My brother and I used to pull down large writing pads from the shelves and he would draw a precise earth lined and squared and I would scribble bright colours over the page. We were both drawing the world from different angles.
It's straight to the point this one. Not ambitious in the slightest. Is it cheeky to write down a wee observation like that. Is it really enough? I always assume so.
Why clutter it up? The more words you wrap around this the more chance you'll obscure the true meaning. No one notices the pebbles on the beach until they hold one in their hand.
That's not true about the pebbles: if you pick up just one its colour alters, it loses its beauty. And a pebble doesn't get any better for being bigger. Your poem, thankfully, is not a pebble. It is complete in itself.
McGuire: A thin Glaswegian man, touch giddy in the head, sometimes poet of mangled form and dirty prose, sporadic drummer, drunk grammarian, waffler, painter using crayons, lover, hater, learner, teacher, pedestrian, provocateur, wanderer, confronter of shadows, irritating whine.
Produced a collection of poetry and short stories - Riddle With Errors - and is currently writing another for release in the coming year or more.
Contact - colmcguire AT hotmail DOT com
ALL WORK FEATURED ON THIS BLOG IS UNFINISHED.
5 comments:
Loved it, resonates a lot for me because of the weirdness of having twins who are polar opposites.
But even if that were not so, it is still a good piece.
I have a brother like that too. Yep, this one works.
Thanks Titus.
Cheers Jim.
It's straight to the point this one. Not ambitious in the slightest. Is it cheeky to write down a wee observation like that. Is it really enough? I always assume so.
Why clutter it up? The more words you wrap around this the more chance you'll obscure the true meaning. No one notices the pebbles on the beach until they hold one in their hand.
That's not true about the pebbles: if you pick up just one its colour alters, it loses its beauty. And a pebble doesn't get any better for being bigger. Your poem, thankfully, is not a pebble. It is complete in itself.
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