Having started writing poems and taking poetry seriously almost three years ago now, I have taken a lot of pride in the things I have written, and where the practice of writing poetry has taken me.
Starting out with only writing poems, with little to no understanding of rules, structure, and form, I had no idea where the decision to start writing my own poetry would take me. Since starting on this journey, I have read many poetry collections and anthologies (more than just the ones I was asked and encouraged to read and analyse at school), written my own poetry anthology, read books such as Stephen Fry’s The Ode Less Travelled, and have even had a poem or two published in a couple UK based magazines.
Now, almost three years into my writing endeavour, I have found an interest in writing longer form pieces that I often share on my Substack, Write Me Some Poetry - a project I have been contributing to for just over a year, with newer essays also having been published in magazines and newsletters (outside of my own one). My writing ‘schedule’ has become so ingrained into my daily activity now that it feels nothing short of natural, and drips into many aspects of my personal life. Whether it be completing daily morning pages, crafting a new poem, or drafting a poetic reflection style essay for my Substack, writing has become a big part of my life.
Writing, in whatever capacity, feels cathartic for me, and it is my pleasure to get to share some of what I write with you all on here.
It has been a hot minute since the last time I shared a ‘new’ poem on my Substack. It only feels right to share another with you now, to honour the roots of my writing journey, and given the absence of sharing them on here of late.
Today’s Poem: A Week Ending
A Week Ending is a poem I wrote one Sunday morning, a few months ago.
Sundays, and specifically their mornings, have long held a special place in my week: the slowness they can ensue, the quiet that seeps into my well versed routine in repose, many a moment for reflection and connection. I am often careful to not disrupt such a morning.
I have long wondered why I have such a fascination with the morning of each Sunday. Only recently have I determined that being born late one Sunday evening at the turn of the millennium as the reason for my extended appreciation for the calmness of the day’s morning, the same week day morning before my mother’s first labour ensued.
It has long been a bittersweet favourite day of the week for me, but I frequently find myself longing for its morning softness each and every week. A deeper part of me has always longed for the never ending, intentional slowness of a Sunday morning, before late afternoon arrives and the impending arrival of Monday morning reluctantly seeps in through every pore. Before the responsibility of my working week assumes command, before the monotony of the work week becomes blinding, before I have more freedom to wallow in slowness and stillness.
And that is the inspiration for A Week Ending.
To support a writer on her journey to becoming a full time writer and poet, consider subscribing, or even pledging, to follow along.
A Week Ending
Sunday morning as the day begins, Pulling back the blinds, And locating the house coat. Soft grins and covering chins With hands wrapped warm Around tenanted mugs of tea. A blue-eyed son orbiting In singular steps and Reflected in a sunburst glare. Solemn and subtly, A money for jam existence is A simple way to be. To be forever tickled pink With pencilled in shadows of Green and amber tints. Drums of starchy stock and Sturdy sourdough crusts, handy to Absorb this week’s crumbs. Dreams of eloquence and lapping up Idiom after idiom with salty Fingers and a headache. Now, too torrid to keep the House coat on, stingingly slipping Off of Monday morning’s shoulders.
Thank you for reading today’s edition of the Write Me Some Poetry newsletter. If you liked today’s piece, leave a comment and tell me what you think!
In case you missed it…
Here are three recent posts to Write Me Some Poetry that may have been lost in your inbox, or you may have missed. I think you’ll like them.
Raw, powerful. Deserving of another try.