New shoots, new beginnings...

I am reminded, at this time of the year, of spring to come through the crispness of winter. T S Eliot was not too keen on April:

 

April is the cruellest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain.

 

In my first published poem I saw it like this:

 

Father come to me, watch the black stare

of green eyes: falling winter lays dread

upon thought of spring.

 

I think it's all to do with knowing what's coming; but surely the inevitably of life needn't be the dullness of life?

 

As I said in my last blog, I haven't been writing new stuff as much as I should; and this year that is what I want to do. Be a wellspring to myself. Use Pound as my beacon. Why Pound, well he used the process of creativity in writing as a life-long study, mantra and occupation. He couldn't write a letter without seeing that as a creative exercise. No 'Dear....' for him. Here's his opening to Wyndham Lewis:

 

Cher VVwvyndammmn

 

Makes us rethink the email, possibly?

 

As it happens I'm just about to plant some fruit bushes, so whatever, I will see some new beginnings.

 

It is also our granddaughter's birthday tomorrow: she is 5 years old. What a stage in life. To think, Mozart had written his first piece of music but then. No pressure!

 

Let me end, by going back to what I wrote as a biog piece in 1966 when the "Father...' poem was published:

 

Contemporary poetry should be: purity of word with scarcity of evaluation.

 

Until next time: keep planting.