The Haphazardly Poetical – Flower

There are moments in my life when, whilst struggling to put pen to word processing software, I write what I loosely describe as poems – although I certainly would not go so far as to describe these scribblings as poetry. Now, I know what you’re thinking: ‘Hold on here. If what you are writing are poems, how come what you write is not poetry?’ Simple. They are not very good. Generally they rhyme and scan (unless, of course, I’m stuck for an appropriate word) and rattle along with a satisfying rum-ti-tum that appeals, in general, to children. I am certainly no Keats or Shelley; no Betjeman or Hughes; not even Edward Lear or Pam Ayres.

I write my verse during periods of quiet introspection – usually prompted by my inability to decide what subject I can otherwise address for this platform. What appears in my head is reflective and, I feel, profound. What appears on the paper is more William McGonagall than William Shakespeare. Good poetry succeeds by working on many levels: mine, I fear, struggles to work on one. Poetry should always set one thinking and mine does at least succeed on that level – although I very much doubt that the reader is in any way thinking what I had anticipated them thinking. Mostly, I am glad that they don’t know where I live…

It is almost always a mistake to dabble into things for which you have no aptitude, but, having spent a lifetime living with my own ineptitude, it is difficult for me to gauge at what point this ineptitude becomes intolerable. I would not abuse your patience by offering you these little divertissements as a proper blog post – but it did occur to me that they might offer a little insight now and then, into the way that my brain is working and that might help you to more easily decipher the babble I call mid-life – a kind of coda when the theme is appropriate.

I’m not at all certain how, or even if, this is going to work but, as I have spent the last few days banging on about matters horticultural, I have a little ditty here that I jotted down in the fallow moments between my consideration of poisonous plants and lethal garden implements. If I am not shortly to be ostracised from the WordPress community for my presumption, then, should I be tempted to re-tread this path in the future, I will preface the title as above so that you can choose to ignore it without thinking that the rest of my output has finally been swallowed up by the black hole of folly.

Part three of the gardening guide will follow on Thursday, in the meantime, I hope you can forgive me…

Flower
I saw a flower today;
Bright as a sunrise,
Clear as the new day,
I saw a flower today.

I saw a flower today;
Fresh as the cool rain,
Warm as a sun’s ray,
I saw a flower today.

I saw a flower today;
Supremely delicate in its isolation –
So I stood on it.

The Haphazardly Poetical – ‘Twas The Night Before Christmas