Local poem: Attempt One - Draft One

Okay - first draft so don't laugh. I write a few more versions before it is finished. let me know what you think.

I spend last Wednesday evening down at the Barbican in Plymouth and so found this from somewhere this morning.


Plymouth Hoe

Sea mist gone.
The path rain-patterned -
blobs of gum,
hammered into liver-spotted
stone by
infinite footfall on 
Friday night.

On its knees it
drags at the skirts of
theatre goers - begging to be
seen, noticed, appreciated. But
the high-heeled harlots beep
their cars awake and hurry home.

And yet, harbour boats
sparkle, lit lanterns sway.
As the rain, come and gone
remains - encasing the cobbles
reflecting what she once was.
Hope cemented in the
cracks and the
seagulls' cry.

Return of Me

Autumn has descended and of that I'm glad. This is my favourite time of year. Something about the bonfires, winey stews, apples, the closing evenings makes me want to batten down the windows and retreat - and I love it. It's a creative season for me. I want to hold words, take them and conjure something from them. Hardly ever successfully but in a way - that's the point.

It's a season to make mistakes, take risks, push inside yourself and find what's there. And there's always something there. Whether it be a shallow flaccid, hardly-there fragment of yourself or the bold warrier woman that you're hoping for.

I'm challenging myself to write three poems about my local area for a competition so I might as well do it publically he he. I haven't written observational poems like this very often mine (as you will see if you scroll back) are mainly self absorbed. But why not take some risks?

Light the woodburner and settle down.