I’ve been reading a lot of online poetry magazines this week in anticipation of a first meeting with one of my poetry writing mentors. A lot go through me like neutrinos. Some are exciting, some irritating. They have short biographies of the authors. I wrote this one about myself in my notebook:
W___ F___ is not a painter or a public speaker and shows only mild practical proficiency. His first and only language is English. His writing appears internally before taking digital and physical form. He does not live in London.
The two things I like most that I have written recently are both found poems. This means I didn’t really write them but have re-presented them in a different form and context. It’s OK if you ‘fess up where you found it. You could call it cheating but you can also intellectualise it into a writing form, which is what I think I’ll do:
Snowdrop Time in Sussex
It is early in the year,
a mild day in February,
and the moist green earth
is starred with the delicate bloom
of the snowdrop.
A typical village woman
of Easebourne
(used to much stooping in the fields)
begins her collection
of flowers for market.
[Found in ‘The British Countryside in Pictures’ Odhams Press, London, 1948]
