Feminist poetry. And literature. There seems to be a lot of it out there …. judging by my feed, anyway. (For Christmas gift ideas, look no further than here) …. And it comes across as somehow above criticism – as though the sensitive subject matter places it in a file labelled ‘protected species’.
So when somebody (who chooses to remain nameless) throws one into my inbox I’m not entirely sure how to react (or how not to react).
So I throw it into the air and give it some space without commenting one way or the other ….. allowing others to judge her, but not me.
I realised today that my attack on Ivor yesterday was not the first instance of such wickedness. I stumbled across another such reported incident of over a year ago, and I publish it again here by way of confession, particularly as I seem to be under fire this morning over matters of questionable morals …. and this is something of a low water mark.
I admire poets. I read a bit of poetry here and there from people who seem to know what they are doing. I can’t claim to understand all of it and it’s hard, sometimes, for me to tell the difference between the poetry which goes way over my head and the poetry that just doesn’t make sense. I was never good at poetry during school. But that goes for a lot of things …. Most of all, though, I admire poets for their bravery. The very best poems come from poets who are willing to hang their emotions out for everyone to see. Now, I don’t really know how to write poetry, but even if I did I just don’t think that I’m capable of such bravery. I prefer to hide my emotions behind a sort of slap-stick carnality. I read a poem from Ivor, here. I’m sure a lot of you are familiar with Ivor’s body of work and the deep well of emotion that he draws from. I was inspired by this one sufficiently to create an alternative version – not as any sort of competition but rather to indicate that I keep my own well of emotion tightly sealed, and that’s why, perhaps, I will never be called a poet ….
I was thinking this morning (for reasons undisclosed I have a lot of time for thinking at present) about what role, if any, I serve in this strange digital space that we all share.
I have thus been forced to acknowledge that much of my time sailing upon the high seas of WordPress is in the search for hidden treasure to pilfer and deface. I am a poetry pirate. When the poetry of others comes into my view I tend to leap aboard before stealing all the good ideas and escorting the original owners off the gangplank and undertaking a shameless defacing of their vessel and then setting it adrift as an unrecognisable piece of wreckage.
There have been lots of victims. You know who you are.
Sorry about that.
My latest victim was Ivor, who you may know as a fellow countryman of mine and published poet of some renown (any brief investigation will reveal that I have not published a word myself, and am a multiple university dropout). I want to publicly thank Ivor for accepting the invasion in the spirit that it was intended.
Ivor was relating, via his poetry, his passing thoughts whilst lying in his hospital bed. Recalling all the wonderful drugs that they hand out freely in hospital as a source of inspiration, I immediately leapt into bed with Ivor and set about my work.
Richmond Road 