Monday, 26 March 2018

Hymn to the Sky

That time I wrote a poem for the strangeness of solitude sky;
considered all its vast majestic blueness (*note to self: am I allowed 
   blueness’ here? Why is it majestic? Is it? Should I give up poetry?)
imagined all the things which lay beyond  (No, try…)
and contemplated worlds I’d never see (No... maybe abandon blank verse: 
   too much gravitas for a Monday morning? Try free verse instead? What 
   about becoming a bus driver/ self-help guru?)
Too easily distracted by my own thoughts,
I wandered off on flights of fancy, searching
instead, for words which might elucidate
this mood, this wistful melancholia (Why the humour, then? Also: 
   ‘elucidate’/ ‘melancholia’? Is that such a good idea?)
There are no clouds at all, from where I sit
From where I sat, I saw no clouds at all,
but emptiness and the next-door neighbour’s bloody dog, barking, again!!! 
   birdsong on a breeze. (We can ‘see’ birdsong’ now, can we? Can we?)
There’s nothing idle about contemplation:
next time you see the sky, just see the sky.
A rush of something then changed my mood;
the night was past, my dreams all turned to dust sand.
Thinking about the sky, this act of looking (This is why I prefer writing in 
   the afternoon.)
That act of getting distracted by my phone looking… thinking… looking… 
had lifted me. The day could now begin. ; the sky had lifted me.
The day began. There were no clouds, just blue.

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