From a different chapter of different experiences that will take you along with me, also from SIMPLY PUT, a collection of poems
I CAME UPON THIS DOOR~arlene sandra bice
When roaming a medieval town
I came upon this door
by accident, I thought
a hidden lane
a short distance away
it summoned me
come closer, enter after knocking
I remembered it, but how?
I have never been here before
The lamp bid me as welcome
as a candle in a window
it felt familiar
as I paused
letting my senses
to warn or
to comfort, I did not know
But I felt I had been here before
a long, long time ago
The knocker beckoned
my hand to grasp
let it fall
down the hall
with stories to tell of times
amidst this forgotten pall
As memories came to mind
visions of men, women
revealed to me
what string or crumbs
brought me here
those stories of long ago
of folks, kindred who must
not be left, thoughtlessly, behind
Writing poetry in high school was not something I did, even though it was, and still is, common for many teenagers to do. However, I loved English class where Miss Sadley taught us to read and write poetry using all the rules and regulations. I wanted to soak up everything in that class.
I planned to be a writer since I was in grammar school and kept trying as an adult to get to a class to further my study, yet something always blocked my way. Poetry was not my goal. When I began attending the International Women’s Writing Guild annual conferences I took a class in poetry and got hooked. It was very different from high school poetry. The late Judi Beach’s class was an automatic choice after that first time. Then I fell into Marj Hahn’s poetry & art class and loved that particular marriage of creativity.
When I met the poet Thomas Park in Warrenton, NC we, including Sherman Johnson, put together a combined art & poetry presentation at the library. Artists held their work, mostly abstract, and the poet stood next to the artist and read the poetry written about their work. The librarian displayed the art and relevant, matted poetry, alongside it in the library for over a month. I still particularly enjoy writing poetry about art. Paintings have such stories shouting out from the canvas, stories understood differently by various people, stories just waiting to be told. Art and objects play important roles in our lives that we don’t always notice.
I especially enjoy having my writers’ groups compose work about abstract art because we all come up with widely contrasting pieces. We relate differently to the art because we each come from various backgrounds and experiences. I just love the differences in us as people.
Speaking of WH Auden. . .One of his quotes sets me off to writing, in SIMPLEY PUT my latest book of poetry. A small taste for you:
W H AUDEN QUOTE
A poet is, before anything else, a person
who is passionately in love with language.
W.H. Auden (1907-1973)
This quote from one of my favorite poets
sits with truth on my lips, slides down
to my heart and nestles there,
as it finds a home.
In love with language, words that tickle me
making me laugh; sometimes outright giggle
words can impress me with their sincerity
depress me without any reason just because
they are a word that forms an unhappy picture.
Poets take words and move them around
write one higher on the line to make it jump
or rest quietly to let you sigh, take a deep breath
be happy to see it, special words can be italic
to touch you, you will remember those words
so precious that they imprint on your mind
and stay there
Bards play with accents as in persona poems
where you use the voice of another, allowing
your words to come from their mouth or is it
their words from your pen, after stepping into
their shoes, testing their waters, feeling how
someone else thinks. Is that possible?
Or is it guesswork and misunderstanding.
Does anyone remember hearing John Hannah recite (with his lovely Scottish burr) WH Auden’s beautiful poem in 4 Wedding & a Funeral ? It still gives me goose bumps and was worth buying the DVD just for that alone.
From SIMPLY PUT my latest book of poetry with a wide range of what goes through my head and my heart. It’s like a buffet of words….enjoy!
LISTENING TO JOHN HANNAH~arlene sandra bice
When John Hannah
The Funeral Blues of
from his heart
I know he weeps
in deep sorrow
as his Scottish burr
brings a deeper love lost