A poem by Susan Elizabeth Howe called Three Horses, which I quite enjoyed. I wasn't going to write about it, but I followed the links on the page through to another of her poems, Your Luck is About to Change, and changed my mind. I read both poems aloud and found myself laughing by the end of the second poem. I find it hard to articulate what it is that I enjoy about the poems. I only really know that I am enjoying them when I hear the reaction in my own voice.
What I really wanted to write about is the huge gulf that separates me, the have-a-go-retiree from the established published poet. The poems I read seem to be about very little, well crafted observations about not very much at all. My attempts are weighty with content. I am driven to write poetry because I have so much I want to say and want to find a means to express it. The poems I read don't seem to be about very much, as if it is the act and manner of speaking that is important, rather than what is said. Perhaps I sould go and read about form versus content. I don't expect I will through.
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