And so we arrive at the start of National Poetry Writing Month.
Tomorrow the start gun will be fired on a thirty day race towards the end of April with (hopefully) thirty poems to show for it. As I've previously discussed on this blog, the goal isn't to produce collection-worthy poems, but to produce the highest number of poems. Whether I'll achieve it this year remains to be seen, but work has already begun. As I write this post I'm contemplating subjects for the first poem which will be posted tomorrow.
Writing a poem a day can be troublesome at the best of times, and if like me you try to add some variety into your output, it can become tiring as well. I found that out two years ago, but this time I have a feeling things will be different.
If anyone else out there is taking part in NaPoWriMo, I wish you the best of luck. See you tomorrow for the first of many poems to come.
Friday 31 March 2017
Snow Leopard
A stream in the highest valley,
a glacier of the Himalayas,
frozen yet still running
thanks to a conscientious spring.
Prints in the snow betray
the path of a snow leopard
prowling along the valley
towards an intended victim.
A markhor buck drinks at the stream,
a lord of mountain goats,
coiled corkscrew snake horns
and a man fit for a horse.
A pale ghost, the spotted shade,
slinks along the rocks,
and surprises the thirsty goat,
chasing it headlong up a ridge
till claws and teeth seize it
just as it leaps from a ledge.
a glacier of the Himalayas,
frozen yet still running
thanks to a conscientious spring.
Prints in the snow betray
the path of a snow leopard
prowling along the valley
towards an intended victim.
A markhor buck drinks at the stream,
a lord of mountain goats,
coiled corkscrew snake horns
and a man fit for a horse.
A pale ghost, the spotted shade,
slinks along the rocks,
and surprises the thirsty goat,
chasing it headlong up a ridge
till claws and teeth seize it
just as it leaps from a ledge.
Thursday 30 March 2017
And he sits on his illustrious throne
And he sits on his illustrious throne,
fashioned from the great jungle cats of old,
thousands on thousands of fresh tiger bones.
Bought by the hands of the rich city men,
built by men sheltering from the night's cold,
and he sits on his illustrious throne.
Those eager to leave their village and send
spoils from the jungle to the mountain fold,
thousands on thousands of fresh tiger bones.
Snares, traps, guns, the tools of desperate men,
the buyer ensures his foes are not told
how he sits on his illustrious throne.
From Ranthambore to Pench and back again,
the flow of pelts and corpses always sold,
thousands on thousands of fresh tiger bones.
The last tiger hides in his bamboo den
until taken to the rich man's stronghold,
and he sits on his illustrious throne,
thousands on thousands of fresh tiger bones.
fashioned from the great jungle cats of old,
thousands on thousands of fresh tiger bones.
Bought by the hands of the rich city men,
built by men sheltering from the night's cold,
and he sits on his illustrious throne.
Those eager to leave their village and send
spoils from the jungle to the mountain fold,
thousands on thousands of fresh tiger bones.
Snares, traps, guns, the tools of desperate men,
the buyer ensures his foes are not told
how he sits on his illustrious throne.
From Ranthambore to Pench and back again,
the flow of pelts and corpses always sold,
thousands on thousands of fresh tiger bones.
The last tiger hides in his bamboo den
until taken to the rich man's stronghold,
and he sits on his illustrious throne,
thousands on thousands of fresh tiger bones.
Wednesday 29 March 2017
NaPoWriMo Approaches
So, it's that time of year again. National Poetry Writing Month, abbreviated to NaPoWriMo, is pretty much what its name suggests. It's similar to National Novel Writing Month, also known as NaNoWriMo, which takes place in November and challenges people to write a fresh draft of a novel in thirty days. In this case the challenge is thirty poems in thirty days.
I attempted NaPoWriMo in 2015, and reached the eighteenth day with a poem about a snail crossing a road before being defeated. The main point of the challenge is not to write exquisite verse on the level of Wordsworth or Plath, but just to write as much poetry as you can within the month of April. Most poets go for the write-a-poem-a-day option, which is what I did two years ago, and it's safe to say I wrote some really bizarre poems which don't really stand on their own very well. Aside from the aforementioned poem of the snail crossing the road, there were others about kaiju, witch's pools, a guide to make a cup of tea, and one about gray langur monkeys which was later turned into a video and posted on my YouTube page.
Will the quality be any better this year? I can certainly hope. In reality though, the chances I'll be able to edit and thoroughly check my work will be slim. Since the whole idea is to produce as much verse as possible, I'll be going through ideas faster than I can quality check them. It should make for some interesting reading either way.
Safe to say, I'm quite looking forward to it this year. NaPoWriMo starts on 1st April, so look out for the first of many poems to come. Also coming up I've got a few more poems before the start date, and another exciting development which I'll talk more about in the near future.
Hope you're all having a good week, and see you soon.
I attempted NaPoWriMo in 2015, and reached the eighteenth day with a poem about a snail crossing a road before being defeated. The main point of the challenge is not to write exquisite verse on the level of Wordsworth or Plath, but just to write as much poetry as you can within the month of April. Most poets go for the write-a-poem-a-day option, which is what I did two years ago, and it's safe to say I wrote some really bizarre poems which don't really stand on their own very well. Aside from the aforementioned poem of the snail crossing the road, there were others about kaiju, witch's pools, a guide to make a cup of tea, and one about gray langur monkeys which was later turned into a video and posted on my YouTube page.
Will the quality be any better this year? I can certainly hope. In reality though, the chances I'll be able to edit and thoroughly check my work will be slim. Since the whole idea is to produce as much verse as possible, I'll be going through ideas faster than I can quality check them. It should make for some interesting reading either way.
Safe to say, I'm quite looking forward to it this year. NaPoWriMo starts on 1st April, so look out for the first of many poems to come. Also coming up I've got a few more poems before the start date, and another exciting development which I'll talk more about in the near future.
Hope you're all having a good week, and see you soon.
Monday 27 March 2017
Dead Earth Sunrise
Seconds before the dawn,
the cool of the night
is still a simmering furnace.
The crest of the sun,
a red colossus of violent rays,
eliminating anything
with the will to survive.
The trees, the savannahs,
the tundra, the ice fields,
they all submitted to the genesis
of a global carbonised desert.
Lava seas destroyed what was once
a green a blue orb
on a vibrant solar chain.
The sun expands to engulf the sky,
the heat stirring the flames
as it swallows the atmosphere,
the last morning of a silent earth.
the cool of the night
is still a simmering furnace.
The crest of the sun,
a red colossus of violent rays,
eliminating anything
with the will to survive.
The trees, the savannahs,
the tundra, the ice fields,
they all submitted to the genesis
of a global carbonised desert.
Lava seas destroyed what was once
a green a blue orb
on a vibrant solar chain.
The sun expands to engulf the sky,
the heat stirring the flames
as it swallows the atmosphere,
the last morning of a silent earth.
Friday 24 March 2017
The Life Choices of Ming
Fun fact about being born in captivity,
you don't choose where you go next.
As it happens I left my cage
when I was still a mewling cub.
Somebody from the city thought
I'd be the perfect living decoration
for his flat twenty one stories up.
It wasn't as if I was along up there;
my alligator flatmate shared the space,
we even had our own bedrooms.
Al didn't get much exercise though.
Frozen chickens taste great in abundance,
and our keeper had plenty of those.
Sometimes he'd bring friends with him.
I'd introduce myself
regardless of their expectations.
Then that housecat arrived.
Clearly our keeper had forgotten
I had paws the size of plates.
It's a shame he got in the way,
otherwise I wouldn't have bitten him,
he wouldn't have gone to hospital,
a policeman wouldn't have tried to
parasail into the flat,
and I wouldn't have given him
a burglar's welcome.
My cage now is quite nice actually.
I get on well with the other tigers,
and my keepers feed me
more than chickens these days.
(This poem is based on the real-life story of Ming of Harlem. For further reading check out this New York Times article and this interview with Antoine Yates, Ming's owner.)
you don't choose where you go next.
As it happens I left my cage
when I was still a mewling cub.
Somebody from the city thought
I'd be the perfect living decoration
for his flat twenty one stories up.
It wasn't as if I was along up there;
my alligator flatmate shared the space,
we even had our own bedrooms.
Al didn't get much exercise though.
Frozen chickens taste great in abundance,
and our keeper had plenty of those.
Sometimes he'd bring friends with him.
I'd introduce myself
regardless of their expectations.
Then that housecat arrived.
Clearly our keeper had forgotten
I had paws the size of plates.
It's a shame he got in the way,
otherwise I wouldn't have bitten him,
he wouldn't have gone to hospital,
a policeman wouldn't have tried to
parasail into the flat,
and I wouldn't have given him
a burglar's welcome.
My cage now is quite nice actually.
I get on well with the other tigers,
and my keepers feed me
more than chickens these days.
(This poem is based on the real-life story of Ming of Harlem. For further reading check out this New York Times article and this interview with Antoine Yates, Ming's owner.)
Thursday 23 March 2017
Desert Rains
Rain falls on the wastes
of the vast Rann of Kutch.
The dead salt flats become
a living marsh once more.
The empty land of salt and sand
sprouts the year's first green.
Trees and grass spring up
and line the new waterways.
Water floods the desert.
Its heart blossoms into pink
from the flamingoes gathering
on a newly formed lake.
Their ankles flex and bend,
their knees forever invisible.
In the humblest of nests
the eggs begin to hatch.
of the vast Rann of Kutch.
The dead salt flats become
a living marsh once more.
The empty land of salt and sand
sprouts the year's first green.
Trees and grass spring up
and line the new waterways.
Water floods the desert.
Its heart blossoms into pink
from the flamingoes gathering
on a newly formed lake.
Their ankles flex and bend,
their knees forever invisible.
In the humblest of nests
the eggs begin to hatch.
Tuesday 21 March 2017
Happy World Poetry Day!
Indeed, I almost forgot that it was World Poetry Day today, but hope all is going well with all my fellow poets out there. I suspect some of you will be taking part in NaPoWriMo this year, so I wish you all good luck with that too. It seems to me, having watched performance poetry, spoken word and having read new poetry, that poetry is more vibrant than ever in modern times. With such an array of variation it looks as if poetry is undergoing a new stage in its evolution which will be interesting to watch over the next few years.
In other news, you can expect more poems on this blog in the next few days, including some more poems related to India's wildlife. Also I'll be posting a new feature regarding my home village of Frynwys next week.
Anyways, Happy World Poetry Day everyone!
In other news, you can expect more poems on this blog in the next few days, including some more poems related to India's wildlife. Also I'll be posting a new feature regarding my home village of Frynwys next week.
Anyways, Happy World Poetry Day everyone!
Monday 20 March 2017
Champawat
after Jim Corbett, Man-eaters of Kumaon
In the jungles of Kumaon
a darkness descended
in the form of a tigress.
She came from the windswept
forests of Nepal, having taken
two hundred lives.
Soldiers hunted for her,
and she fled to find a new kingdom.
She prowled the fields
around Champawat,
stalking those who strayed
too far from their homes.
She pounced on them
while they gathered dried leaves,
to drag them off into a ravine,
leaving trails of crimson in her wake.
Her roars rumbled
along the road at night,
and her prey shivered in their huts.
The tigress grew bloated
on human flesh,
but another two hundred lives
could not satisfy her.
A pool of fresh blood,
a shattered blue necklace.
The tigress drags her newest kill,
a girl of sixteen,
into the forested ravine.
A severed, abandoned leg
turns the water red.
A rustling in the scrub.
She growls, snarls, retreats into the brush.
She can smell a man's scent.
She follows a stream to the ridge,
but her hunter is persistent.
That night she feasts,
but come the morning drums echo
from the trop of the ridge.
She awakens to see
her pursuers in the marsh.
Two rounds from a shotgun,
and one round from a rifle
send her tearing up the hill.
The drums beat louder,
voices chanting in a frenzy.
She rounds on her enemies
and charges her undaunted pursuer.
A blast, and the tigress stops.
A second blast and she flinches,
ears flattened and bared teeth.
She flees for a rock,
but her hunter is not deterred.
He is the last thing she sees
before the final blast.
The drums turn silent,
the chanting reaches fever-pitch,
and the tigress lies still,
staring up at the hunter
with lightless amber eyes.
In the jungles of Kumaon
a darkness descended
in the form of a tigress.
She came from the windswept
forests of Nepal, having taken
two hundred lives.
Soldiers hunted for her,
and she fled to find a new kingdom.
She prowled the fields
around Champawat,
stalking those who strayed
too far from their homes.
She pounced on them
while they gathered dried leaves,
to drag them off into a ravine,
leaving trails of crimson in her wake.
Her roars rumbled
along the road at night,
and her prey shivered in their huts.
The tigress grew bloated
on human flesh,
but another two hundred lives
could not satisfy her.
A pool of fresh blood,
a shattered blue necklace.
The tigress drags her newest kill,
a girl of sixteen,
into the forested ravine.
A severed, abandoned leg
turns the water red.
A rustling in the scrub.
She growls, snarls, retreats into the brush.
She can smell a man's scent.
She follows a stream to the ridge,
but her hunter is persistent.
That night she feasts,
but come the morning drums echo
from the trop of the ridge.
She awakens to see
her pursuers in the marsh.
Two rounds from a shotgun,
and one round from a rifle
send her tearing up the hill.
The drums beat louder,
voices chanting in a frenzy.
She rounds on her enemies
and charges her undaunted pursuer.
A blast, and the tigress stops.
A second blast and she flinches,
ears flattened and bared teeth.
She flees for a rock,
but her hunter is not deterred.
He is the last thing she sees
before the final blast.
The drums turn silent,
the chanting reaches fever-pitch,
and the tigress lies still,
staring up at the hunter
with lightless amber eyes.
Sunday 19 March 2017
The Tiger Poet vs. Mad Max: Fury Road
In 2015 I went to see Mad Max: Fury Road at the cinema with a friend of mine who also happens to be a poet. I was fairly familiar with the Mad Max franchise beforehand; I distinctly recall watching The Road Warrior at some point although I didn't really understand what the film was all about. This time, with a bit more knowledge of George Miller's post-apocalyptic world, I was able to appreciate the artistry of the wasteland even more.
What followed was one of the most spectacular and operatic action films I've ever seen. Praise for Fury Road is nothing new; indeed, it seems every major publication felt the same as me back in the summer of 2015. Everyone was singing the film's praises as an operatic work of action and chaos on a scale nobody had ever seen. It was extraordinary how George Miller had been able to return to Mad Max after more than two decades and revive the franchise in tremendous fashion.
Of course, as with every great success, there were some detractors. There were those who felt Fury Road was more style over substance, substituting over-the-top action for complex plotting, and there was also a boycott by those claiming the film was a feminist propaganda piece. I'm not too bothered about the latter criticism, as having watched Fury Road a few times now I feel the feminist aspect of the film forms a strong background theme. It feels organic to the story rather than something forced upon an old franchise as the boycotters claim.
It goes without saying that Furiosa, as played by Charlize Theron, is one of the best action heroines of recent times. The fact that she is the real main character of the film is testament to how much thought George Miller and his co-writers put into her role. Although Max Rockatansky is still the central figure of this tale, his role as an observer to the events in the wasteland allows Furiosa to take much of the narrative heft, giving the film a strong emotional center. The character Nux, played by Nicholas Hoult, is also part of this, providing a great deconstruction of the redshirts often seen in franchises subservient to the main villain.
Speaking of which, what villains Fury Road has indeed. Immortan Joe, the tyrannical warlord of the Citadel, is likewise a great deconstruction of villain archetypes. While he is certainly fearsome and imposing, it is mostly a front to disguise an aging man suffering from disease who retains control by maintaining a ferocious façade. His two lieutenants, the Bullet Farmer and the People Eater, add terrific character to the proceedings, with the former having a particularly memorable scene when he attacks the War Rig by himself. Nux's aforementioned deconstruction of the foot soldier is further highlighted when contrasted with his lancer Slit, who has fully embraced the War Boy philosophy yet is spiteful and bitter compared to Nux's wide-eyed, child-like innocence.
It's this attention to strong themes and a straightforward narrative that elevates the already ballistic action-scenes. Most of the film is an extended car chase with a few pauses for breath, with an attitude that tells the audience to join the ride or step off if they can't keep up, an attitude conveyed by the terrific editing by Margaret Sixel. The cars themselves are in many ways the true stars of the film. The War Rig is the most important of these, a fearsome beast of burden which acts as a mobile fort for Max, Furiosa and the Wives. The two-tiered Gigahorse is a monstrous engineering achievement, as are the People Eater's limousine and the aptly named Peacmaker. However, the most striking of the vehicles is the Doof Wagon, a lorry slash mobile music stage carrying drummers on the back, and the Doof Warrior on the front. Playing a flame throwing double-necked guitar, he provides a constant heavy metal soundtrack to the chase and is quite possibly the greatest side character ever put to film.
I think by this point it may seem like I'm gushing about Fury Road quite a bit. It's true that the lack of a complex narrative is likely to put some people off, along with the lack of explanation for the film's mythology. Also, having seen the film with my parents, I can say that the onslaught of never-ending action could do a few people's heads in, but that's what's great about Fury Road. It's an brilliantly constructed opera of mayhem, and not a lot of films are that.
What followed was one of the most spectacular and operatic action films I've ever seen. Praise for Fury Road is nothing new; indeed, it seems every major publication felt the same as me back in the summer of 2015. Everyone was singing the film's praises as an operatic work of action and chaos on a scale nobody had ever seen. It was extraordinary how George Miller had been able to return to Mad Max after more than two decades and revive the franchise in tremendous fashion.
Of course, as with every great success, there were some detractors. There were those who felt Fury Road was more style over substance, substituting over-the-top action for complex plotting, and there was also a boycott by those claiming the film was a feminist propaganda piece. I'm not too bothered about the latter criticism, as having watched Fury Road a few times now I feel the feminist aspect of the film forms a strong background theme. It feels organic to the story rather than something forced upon an old franchise as the boycotters claim.
It goes without saying that Furiosa, as played by Charlize Theron, is one of the best action heroines of recent times. The fact that she is the real main character of the film is testament to how much thought George Miller and his co-writers put into her role. Although Max Rockatansky is still the central figure of this tale, his role as an observer to the events in the wasteland allows Furiosa to take much of the narrative heft, giving the film a strong emotional center. The character Nux, played by Nicholas Hoult, is also part of this, providing a great deconstruction of the redshirts often seen in franchises subservient to the main villain.
Speaking of which, what villains Fury Road has indeed. Immortan Joe, the tyrannical warlord of the Citadel, is likewise a great deconstruction of villain archetypes. While he is certainly fearsome and imposing, it is mostly a front to disguise an aging man suffering from disease who retains control by maintaining a ferocious façade. His two lieutenants, the Bullet Farmer and the People Eater, add terrific character to the proceedings, with the former having a particularly memorable scene when he attacks the War Rig by himself. Nux's aforementioned deconstruction of the foot soldier is further highlighted when contrasted with his lancer Slit, who has fully embraced the War Boy philosophy yet is spiteful and bitter compared to Nux's wide-eyed, child-like innocence.
It's this attention to strong themes and a straightforward narrative that elevates the already ballistic action-scenes. Most of the film is an extended car chase with a few pauses for breath, with an attitude that tells the audience to join the ride or step off if they can't keep up, an attitude conveyed by the terrific editing by Margaret Sixel. The cars themselves are in many ways the true stars of the film. The War Rig is the most important of these, a fearsome beast of burden which acts as a mobile fort for Max, Furiosa and the Wives. The two-tiered Gigahorse is a monstrous engineering achievement, as are the People Eater's limousine and the aptly named Peacmaker. However, the most striking of the vehicles is the Doof Wagon, a lorry slash mobile music stage carrying drummers on the back, and the Doof Warrior on the front. Playing a flame throwing double-necked guitar, he provides a constant heavy metal soundtrack to the chase and is quite possibly the greatest side character ever put to film.
I think by this point it may seem like I'm gushing about Fury Road quite a bit. It's true that the lack of a complex narrative is likely to put some people off, along with the lack of explanation for the film's mythology. Also, having seen the film with my parents, I can say that the onslaught of never-ending action could do a few people's heads in, but that's what's great about Fury Road. It's an brilliantly constructed opera of mayhem, and not a lot of films are that.
Tuesday 14 March 2017
Stork Village
Openbill Storks,
nesting in trees above a small village.
Their beaks shaped
like scissors, they cluster
over thatched houses below.
Three chicks sit stiff
where their nest landed
after jostling for space.
White feathers tucked up,
but they do not go unnoticed.
A new home awaits
in the sanctuary of the village,
with bowls of snails
to fuel growing wings.
nesting in trees above a small village.
Their beaks shaped
like scissors, they cluster
over thatched houses below.
Three chicks sit stiff
where their nest landed
after jostling for space.
White feathers tucked up,
but they do not go unnoticed.
A new home awaits
in the sanctuary of the village,
with bowls of snails
to fuel growing wings.
Friday 10 March 2017
Untouchables
Vultures huddle in their roosts
inside the Mehrangarh Fort,
resting in the barracks
of the maharajah's army.
The fort casts its shadow
over the streets and the dunes beyond.
Vultures gaze at the seething chaos below.
Cast out from the city, ruling
the fort is their reward.
They frown at vegetarian scruples
when there is so much meat on the streets.
One spots something on the city's edge.
King vultures lead the rest
as they take off,
circling figures in the sand.
One is a cow, freshly dead;
the other is a man, a chamar.
They form an aerial wake
as the man removes the biggest
obstacle to their feast.
The man leaves with a
drum skin as the vultures
drop out of the sky and gorge
upon the reeking corpse.
Beaks tear muscle and flesh,
until the rag-and-bone birds of the desert
fly back to their fort
before the sun disappears.
inside the Mehrangarh Fort,
resting in the barracks
of the maharajah's army.
The fort casts its shadow
over the streets and the dunes beyond.
Vultures gaze at the seething chaos below.
Cast out from the city, ruling
the fort is their reward.
They frown at vegetarian scruples
when there is so much meat on the streets.
One spots something on the city's edge.
King vultures lead the rest
as they take off,
circling figures in the sand.
One is a cow, freshly dead;
the other is a man, a chamar.
They form an aerial wake
as the man removes the biggest
obstacle to their feast.
The man leaves with a
drum skin as the vultures
drop out of the sky and gorge
upon the reeking corpse.
Beaks tear muscle and flesh,
until the rag-and-bone birds of the desert
fly back to their fort
before the sun disappears.
Sunday 5 March 2017
Singing Apes
A brown ape stops at a gap
between branches and spies another bough.
Whooping, the gibbon flies out of cover,
landing on the next branch.
Hornbills take off in fright,
and a giant squirrel retreats.
The gibbons swings across the spur,
her feet dangling.
Sighting her black-haired mate,
she swivels her wrists and leaps.
He begins to sing.
His throat resonates to his tune,
a deep-chested bass which turns
into a shrill cry and back again.
His song floods the forest,
echoes through the mist,
joined by his mate's chorus.
The singing apes meet
at the top of the tallest tree.
They survey the Himalayas
sheltering the rising sun.
Their calls forming a duet, they swing
through the canopy together.
between branches and spies another bough.
Whooping, the gibbon flies out of cover,
landing on the next branch.
Hornbills take off in fright,
and a giant squirrel retreats.
The gibbons swings across the spur,
her feet dangling.
Sighting her black-haired mate,
she swivels her wrists and leaps.
He begins to sing.
His throat resonates to his tune,
a deep-chested bass which turns
into a shrill cry and back again.
His song floods the forest,
echoes through the mist,
joined by his mate's chorus.
The singing apes meet
at the top of the tallest tree.
They survey the Himalayas
sheltering the rising sun.
Their calls forming a duet, they swing
through the canopy together.
Friday 3 March 2017
Updates: Mametz Wood, NaPoWriMo and More
Hi guys. It seems the last two months have disappeared too quickly, but fortunately I've got a lot to look forward to in March.
The Mametz Wood project is still ongoing, and I'm currently in the process of reading other poets' work on the subject to give me a grounding in how to write about the battle. First on my list is Owen Sheers' take on the battle, with his eponymously titled 'Mametz Wood'. It mainly deals with the aftermath of the battle, but it's still a haunting portrayal of the long-term consequences of the First World War. There is of course David Jones' In Parenthesis, considered the definitive and best work on Mametz Wood, which is the go-to source when researching the battle. Hopefully, with such a precedent for work about this key event in Welsh history, I will have a good chance at formulating my own take on it.
In other news I'm planning to take on National Poetry Writing Month this year. I'm hoping this time I can actually reach the end of the month with a poem each day, especially after I failed two years ago. Due to the fast writing schedule, it's a given that most poems written during NaPoWriMo aren't great, and having read through some of the poems I wrote last time I can see I've got a lot of room for improvement. We'll see how I do when April arrives.
Aside from NaPoWriMo, there's plenty of poetry to come in the next few days. I've got a couple of animal-themed poems on the go at the moment, as well as an experimental piece which is taking a bit longer than I thought. Hopefully it'll appear on this blog before April, but if it doesn't then it will probably be finished before the summer at the latest.
Anyway, hope you're all having a good week, and to any Welsh readers I wish you a belated Happy St. David's Day!
The Mametz Wood project is still ongoing, and I'm currently in the process of reading other poets' work on the subject to give me a grounding in how to write about the battle. First on my list is Owen Sheers' take on the battle, with his eponymously titled 'Mametz Wood'. It mainly deals with the aftermath of the battle, but it's still a haunting portrayal of the long-term consequences of the First World War. There is of course David Jones' In Parenthesis, considered the definitive and best work on Mametz Wood, which is the go-to source when researching the battle. Hopefully, with such a precedent for work about this key event in Welsh history, I will have a good chance at formulating my own take on it.
In other news I'm planning to take on National Poetry Writing Month this year. I'm hoping this time I can actually reach the end of the month with a poem each day, especially after I failed two years ago. Due to the fast writing schedule, it's a given that most poems written during NaPoWriMo aren't great, and having read through some of the poems I wrote last time I can see I've got a lot of room for improvement. We'll see how I do when April arrives.
Aside from NaPoWriMo, there's plenty of poetry to come in the next few days. I've got a couple of animal-themed poems on the go at the moment, as well as an experimental piece which is taking a bit longer than I thought. Hopefully it'll appear on this blog before April, but if it doesn't then it will probably be finished before the summer at the latest.
Anyway, hope you're all having a good week, and to any Welsh readers I wish you a belated Happy St. David's Day!
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