I realised something today whilst talking to a friend, I was asked about my poetry in particular the poem before the last, “what’s the name of that one Lisa?” I scratched my head, metaphorically speaking and responded, “I have no idea”. In fact, I don’t recall the name of any of my poems; in fact I’d be hard stretched to quote a few lines from any. I just write and hope that my words make sense; they normally always do to me, though I’m certain at times not to my readers…
When I start to write, I don’t have a theme in mind, I just write….obviously at times immediate happenings are spewed forth, and at other times my ridiculous romantic nature knows no limit.
Walking home from the station after work tonight, I was playing with the idea that I should do a torture type poem, a poem that takes a long time, a poem I’ll know in side out, a poem I shall breath life into…nurture and raise. I dismissed this idea fairly quickly, as I realised my poems are my written memory, a part of me and as such are my life….good, nonsensical or bad….
Perhaps the moral here is… I don’t know myself too well….or there is so much more to me than even I realised, I can’t possibly remember it all….