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.
Nikki Morgan
Bio
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
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 nmorgan160@gmail.com
The Struggle for Life
I stand
naked in this barren land.
Alone.
Except for
Death.
He sits upon
his jagged rock
and
waits. The clock
counts the
seconds,
Tick tock.
Tick tock.
Eventually,
He raises
his skeletal finger
And points;
Clouds are
gathering in the distance.
A veil of
darkness,
Descending,
Swiftly upon
us.
And although
numb,
I can feel
it.
The storm.
It stirs my
skin,
Stabs
somewhere
deep within.
Its taste is
bitter,
But sweet,
Like love.
Or hate.
My companion
extends out
his hand
And offers
me safe harbour.
But I turn
away,
Mesmerised,
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.
He sees
My feet,
Planted in
the ground,
Like gnarled
roots of a great oak
Clinging to
the earth
He sighs,
And buries
his head deep within his hands.
And sits
And
patiently waits.
