Since becoming involved with a local writers’ group I’ve noticed my poetic sense re-awaken and the tendency to see things in poetic vision increase.
I had forgotten that sensation of concentration that seeks through word and rhythm to take you to another place. Its seems to enhance everyday experience to the point where you’re able to bottle moments or be absorbed by the smallest thing – the breeze on leaves outside your window, or the swaying of November trees along the highway.
Also being a member of a writers’ group is great when it causes you to focus on things you wouldn’t normally in your writing. In a recent session we were presented with some National Trust postcards which had a small space for recording Your Story. Here’s mine:
Boys scrambling along Vicarwood’s brook-banks to Kedleston Hall
All skirting the golf course hedges, hearing balls land in the lake,
Not-long awakened eyes fixed to the edges of Indian cabinets
And the hoards of a Viceroy’s treasures, his golden caskets of Karma
Measured and catalogued, dusty and armoured, shining
Hidden deep inside Robert Adam’s palladian pride.
This was written from childhood memories of visiting the Hall and spending many weekends and evenings in the surrounding countryside.