I have felt for a long time that from turmoil comes the best poetry.
The idea that you can subsidise poets with grants and they can then write powerful verses is wrong.
Great poetry has come from war, failure, defeat, victory, anxiety and elation. It comes with falling in love or in death and loss.
It is difficult to write with passion over tea and biscuits in the warm.
Difficult, that is, for me.
Sonnet – Turmoil of the soul
Now wallowing through the mire that’s left by Hopes,
False Hopes that had proclaimed life would be good.
With spirits left all trussed up as with ropes;
Sad victims of false Hopes did what they could.
For wherein is there good in futile rage?
And how in sad souls can new joys be found?
It seems the Fates have writ upon their page
And Fortitude is now what must be found.
There is no point at all in seeking strife,
No point in gestures, nor in vain pretence.
It seems that turmoil like some jagged knife
Mars souls in ways that never can make sense.
New joys may well now come from smallest things,
Like some bird that’s unseen now sweetly sings.
© Trevor Morgan, Samhain 2004