Morning writing

So, a few times now, I've gone to the library in the morning, before doing anything else, and sat down with a few of the poetry journals they have there, and read poems and written some of my own. I can't say how relaxing and productive it makes me feel. As you may have guessed, I did that again today. While I can't say it would be an everyday thing, I want to make it happen more often. As in maybe once a week. On Tuesday or Wednesday morning. Probably Wednesday, so I could go in early, and then stay for two hours or so and go straight to my lecture in the same building. But now I'm just rambling.

Also, I am very keen to have more people comment on here. I know that a few people actually read this aside from Nicole (well, I hope they do. I like to think they do.) And with me posting links to here on Facebook whenever I update, I assume some people actually read what I have to say, despite how irrelevant to daily life it really is. If you don't have anything to say, then don't worry about it. But just comment as a guest if you want (or if you have Gmail, you should be able to use your Google login).

So, today I found two poems that were extremely nice. There were lots of good ones, obviously, but these two were just stellar.

Theology
Jack Underwood

He tried to think about the zoo,
the bird he'd seen with an anvil head,
slinking lizards in the reptile house.
It had been a good day.

But he remembered the panther enclosure
where he had waited for thirty minutes
staring up at a dark hut hidden in trees.
Suppose there was no panther.


Poppy Day
John Burnside

The butcher arrives with a love song
he learned from his father.

Out on the kill floor, veiled in a butterslick
circumflex of marrow fat and bone,
he rinses off the knife and goes to work,
his voice so sweet, the children come to hear

the beauty of it, slipped between a vein
and what the veal calf thought would last
forever.
     Barely a shudder rises through the hand
that holds the blade
                             and yet he guides it down
so gently, it falls open, like a flower.

And still the children come, to hear him sing,
his voice so soft, it's no more than a whisper.

So, seriously. I love those two poems, and those poets. I'm definitely going to look into buying something of theirs, if available. I want to read more of them. I will read more of them. After reading such inspiring work, I, of course, wrote some of my own. I wrote two poems, but I'm only going to post the second one now. The first one is way too rough, and is pretty personal as well. But the second one I can share. It definitely needs work. I hate the way I started it out (which is weird, because my writing tutor told me last week that I'm really good at starts. This one's rubbish.) There are lots of parts that I'm not happy with. Mostly the start and the end. Rather short, but I haven't really written anything very long in a while, so nothing different there. No title yet, but here it is (also, to Talitha [if you're reading], the poem I showed you today at lunch about the three words [two posts down from this one], it is about a specific three. And also about stagnation and all the other stuff I told you.) :

The round pod, chariot
with massive wheels and two
horses; a dough-faced Achilles man
clad in ornate tableware and
a sword raised
to swing and decapitate
or carve up an arm like a Sunday roast.

And now the leap:
no choreographed front flip
no five-foot-high feat of
human inaccuracy, but a tumble,
a stack of porcelain falling from a cupboard,
but still intact, on his belly
dreaming of his curly locked love
as a spear splits through
his exposed lower spine.