One of the things I love most about WordPress is the sense of being in this writing malarkey together. We’re all working on trying to find the best way to express an idea, find the words that work for us, the aha! moment. It’s trial and error and trust in others reading and commenting in such a way that keeps us going. It’s supportive, constructive and, blessedly, a willingness to share.
Earlier today I read a poem by one of my favourites here and he asked for input on his work. I’ve been burnt once before elsewhere in doing that – even although it was invited – and became reluctant to comment at all at that particular blog. I figured our poems and writings are a bit like our children. We can criticise them all we want but dare anyone else! I get that. I slag my own kids off all the time but I’d defend them to the death in the face of others’ remarks.
It’s refreshing to find once more someone who is actively seeking genuine feedback and, like the true gent he is, insisted on crediting my tweaks.
I’m slightly mortified to tell the truth because I can’t even help the teacher in me but I’m no poetry teacher for sure.
Simon’s poem was already full of the sense of a Paris morning, awakening after a night of love. I just couldn’t help getting my pen out when it was invited!
Please leave any comments at Experimental Fiction. It’s not my poem. I’m just a cheeky teacher with a penchant for jumping in when invited. 🙂
One of the people I am lucky enough to have following my blog has been kind enough to improve my recent poem “The Left Bank”. And I say that with no malice or sarcasm! She has captured the essence of the poem completely, but made the language far cleaner and far more elegant. My version is what happens when you do something with half a mind, and not completely focused on what it should be. Anyway, please visit her rather splendid blog Scottish Momus because she has an absolute treasure trove of poems and other delights. I hope you like this one as much as I do.
Scent of coffee, sounded horns,
Yellow light on skin,
Dawning day in tired room,
Paris life began,
Sleepy eyes consumed your form,
Body made for sin,
That summer morn revealed its bloom
While passing buskers sang.
Iron frame, its shadows cast,
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