The new writing group which I joined over a year ago meets once a week. The thing I enjoy most about it is the feedback that each participant gives to other group members’ work. An exercise is set at each meeting and homework is given, usually in the form of an idea or phrase or some such, which provides the prompt for a piece to be written; either prose or poetry. There are factions in the group whose allegiances lie in one or the other of these camps, so that when a story is set as a task, inevitably a poem will be produced by someone, and vice versa of course. Tolerance is the watchword and it is a joy just to be given the opportunity and the impetus to create a piece of writing, be it poetry or prose. I am one of those people who thrive on being given a ‘prompt’ to begin writing, or else I stare at the blank page for an age before inspiration comes.
My poetic inspiration was recently given a boost last month when I was fortunate enough to attend a reading by the new English Poet Laureate, Simon Armitage, at Grasmere in the English Lake District, a short walk form Dove Cottage, home for many years of William Wordsworth (1770 – 1850).
One of the poems that has been spawned from this experience and from a musical prompt from the writing group:
Rite of Spring
Crash and the kinetic clamour
of orchestrated chaos flies
from flutes to strings,
around the rostrum, where the baton
thrashes waves of sound
into some sort of form.
A cascade of intermingled
Majors and minors
infests the auditorium,
stunned in catatonic cacophony.
String sections thrum an angered beat,
as brass tramples everything before it.
Serene moments merely lure the unwary
to where aggressive energy erupts.
A pure rage of furious pagan ritual
depicted in a kaleidoscope of sounds.
© Wally Smith 2019