Thursday 22 November 2012

LITERARY EVENING TURNS BAD

I went to a writing group once. Everyone read out original work and eagerly awaited critical comment. Brenda (let's call her) read a poem called Autumn's Lost Perpsective. I got in early with my insights. "I like the way you weave evocative memories of summer seamlessly with the beautiful sadness of dying leaves," I offered with measured reflection. Brenda said: "The poem's about my dead cat, Roger." This threw me. I'd planned to follow Brenda with my poem: Stars Beyond Comprehension. It's about how you look up at the stars, and have no comprehension. You see where I'm going with this. I declined to read, and left the group early claiming I needed "space to deconstruct the metaphorical images which had arisen unexpectedly for me." I drank a few glasses of wine that night. Then the Muse came, and I wrote another poem: Roger Roams in Starlight. I think Brenda would like it.

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