I hate to love poetry. Am I an oxymoron?

Roses are blue Violets are red quote in flamesI’ve quite proudly said in the past that “I hate poetry”.  And meant it. I did. But since I started blogging I’m drawn to it. To the words. To the images they create. To the emotions they evoke.

And it confuses me.

I am learning. There are some brilliant writers who call themselves bloggers, but these bloggers really are brilliant writers.  They are poets.

I hate to love poetry. But I think I do. And I don’t understand why.

And it confuses me.

I wish I could write poetry. I can’t. But I’m drawn to want to try. I tried once in a previous post but I think it wasn’t really poetry. Just writing trying to sound like poetry. But it still meant something to me. Is poetry like art? Is it subjective?

These poets are throwing my mind into turmoil. It is because of you that my view of poetry has been thrown off its axis. It’s because of you I am confused!  Go and torment someone else’s mind.  Be gone from mine.

Read these poems from these poets and you may understand my dilemma …

Kunal Thakore: How can someone paint such a masterpiece with words? I want to hate this, but I can’t. It is too lovely.

and this …

Harsh Reality:  This poem is simple but complex. But … it’s beautiful. I hate that I love it.

and this …

Keith Garrett Poetry: I’m learning that poetry doesn’t have to rhyme, but it draws me in. Like an addiction. It calls to me. Like port sliding down my throat. Warming me from the inside.

And it confuses me.

A seed has been planted and the poets in the blogging community are watering it.

Go away. Leave me alone. I want to go back to the world I know.

Where I hate poetry!

©2015 CEW

Flame Image courtesy of Freepik

 

 

 

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Is 50 too old to get my first tattoo?

Highly tattood lady in red bikini cartoonI want a tattoo! Not because I’m having a mid-life crisis and I’ve just turned 50, but because I’m arty and creative and … well … I just want one.

I wanted to get one in my 30s, but because of my work tattoos were deemed “inappropriate”. But times have changed. My bosses would have had a fit if I came to work “inked”. The boss I have now would be okay with it. {To him, how I work is more important than how I look. Thats why he gave the 49 year old plump woman a job over the younger hotties. ‘Nuff said!}

So I’m thinking of getting my 1st tattoo to mark – literally – my half century. My 20 year old son is ecstatic because he is tattooed and insists on coming with me. My 23 year old son not so much because he is quite conservative and thinks I will “chicken out”. And my husband will probably have an apoplectic seizure. He is “El Capitano” of the conservatives.

The morning he woke up and pointed out the massive boil on my nostril, only to have his eyes re-focus and realise it was a silver stud that I got when he was out the previous night nearly did the poor man in. I just smiled that morning and gave him my cocky face. That was 18 years ago. Now this tattoo is going to make an appearance within the next few months but he doesn’t think I will actually go through with it either.

“There is something lovely about turning the big 5 0. I’m not concerned about what people think any more. I’m {sigh} content.”

So I’m thinking of getting a beautiful old round clock face tattooed on my upper arm, close to the shoulder. Instead of having two hands on it, I will have four. Two times will be displayed depicting the moments that both of my sons were born. The inner working of the clock will be showing and the outside of the clock will have my two sons names engraved on it. Just a thought at this time, but I want my first tattoo to mean something special and timeless {excuse the pun} to me.

I must admit I am a little scared. Will I regret it? Maybe. But you only live once. Is 50 too old to get my first tattoo? Am I having a mid-lift crisis? No idea.

Tattooist appointment soon! Or, maybe I will get a dragon, or a sword with a big jewel in it, or a decorative cross, or ………
© 2015 CEW

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How the hell do teenagers think?

Planet in outer spaceIf women are from Venus and men are from Mars, what planet are teenagers from?

I ask this because as I journeyed alongside my two sons through their teenage years, many times I wondered how their little brains worked.  Their logic was skewed, their behaviour was occasionally absurd, and whilst I didn’t laugh at many of their antics at the time I can chuckle now that we have come through relatively unscathed.

My friends tend to focus on their daughter’s hormonal changes through the teenage era.  But I can tell you that when you see your son stomping his feet, jumping up and down on the spot screaming blue murder with his fists pumping up and down, you know boys get hormonal too.  {OK, so I laughed hysterically at my son when he did this which didn’t help matters, but hey, I’m only human and couldn’t control myself either!}

When my boys began morphing into teenagers, the first thing I really noticed was the stench in my car when I picked them up from school.  I would look down at their feet noticing their shoes were still on as my gag reflex kicked in.  How did such an eye watering stink permeate through leather shoes to pollute the atmosphere?  I was sure their feet had turned toxic.  And their armpits – oh my goodness!  I had to open the car window and drive with my head tilted out the window, my lips flapping like those of my dog, eyes blissfully squinting as I refilled my lungs with clean air.  Yes, that’s how I drove home.  “Did you boys use deodorant this morning?”  I’d rage.  “Yes Mum”.  “Well…USE MORE!”

There was one particular episode of “teenage logic” that I will forever remember.  This was the defining moment where I hypothesised that teenager equalled alien.   Our home has evaporative cooling and I was forever telling them that if I wasn’t home and they put the cooling on, they must open some doors and windows.  I arrived home from work one very hot day and heard the cooling system whirring as I walked up my driveway.  {They better have the doors and windows open.}  I was pleasantly surprised that they did!

But something was just not right.  I could feel it in my bones.  I walked from one end of our home to the other, stopping, cocking my head to the side, waiting for my mother’s-extra-sensory perceptions to hit the jackpot.  Bingo! {It couldn’t be.}  I walked to the cooling control panel which was next to the central heating panel.  My eyes were snapping from one panel to the other and back again.  The cooling was on.  The heating was on.  I called the boys over and asked WHY the cooling system and central heating were on at the same time.

Without hesitation …. “It was hot so we put the cooling on” said son.  “Then why is the heater on?” asked I.  They looked at each other as if I was simple.  “Well?” I said. “Mum, it got too cold with the cooling on, so we put the heater on!”  Doh!  Silly me.

I stood there, perplexed, looking at the back of their little alien heads as they walked away.  I was response-less.

There are many more “episodes” from my alien teenage son’s soap opera that I will revisit soon.  Some are hilarious, others not so much.  My youngest son turned 20 a few weeks ago.  I bent and kissed the ground and thanked God that I survived the teenage years.

“Adolescence is a period of rapid changes. Between the ages of 12 and 17, for example, a parent ages as much as 20 years.”   ~ Author Unknown
©2015 CEW

Reposted from my old blog site