It’s a beautiful day outside, blue skies; a light wisp of mist over the far distant hills, a delicate frost covers the areas in shadow like a dusting of icing sugar. It makes you glad to be alive when you can feel the cold air hit your lungs, breathe in happiness; ah it feels good, breathe out and see the white wisps of frozen exhalation.
Ah well that was my poor man’s attempt at Wordsworth, at least think it is, since I am sad to say I have never read any Wordsworth, well I know it isn’t anything like Wordsworth, but hey we can but try to be descriptive.
Maybe since I try to write poetry, or verse, or pros, I should read some of the great poets. I have read works by Sir John Betjeman, and by Wilfred Owen, but not many others, I realise I am quite ignorant in the works of others. I seem to like the idea that I will create it myself without the need for inspiration from others. In a way now I think about it, it feels like if I read someone else’s work extensively, and I don’t just mean poetry I mean anything here, I will without thinking or realising steal from them. Now I know you could say I do this without thinking anyway, since I have read many books in the past although that is difficult these days, I love books and used to love reading them. Yet now they seem to difficult to read, at one time I had patience and could read something until it started to captivate me, and then you cannot put the book down. You end up staying awake all night reading and reading, because you are so engrossed in the story and at the end of every chapter you say, one more, one more then I will sleep. The problem with that philosophy is that if you don’t sleep, well you end up not sleeping at all and staying awake even when you can sleep.
I will make another attempt to read a book, starting today. I keep putting this off because every time I try, I read a few pages then stop and I become despondent. I will read some more poetry as well, me thinks, and muster some spirit inside me to love the written word (on a page of paper anyway) once more. I have literally hundreds of books waiting to be read everything from Sebastian Faulks, to H.G Wells, Bill Bryson to David Starkey’s “The Monarchy”. James Redfield and even the massive Gormenghast trilogy by Mervyn Peake, plus I am half way through countless others I feel I should finish as finishing something is bloody difficult for moi.
Well that deflected without me noticing it, from writing about the weather to poetry to, writing, to reading all in a couple of paragraphs.