Me and Poetry. Bit of a disappointment. I love reading it and hearing it. It has made me laugh and cry and blush and once (thank you Rosie Lugosi) choke on a drink. But I can't write it for toffee.
Everytime I've felt stirred to give it a go I have produced little beyond adolescent mush (not that I'm criticising adolescent mush when written by adolescents, but when written by a woman of 40, it's just crap).
But things may be about to change. Last night Carol Ann Duffy (aka Poet Laureate aka Fab Poet) made an appearance at our local Arts Festival. She read from The World's Wife and other such luscious volumes and all the while she rested her books, and her finger tips, and at one point her arm, on - my daughter's music stand!
(The venue was lacking a lectern of any sort and at the last minute the music stand was called into action.)
Afterwards Carol Ann thanked me profusely and signed a copy of her book with some lovely words of thanks to The Daughter (who was the chuffedest 9 year old in the school at 'show and tell' this morning)
So. The plan is to stand at the, erm, stand and wait for the muse to land on my shoulders. Will I feel vibrations, a resonance? Or just a complete prat?
Only the poetry will tell.