I initially got involved in 'There is No Planet B' , Stafford Green Arts Festival 2016 to help organise the Art competition, believing I could support the hard-working volunteers to achieve their ambition to increase and improve the quality of submissions. As the week long event looms I realise that I have probably gained as much as I have given. I have been welcomed into a new network of people who are passionate about the issues that affect our very existence on the planet, I have been appreciated for my personal efforts and professional expertise, and I have
ensured that Gainsborough [art]works can be a worthwhile
partner in events planned and run by others.
If I'm honest however, I have been most excited by the opportunity to immerse a little more of myself into the poetry world. Since my 'Doxey Marshes' poem has been published in 'The Poetry of Staffordshire' by Offa's Press, I have a new-found confidence in putting my random efforts out there. I have attended a few more events recently and remain in admiration of the wit and skill of performance poets. Their ability to not only weave words that make you think, read them out in a rhythm that draws you in, but
to have enough confidence to share them is also enviable.
So, back to the Green Arts, and this time the poetry competition. As we have Bert Flitcroft- the current Staffordshire Poet Laureate- hosting our Life of Riley [word] Cafe at Gainsborough [art]works on Thursday 3rd March, I thought it would be appropriate to have written at least one poem myself on the Festival theme. As is often the case, I awoke with a phrase in my head, "why do we name a hurricane?" and an attempt at writing a poem that
concentrates on internal rhymes and a rhythm that might suit
performing it has therefore occupied me this morning.
Off to send it to Carol Kirkwood now at the BBC!
Why do we name a Hurricane?
Why do we name a hurricane?
To comprehend it, befriend it,
and send it calmer on its way
‘cause we listened to its’ moans?
Why does Carol need to warn me
She’s left Henry and Imogen’s
On her way? She won’t stay.
Like all the rest, at best,
She’ll slap your face
Cause floods of tears,
pass through, forget you,
and leave you to pick up her mess,
and deny you should address
your fears for why she visited.
Like Abigail, Barney, Desmond
Frank and Eva before her,
she’ll be the stranger at your door
you try to ignore.
You won’t listen,
or see her eye glisten
when she tells you there’ll be more.
That you called them all
with your wanting to progress,
to fill the plains with concrete plans
instead of wilderness.