...wrote a poem.
For the first time in a very long while. I used to write poetry often, enraptured with the sounds words make against each other in verse (be it blank, or rhyming), and then I just...didn't.
My love of words didn't go away, I remain the pedantic perfectionist when it comes to words and meaning, spelling and grammar. I still wrote/write prose, short stories, a novel, began two other novels ('began' is misleading, perhaps. Each is thousands of words, loosely organised, but nowhere near finished). I'm re-editing the novel, for what seems the forty-lebbenth time.
But the urge for creating poetry went into abeyance. Not sure why. I don't even remember exactly when. Five years ago? Probably closer to ten.
This morning a phrase popped into my head. Followed by another. As I wrote them down, my hand remembered the joy of that, the sheer pleasure of word after word, not telling a story, but capturing (or attempting to capture) a fleeting moment or thought. A flavour, if you will.
I have twelve lines of joy.
Perhaps there will be more.
1 year ago