Two Eagles

Aspiring poets like myself searching for our own poetic ‘voice’ are advised to practice by emulating admired poets. This exercise has been found to heighten awareness of personalized delivery, leading to the development of one’s own individual voice. I share this tip with you good reader and the following attempt:

The Eagle
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1851)

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring’d with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

~

The Eagle
by Mike McGuire (2014)

His wingtips sensing here and there
Through abstract tightwires in the air
Foretelling foe; foretasting fare.

Fraught talons taut on brittle branch
Absorbing tremors, haunches flinch
Then savage dive with deadly clench

Writer’s Block

notepad_pen

 

When asked his most feared thing
Papa Hemingway replied – a blank sheet of paper
Today that same pale page is mine

Sappho wrote – What cannot be said, is wept
Yet nothing flows fluidly from my mind’s eye
My soul’s ambrosial reservoir unfilled

The Bard declared – The purpose of words is to give them away
So I am the beggar starving with a hunger to host
a wordthy banquet where all may gorge

But because Bukowski barked –
Writing about writer’s block is better than not writing at all
I offer nothing but these thoughts this day

Boris Johnson opens Melbourne Writers Festival

adamprocter2006

I went along to see London Mayor Boris Johnson open the 2013 Melbourne Writers Festival last night. The man declared himself impressed with the venue, our city’s quaint mid-nineteenth century neoclassical Town Hall, deeming it more appropriate than his own sterile and modern energy-saver abutting the old Pool of London.

In case any of you are wondering why a politician travelled 16891 kilometers to open such an event, Boris Johnson is a writer with a dozen or so successful books under his belt. He came up through the newspaper ranks Continue reading

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Morning by Patrick William Adam. WikiCommons

Morning by Patrick William Adam. WikiCommons

A Sunday morning; the cold winter sun footprinting the carpet; wearing warm wool; the tea green and the fruit peeled; John Updike’s latest exceeding expectations; playlist pumps Tal Wilkenfeld, tactile and mellow on her Sadowsky strings; my five senses dovetail. Brain sends a wave when a particular soundbite agrees with the flash of sunlight on a crystal vase – synchronicity or synchrony? Whateva. It’s a sunny Sunday in winter and I’ll take what I have.

Roaming

This is my first blog post without an accompanying image.

Roaming
I heard the waterfall before I saw it. I allowed its thundering tenor to leech me in along the nebulous path, mud sucking at my bare feet. Then between dark birch branches a bright movement shimmered opaquely. It focused first as a covert cloud, then as serial stalactites sloping and sliding downwards. I finally viewed its full might Continue reading