I went outside 20 or 15 minutes before I had to read it and paced up and down in my suit, I liked how odd I must have looked. I talked to my brothers friend (who was also my friend when we were kids, I'd seen him once in 10 years). I got a cigarette off him and we talked a bit. Then he went in. Soon my sister came out, looking for me, thinking I'd done a runner. I told her to go back in. I got ready, mentally, and I went in and did it. Never been so scared.
Too bad I promised my friend I'd read out some poetry at an open mic night in the Autumn.
So I'e got back into my writing, and it helps that I've taken a month off work, and now I'm reading about 7 books at once. (Not including the 5 or 6 books of poetry).
The last poem I posted was "What I Remember of Sunday 16th May 2010." I took this, as well as fie other poems, to the workshop last week. We sat in the back room of The Casa and we talked about them (as well as my friend's extract of his novel). We both got good feedback, and I was glad about this, having put off submitting poetry for the past 9 months, which is silly, being more of a poet than a writer of fiction.
This poem, though, was interesting because it was the most prose-like piece of poetry out of the other convoluted, absurd pieces. It was like a diary extract. That was the intended effect, to just show the memories in such a mundane and simple form - a form I don't usually use.
However, I've been reading a lot of poetry, and putting some poems together for publiscation soon, and having come across T.S. Eliot's The Waste Land, I realise what I want to do. I read The Waste Land when I was at University in Preston, but I didn't study it, so didn't know much about it. But I want to re-write my poem and try to adapt the simple diary-format into something not as weird and Beckettian as I do, but also not a pastiche of Eliot either, but to write a long (4 or 5 page) poem regarding one day in a strong poetic language, relevant to today.