Poetry

There are some things about Newport Beach that I’ve had to go native on and its Library is one of them.  Holey moley, it is very impressive.  A marble stoned great hall on two football pitch sized floors filled to the rafters not only with books but magazines, DVD’s and CD’s.  The children’s section is to die for.  Row upon row of mini computer screens linked into the library’s very own children’s educational channel.  There was not one spare station when I went in yesterday.  The toddler’s den has its very own events schedule ranging from daytime singing sessions, to 7pm Pajama Bedtime stories to the more elaborate Little Mermaid productions.  As always, JJ’s social calendar filled up nicely.  Mine?  Not so much.  Most of the scheduled talks of award winning authors were sold out.  Maybe I’ll catch the Spring/Summer events. 

Having a bit of time on my hands (still no work visa) I have been spending a few hours each day at the library reading rhyming picture books (my new favorite thing to write) and learning about the art of good poetry (there is a fine line it would appear between what works and what sounds decidedly naff).

 I learnt a great deal about the history of the poet laureate.  Much more interesting than you might think.  I had no idea it used to be a lifetime post.  Once appointed, the Poet Laureate was charged with writing Ode’s to the King or Queen of their day with varying levels of success.  The greatest of the great was Lord Tennyson and after his death the post stayed vacant for four years as there was no-one good enough to fill his shoes.  Quite right too.  My maternal grandmother, Nanny Lily, loved poetry and her one claim to fame was when she was picked from her class to read The Charge of the Light Brigade to a packed auditorium of servicemen.  Nanny Lily described the scene many times, so clearly, it felt like I was there:  the whole audience hushed, doubting eyes suddenly pin sharp on my Nan as she took them on the journey of the brave 600.  The drama of her performance held the whole room spellbound, tears springing into war weary eyes as soldiers made comparisons to their own rushes into battle.  A natural performer, Nanny held the audience in the palm of her hand right to the very last word, a gentle hush preceding thunderous applause.  Her fondest memory is, as she walked away, one of the red eyed soldiers pressing a half crown coin into her hand: a small fortune to a young girl from a family of thirteen kids who lived mostly on bread and jam.  I read that poem again yesterday and I could still hear her voice carrying it with such passion.  Maybe her love for Poetry is coming out in me.

I’m no Tennyson but I can happily lose many hours penning jaunty poems on modern themes aimed at making children smile.  When I write from a place of true memory the words flow; when I use my brain to try to conjure up contrived events the lines stumble over each other. 

So, its over and out from Wendy in Newport Beach.  Keeping it real (in rhyme).