Poetry

Oh dear, I inflicted a poem on you yesterday – what was I thinking? Other people celebrate the start of autumn with informative posts; I offload vaguely down-beat poetry. I apologise profusely.

The worst thing about writers what-don’t-quite-write-books-yet (i.e me) is that you tend to assume that all your words are worthy greats. Therefore, all your little scribbles are to be saved, just in case they harbour undetected as of yet genius. In the worst case scenario, you will have saved poems you wrote as a typically depressed but of course acutely insightful teenager, for that one day when you are discovered. Of course, I have a wealth of these poems. And now I have an audience – bwhahahaha (laughs like a James Bond baddie whilst flicking through batch of poems marked The Teenage Years Volume 10). Run, good people – run while you can!

It was the same with Art. I find it impossible to throw away drawings and paintings I have created, even if and in some cases, especially if, these creations are to all intents and purposes, a bit shit. No, my mind thinks, these will come in useful one day! I might do something with them! A bonfire springs to mind as an answer to both questions, apart from a) I live in a flat and b) you never know, an art critic may one day come around for dinner, spy my portfolio, ask to flick through, shout Eureka and phone the Tate.

But anyway, back to autumn. I love this time of year, the air feels cleaner, the sky brighter and the colours of decay hint at past summer glories. To me, it is a time of promise, of exploration, a new beginning for one and all. Oh dear, I feel another poem coming on…