Everyone wants a poem written about them until it is…



An unpretentious creation is often simple,
but to weave an intricate connection with the reader is poetry.

L.J. Lenehan

People often ask me how I write a poem which is difficult to answer… Most of the time I write a poem based on intuition… I came across the below quote from Dennis Nurkse about how long it takes to write a poem and what it means to him… His quote made sense to me – I hope you enjoy it:

“A poem could really take anywhere from a minute to literally thirty or forty years. This shocked me when I first understood it. Now it seems like a gift. Making a poem can give you a sight-line through the jumble of years.”

Profile Feature @ The Student Wordsmith

If anyone is interested in more information about me The Student Wordsmith has prepared a feature about me on her blog. There is a photo of me, details of my life and a newspaper article that was published in the local newspaper.

Feel free to have a look the link is below.The Student Wordsmith also write excellent book reviews and I have added to my reading list from her site!https://www.facebook.com/TheStudentWordsmith


Me too!!

As things stand now, I am going to be a writer. I’m not sure that I am going to be a good one or even a self-supporting one, but until the dark thumb of fate presses me to the dust and says ‘you are nothing’ I am going to be a writer.

– Hunter S. Thompson

My hope for every poem I write:

Ezra Pound’s beautiful translation of a poem by Li Po, from Pound’s great early book Cathay, is a compendium of all his many gifts. Somewhere Pound says that the ideas in poetry should be simple, even banal, and universal and human; he points out that the chorus in Greek tragedies always sticks close to home truths of the sort “All men are born to die.” “Exile’s Letter” has this universal simplicity (“There is no end of things in the heart”). It is about the sadness of parting from dear friends. As someone who was himself often living far from writer-friends, Pound knew all about the exquisite melancholy of leave-taking.