal, the big ones creating revolutions, the little ones coaxing resolutions, the euphoric ones, the ones declaring clichéd love over and over again but mostly the soft ones coloured in the deep yellow of unknowable angst.

A most delectable sight, I’m sure. Anguish translates well, even into unseemly words.

I feel like I’m riding uphill on a little bicycle, unable to stop, unable to read, definitely unable to write or rhyme one more wildflower out of its weeping misery. I must throw my notebook away so I can ride like so many, just letting the undulating scent and colour pervade my senses. Feeling the hills, kissing the wind, ignoring poetry.

Will there still be flowers?

ask the cuckoo
if she has learnt to build a nest
there she is in the plum tree watching the badgers


20 thoughts on “17 May 2017

  1. For me, writing is akin to breathing lessons. The original translation for the word ‘inspire’, meant to breathe in, and exhale meant to express what had been inspired. Riding a bike is a matter of learning balance. There is a time to breathe in, balanced by breathing out. I, for one, would be terribly sad if you threw away your notebook, now that I’ve stumbled upon your living, breathing words.

    Badgers seek their prey
    while cuckoo sings to her children
    knowing she’s given them breath



  2. Perhaps sweating uphills, coasting downhills; feeling the hills and kissing the wind is poetry too. I hope the speaker picks up the notebook, and shares that joy!


  3. It’s like you’ve been picking my brain! Poetry means so much to me yet this spring I’ve found myself drawn away from it for no good reason. Nature and the outside world is charming me away from my normal pursuits. it’s an obsession. A stunning haibun!


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