I have not a thought in my head this morning, so I don’t know what I’m going to say to you. My head is filled with Unhelpful Stuff: there’s a thick fog in the foreground and around the outside there’s a collection of thoughts: there’s rage at Daniel not going to college on time; there are questions about what’s going to happen at philosophy, and a wondering about whether I’ll be conscious at the end of it; there’s worry about what my bank balance is and how soon the tax credits will come; followed by an interest in how much it will rain this morning – and all served up with a dash of doubt as to whether I’ll find my way to the Unitarian chapel or get lost as I did the other day when my brain was full of a thick fog…
So that’s how it is. I can’t possibly form any coherent thoughts about Poetry or anything else while all that’s going on. But perhaps the blank buzzing and thick fog and incoherent thoughts might form themselves into some kind of poem – a bit like this:
There’s a fog in the foreground
and my brain
there’s a fog in the foreground
and my thoughts
there’s a rage
and a worry
and a rage
there’s a wonder
and a worry
there’s a rage and a wonder
and a blank white fog
in the thought
of my brain
in the brain
of my mind.
Hmm. Needs work, I suspect. But it just goes to show – poetry is not a land you have to reach. Poetry begins where you are.
Kirk out
PS Mark is drying his shoes with my hair-dryer in spite of having SEVERAL PAIRS OF UNWORN SHOES WHICH ARE PERFECTLY DRY!!!
Sarada Gray 