A little bit of...poetry?

I'm not known for my poetry. I have written poems, but they tend to be ones that rhyme because I find it relatively easy to write to a rhythm, but I've never really understood or appreciated haikus or sonnets or other formal poetic forms.

That said, I do occasionally dabble. 

The first time I was published, I'd won a limerick competition (and £50!) in a writing magazine. It went something like...

A young lady who felt fashion keenly

Tried on a new-fangled bikini

With two bits of string, 

Some knots and a ring

The thing would've baffled Houdini! 

I did write some poetry - actually, it's probably more accurate to say I wrote rhymes - in one of my Granny Rainbow stories about the Poetic Postman. And I've sometimes put new words to familiar hymn tunes for Christmas services. But I don't write much 'proper' poetry - the stuff that is deep and meaningful, that makes a connection with the listener. 

But you might remember in my last post that I said I'd decided to try a bit more poetry after attending a poetry session at the online Writing East Midlands Conference. Well, last weekend, I got the opportunity. I attended States of Independence Day Online, an event usually held at De Montfort University in Leicester, where independent publishers, authors and booksellers get together. (The last time I went, I met an agent who took me on for a short while, having seen StarMark) The programme was a mix of live discussion panels on Zoom, and pre-recorded readings and workshops on YouTube. 

One of the workshops was by Maria Taylor, a poet who also happens to be a neighbour of mine. She gave three very different writing prompts and read some of her own poetry to show how the themes  of 'routine', 'ghosts' and 'the great outdoors' could be interpreted. 

So I had a go. 

Here's the one I was most proud of - which I wrote it out and pushed it through Maria's door to say thank you for such a great session.

Homemade wine

As I drink my homemade fruit wines - 

the blood red-black of mighty fine blackberry,

the rosy tint of red gooseberry, 

the dryness of next-door's plum, 

the sharpness of raspberry -

you are with me in every sip.

Your wines were pea-pod white, carrot, and parsnip,

tastes I never got to sample before you went,

because of my age.

I could only watch the bottles being taken

     from the darkness of an under-stairs cupboard,

to be opened by grieving uncles,

who raised a toast

to the maker of the vintages 

who was beyond drinking them by then.