Based upon some interest from yesterday I post something from the same source without further comment (I added the picture because everyone likes a picture).
It is, once again, a clearly feminist perspective (not that there’s anything wrong with that!) but a little less confronting than yesterday’s offering I think.
It came to me with no title but ‘Reflection’ seems suitable ….
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 ….
Richmond Road 