The Beauty of Poetry

I don’t claim to be a good poet but I appreciate poetry and find it thrilling to write it if I have the inspiration to do so.  Last year I took a masterclass with a mixed group of poets, some published, some talented and original, some, like me, were just there to learn.  Each week we were given an assignment and a poem hopefully emerged.  To a novelist to write one poem a week didn’t sound much but the task demanded all my energy which meant other writing projects fell away.   My results were interesting. 

A poem I wrote for my grandson germinated in that class and I worked hard to complete it for his second birthday last week.

I didn’t realise that writing a poem for a loved one could be so difficult and yet so satisfying.   I transcribed it onto an ornamental scroll and handed it over to his mother.  She read it with a tear in her eye before carefully storing it in his memory box for later.

A New Kind of Love
(for James)
This new kind of love takes me
by surprise. An ageing fear melts
in the rush of your embrace,
the innocence of your breath,
the words of trust in your eyes.
This new kind of love permits us
to giggle a lullaby by Brahms,
stumble-waltz in time to Strauss,
build blocks in towers to tumble,
eat soup from the same spoon.
This grandmother’s love scares me,
to know you will cry when I must go.
Until then let’s blow dandelion clocks to the wind,
and count memory seeds for you to catch and hold.
moira mcpartlin – May 2011


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