April is National Poetry Writing Month. In celebration of poets everywhere, and to encourage those who are just embarking on their literary journey, I will be posting poetry (not mine) each day for the month of April. Please take a look and enjoy this special art.
I live in Walsall, West Midlands (UK) with my husband, two children and our mad Staffordshire bull terrier. After leaving Birmingham University in 1998 with a First Class Degree in Ancient and Medieval History, I took a series of administration jobs that weren't really very fulfilling and, to be honest, I was terrible at. I had my first child and decided to stay at home to look after him. This is when my life as a writer truly began; I found love as a mother and rediscovered my love of writing and life.
Poetry has been a fairly recent addition to my writing life. I joined a local writing group which undertook a project in conjunction with Walsall Art Gallery in which we, as writers, composed poems about our responses to the art in the Garman-Ryan collection.
The first, The Flight of Ideas, was inspired by the story of Theo Garman (Jacob Epstein's son) and his struggle with schizophrenia. It seemed that the progression of his mental illness could, possibly, be traced through his art.
The second poem, The Struggle for Life, was written in response to the Van Gogh lithograph, Sorrow. I see the crouching woman in the picture as a personification of Van Gogh's own sorrow, his attempt to put onto paper what was, perhaps, in his heart; that struggle he had with life, his extreme loneliness and sadness. In his own words; the "convulsive passionate clinging to the earth and yet being half torn up by the storm".
A sample of Blackthorn can be red at Authonomy:
and my new book can also be sampled there:
I can be contacted at firstname.lastname@example.org
or at http://nikmorgan.com
The Struggle for Life
I stand naked in this barren land.
Except for Death.
He sits upon his jagged rock
and waits. The clock
counts the seconds,
He raises his skeletal finger
Clouds are gathering in the distance.
A veil of darkness,
Swiftly upon us.
And although numb,
I can feel it.
It stirs my skin,
somewhere deep within.
Its taste is bitter,
extends out his hand
And offers me safe harbour.
But I turn away,
by that ominous,
Turbulent, terrifying sky.
He knows that,
Although it’s been a while,
I will embrace sorrow like an old friend.
An old coat I slip easily on
Although uncomfortable and torn.
Planted in the ground,
Like gnarled roots of a great oak
Clinging to the earth
And buries his head deep within his hands.
And patiently waits.