I once was a pretender poet

To help celebrate the launch of her new verse novel Toppling, I have been blogging over at Sally Murphy's Writing For Children blog on What Sandy Fussell Likes About Children's Poetry. At first I was hesitant - after all, what do I really know about poetry. I'm not a poet although I do love to read poetry and verse novels are high on my list.

I love the way words rise and fall in waves. I love the way they roll off my tongue and drop at my feet with a crash or a gentle plink. I love the sound they make. I can recite chunks of Slessor, Frost and Eliot, simply for the sound effects. Dylan Thomas doesn't make a lot of sense to me but his lines are music to my ears. And when I was 12 I asked for The Complete Works of Shakespeare for my birthday. Not because I was anywhere near clever enough to understand what I was reading but I had plugged in to Shakespeare's talent with language. He could make the words sing.

And now I have a confession to make. I'm not a poet. But I once was, although not a very good one. I had a poem published in The Canberra Times when I was 20. I scrabbled around and found it today. It's not as awful as I remember and it doesn't sing in tune - but it's still got a little hum going in my head.

The Painter

The mind crumples as twisted and tortured

as the writhing pieces of flesh

lying bloodless on the red canvas.

The eyes blink as deserted and wasted

as the lifeless backwash of sky

lying limp on the pain-sodden frame.

The brushes whip a convulsion of colour

the easel becomes the rack

and agony screams stretched over wood.

The painter stumbles as lost and driven

as the picture hanging impaled.

The colour, the mind, the pain and the canvas.

I know nothing about art

all I see is a man at work.