Good day folks, or as they say where I am now dobry den (or ahoy).

I'm currently on holiday in in the beautiful city of Prague. Only been here a day, but the creative juices are flowing (get your mind out of the gutter I meant the intellectual ones). So far in MSC (Memoirs of a space corsair) we've not done much but there is our first proper space battle coming up, and some actual piracy - I'm going to base the world they go to fence.their ill gotten gains on the Czech capital I think. It makes sense, the more we leave where we came from, the more we try to capture the spirit of what we left... so in the future major colonies will be heavily influenced by their language/ethic groups in architecture and design. The architecture here is beautiful that it needs to be preserved in some fashion by the Czech speaking people 500 years from now.

I think it will be especially true of language/ethnic groups that lost much of their homes on Earth during the wars of 100 years from now. Well its war or catastrophic after affect of going over the green cliff (entirely depends how preachy I'm feeling when I write it).

Just need to break my current chapter and the show will really get going.

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Nostalgia is a funny thing - it's always there, and so much seems better than it really was, in memory, but when you actually sit down and examine in it, suddenly it's not so rosy. Like watching that old television show you remember as a kid, it might have seemed fantastic, amazing plots, brilliant characters - but in the light of day it was actually pretty shit. Of course, this is not always the case, and when it is not, it is a wonderful thing.

Right now, I am watching Magnum P.I., which let’s face it, is crass populist television, but at its best. I remember watching this show as a kid, and I've got to admit the Ferrari helped (I loved cars as a kid, mechanics son and all that), but even now it seems quite fun. It has aged better than say Knightrider.

That is not the reason for this post however, I am sure I could fire up a poem - but I ended up watching it after flicking through the channels in the mood for something nostalgic. It all started with an email, from Yahoo, they are closing down Geocities, and it was their umpteenth reminder that I should go and download my website there, or transfer it to their paid for hosting service.

It is quite shocking to think about, I have been a member of Geocities since probably around 1996/7, it was a fantastic service in the beginning and was the host of my first ever website, launching me into the internet age in style (well how much style, or even content, was involved is an arguable matter considering I was fifteen at the time).

Over time, I've always had some kind of web presence there, even if it is just to leave an old site loitering about.  Back in the early days I used to have a site in Area 51, back when GeoCities was made up of Neighbourhoods, which I used to write about sci-fi television, but that site is long forgotten in the annals of history. The site currently there has not been touched since 2002, most of it since 2001. It was a site to host all my poetry and writings, and anything else of interest such as my studies into history.

I've been on this morning and downloaded all the pages, while I was there, I found a site from 2007 called Aspiring (which must have been when I was between hosts), which was a very early prototype of a site I wanted to do, it was going to be a poetry ezine, much in the flavour of the Creative Edge, (which many moons ago was the ezine created, and edited by Imdaewen for writers-ramblings.com forum - this site's precursor). I would still love, one day, to launch an ezine, but one thing at a time. So, now I have the whole website saved to my computer, the big question is, what do I do with it? Well the poetry, though it is old (most of it from my late teens, early twenties), I'm going to put in a section on here. The stories, I'm going to redo them, from scratch. They are atrociously written, the level of spelling and grammar mistakes is appalling, and the concepts were born of an age of innocence about writing and storytelling - though one, which never really got past chapter three, I'm still quite thrilled with for all its faults.

Everything else, well I guess that goes to the scrap heap of history, though I am a hoarder so for the next decade it will probably drift around on this hard drive, or that hard drive, maybe a DVD backup occasionally - where eventually I'll stumble across it, and have all these thoughts again. That is the way of most of my digital life, I am in fact loathe to delete anything. Ironic then, that this all started because I was doing the rare job of actually deleting some of the emails in my main account, when I noticed the previously ignored warning about my GeoCities account.

I'm off to go start working on an area on this site to archive my older poetry (hopefully without clogging up my journal, or my blog homepage).

And farewell GeoCities, your demise is the end of an era. From an old Homesteader, ta-ra.

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As promised, however late I am, here is my spider poem - probably not the best thing I have ever written, but I'm just grateful to be writing again. Besides, I kind of like it, I like the bumbling nature of the poem, the over simplified complex structure couple with an end rhyme that has some very stretched rules.

If you enjoy it, let me know - but likewise if you have constructive feedback I'd welcome that too.

Later, I'll be using this poem as one of the sources for a post about editing poetry, so you never know, I may be back with a better version yet - but I still love this one.

Spider Poem

Have you ever taken a moment out of your day,

To watch something truly unimpressive,

Yet overwhelmingly inspiring all the same?

You might never consider it worthwhile to say,

Events so small it's easy to be dismissive,

If you discard it I think you should feel shame.

An event of such minor proportions happened to me,

So life alteringly small,

It unlocked a door to my soul,

And something changed within.

It started with a visit to the loo,

Hardly an auspicious opening,

But I was stuck transfixed to what I saw.

A spider of insignificant tall,

Trapped in the bath bowl,

Myths say forever trapped therein.

It tried and tried with web of glue,

Of this castle it was not destined to king,

With no regard to mythological law,

With as much chance of escape as a ball,

And remember no digging, it's not a mole,

This spider free of thoughtful sin.

It could climb so far then fall,

Web attached it would roll,

No more than a silent din.

I felt this littlest of heroes would try till it was blue,

It would never throe the towel into the ring,

Like a drowning man, desperate to reach the shore.

I am in awe that it would not let it's fate just be,

It answered life's challange with dignity and a call,

And finally, or most orgasmically, ended was it's toll,

It won it's mighty quest to the envy of it's kin.

A much larger spider had watched and did stay,

A coward, but in its size it was impressive,

it didn't matter though the little one won this game.

Nothing now stopped this little spider may,

It climbed a shampoo bottle, then the wall its complete missive,

The little spider inspired my writing and this poem came.

Have you ever taken a moment out of your day,

To watch something truly unimpressive,

Yet overwhelmingly inspiring all the same?

I did and it truly did dividends pay,

And the time it took may seem excessive,

But I was changed, no longer the writer eternally lame.

©, Jonathan Lawrence 2009

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My eleventh day of poetry practice, somewhat delayed after first having site issues, and then computer ones to boot. I'm not giving up, and I do have a back log of poetry to post, however I'm at work, so figured I'd write a quick one, and prove I'm still alive.

Disaster of a Dream

Soaring high above the world,
Glorious hue of unadultered blue,
Wisps of clouds stretching far beneath,
Breaks of green, and brown, and blue,
I am free, nothing can ever get to me here.

Feeling secure here, I swirled,
Blinded by beauty, I never had a clue,
My flight is at an end, I fall towards heath,
Panic flairs, my joy now seesm untrue,
I am trapped, falling to my death in fear.

Without warning, I am curled,
My workplace, twisted and strange,
An assault of vaunted ceilings, and a scary bar,
Signs of the office I know in the range,
I flee, this new world is out to get me.

The scene to Birmingham I'm hurled,
All about me recognised in change,
I bump into a scarey person with a scar,
He grabs me, we fall down a derange,
I hold on, he continues to fall free.

©, Jonathan Lawrence 2009

Now just a bit about this poem :

This poem is a half truth, if I'm honest to the best of my recollection I have never had a dream like that in the first half,  (Soaring high above the world), but I wish I had. The second half on the other hand is all too true, this was a dream I had not long since, it woke me up, and I was seriously freaked out.  I don't often remember dreams, just one or two a month. When I woke up, and calmed down, I decided I wanted to remember this nightmare, so I grabbed my trust E71, and furioulsy typed the events of my dream. It wasn't easy at 3:30am with no light, but I did it, and as a result, the nightmare has been with me since.

The notes I have are far more detailed than this poem, this poem just scratches the surface, I've got descriptions for everyone, and dialogue, more thoughts, more feelings - but if I wanted to retell the nightmare exactly, I would probably lose something in translation.

I would have liked another part of this poem, unfortunately the consistent rhyme based on the word "world", didn't go as far as I would have liked. I know poetry doesn't have to rhyme, but sometimes a rhyme keeps a focus. I could go back and abandon it, but then it's spoilt my initial outpouring. I may post up a second version tonight that's edited - but in this case the edit would be a similar be seperate poem to my mind, and heat.

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Writing is a truly amazing thing for me, it allows me to dump my big random imagination, and allows to keep it for all time. Even if I don't get far into a novel, anytime I want to relive that imagination I just read what I've got.

I'm one of those writers that are blessed with hardcore imagination. Ideas come easy to me, anything can trigger an idea. There isn't any work involved in shaping the imagination, if I let it just run wild, and I can reconjure an imaginar episode with just a few mental or physical prompts.

Of course if I want to shape this into a story I have to harness it, and that requires a great deal if force.

I imagine whole world's in my head, a litany of characters, intensive situations, there's detail o'plenty, as a character slams into a building, I'll be stood at the bus stop opposite, I'll see every half broken brick, and bits of mortar. As the protagonists of my imagination move closer for that all but inevitable kiss, I can see it happening, I can see the lines in the woman,s lips, I can see the guys forced face as he struggles not to go too fast, he wants to project a certain image with that kiss, and I see the car speeding towards them, the one who'll brake hard, and speed away, the moment spoiled. The driver by the way has brown hair, a blue denim jacket, and was smoking - he's actually fleeing the scene of a crime, which he had nothing to do with, but he's got form and doesn't want to go back to jail on a mistake.

The reason it needs to be strong armed is two-fold, firstly my imagination can run rampant at the worst time, I can easily switch between genre's, decades (even centuries), and characters, it takes practice to keep it on track. The second reason is writing for a mythical readership, I love my imagination - most of the time it's better than TV, but it's to my tastes (most of the time, there are occaisionally things I can't stand, and even offend me), however whether it's to the taste of a reading audience I'm less sure. Therefore if I want to write an imaginary scene it has to be guided, and then censored and modified further as it flows from the pen.

There is of course another downside, an overly rampant imagination can completely change tracts, starting a whole new story when your only part way through the current one. This does happen frequently, and usually coincides with me losing the will to write. You put all that effort in, and lose the zone for that story, it's a terrible thing, you're not interest in the new scene unfolding - or rather not interested in writing. I have to find a way back to the original imaginary story, if I want to continue. That's one of the things I had to learn during NaNoWriMo last year.

Most of the time, me and the left side of brain are usually on excellent terms, feeding things between us. Living the ideal life, the scary life, the exciting life, the romantic life, and the mysterious life.

The final great thing is I find it wasy to roll into an imaginary story details from research and such.I'm a sponge for information, and I can squeeze me out and spread them over my stories. So if I've read something about a theoretical form of space travel, and find myself in need of a mechanism to travel through space, (in my story, if only I could craft the real world as easily as my story ones), I draw through the details, and give my world a touch of realism that sets it shooting for wherever it needs to go.

My imagination is my most treasured asset as a writer, were I to lose that, were I to go in life without that - I honestly would rather be dead.

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A man walks onto the scene, he strolls with forced assuredness, yet you can read in his body language he's not as confident as he'd like to be, he eyes the megaphone in his hand cautiously, before coming to a step. He lifts the megaphone up, taps the small end, then raises it to his mouth, before clearing his throat, "Ahem!", then he queries, "Is this thing on?", his words boom out of the megaphone's big end. He laughs nervously in response to the annoyed stairs he receives.

The man stands there a few moments before finally seeming to get the confidence to raise the microphone to his mouth again, as he megaphone reaches position this time his cheeks take on a bit of velour, and his eyes seem ablaze, he takes a deep meaningful breath, and speaks into the megaphone,

"Right, listen up," now all eyes are on him, only they're attentive rather than annoyed, "I demand to know where my inspiration is! I think it's wholly unfair that you've abandoned me right now. I need you, I can't write without you. Without you these pages are blank, and what words come are empty.
"Inspiration I've never needed you so bad, I've got all these things to do, and you've abandoned me, given up the fight, and now I stand alone against the tide of battle.
"I beg you return to me your charm, your talent. Words are meaningless without you!"

The audience looks rapt, his words have moved them, they feel his desperation, and they ponder borrowing the megaphone.

The man looks down upon his audience, upon their swept up faces, he watches the emotions play across their faces. Then a thought dawns in his mind, a realisation, maybe even epiphany.

What the man realised was this - inspiration is hard to achieve, but it can hit at the strangest moments, and all you can do is find the nearest waiting apparatus and take advantage.

Everyone has different things that inspires them to write, and inspires what to write. For myself these are most often two different events, for others they might be most often the same.

There is also another possibility one without the other, which can either be liberating or frustrating, for example:

• I may have a brilliant idea what to write, but no inspiration (will) to write it - so it all plays out in my head because try as I might I can't convert it into words. Obviously a form of writers block.
• Something may give me inspiration (the will) to write, but without any inspiration. Here my mind, and the paper is ab empty canvas, and I can just let my thoughts flow freely. Probably doesn't make for great reading, but it's fun and liberating for me.

Everybody is different when it comes to inspiration, I know all too well what holds true for me, is complete gibberish to another. In broad strokes, I have probably captured the general forms of inspiration.

In terms of what inspires me to write (gives me the will), it falls down to three categories: the outdoors (nature, weather, scenery, architecture, etc...), other people's creativity (a book, a film, a piece of music, also biographical information about a creative person, or someone who's faced adversity in their life), and challenges (nothing gets my creative juices better than a bit of competition).

Sadly these things aren't guaranteed to get me writing, but most often once I start writing it's because I was inspired to by one of the above.

In terms of my inspiration what to write, it's usually something close to hand, something I've imagined happening, my emotional state (yes, I can be a bit emo in my poetry), or a need to impress others so I can belong, and validate myself.

I've written about many things, from religion to coke cans, from fantasyic tales to mundane moments of life, and from historical events to nature.

Sometimes my indpirations puts me on the path to something specific, sometimes it's just the starting point, or catalyst for a cascade of ideas.

I will say this, whatever the idea, I do love it when it happens, it's a veritable joy to let poetry over take me, a joy and love that only falls short of sex.

As I'm getting older, inspiration is getting harder - dry spells last longer, but when the floodgates open, I feel sure the joy is deeper, as I come to appreciate it more.

Still I would live in those moments more if I were able to, giving myself over to the wild abandon of inspiration.

So I feel abandoned when inspiration doesn't come, and call to it from my megaphone, hoping to attract it back. For me my megaphone is going to beautiful places, reading and listening to music, and entering challenges - hoping beyond hope, inspiration heads my call and answers.

That's what inspiration is to me.

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My tenth day of writing practice poems to get myself fit for competition.

Today we have one about the weather, which bears no relation to the weather experienced this weekend funnily enough.

Atmosphere Alight
Furous titans battle at the edge,
Tempestuous gods push back,
Might against might
The battle of nature rages.

Hurricanes battle warm fronts,
Thunder and lightening attack,
Atmosphere alight,
Man measures its puny gauges.

Rivers swell breaking banks,
Weather defences seem to lack,
Dangerous sight,
The battle for nature through ages.

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]]> http://aspiring.org/2009/05/poetry-practice-day-ten/feed/ 0 http://aspiring.org/2009/05/evolution/ http://aspiring.org/2009/05/evolution/#comments Fri, 22 May 2009 20:00:28 +0000 JL Legend http://www.aspiring.org/?p=118

Charmander - beause everyone should be a Pokémon - or something like that

So Charmander gets in a fight, it's against a more powerful Pokémon, though his trainer is sure his Pokémon can handle it.

The battle rages, and indeed in a last ditch effort, Charmander gets the win. The crowds go wild, it's the little pocket monster that could.

Wait, but what's happening now? Why Charmander is glowing, what's going on? Suddenly the glowing shape of a small odd looking lizard is replaced with a larger odd looking glowing lizard, and as the glow fades, Charizard is stood there looking thoroughly chuffed with himself. He's evolved, become a better Pokémon, bigger, stronger, and smarter. Everyone is shocked into a stunned silence. His trainer starts clapping, and soon the auditorium goes nuts.

What's this got to with anything? Well after a fashion I think writers evolution is similar. Certainly my own is, I get stronger very gradually, but every so often I tackle something big - and win. The gradual improvement, the many small lessons learnt, and the sudden influx of effort and challenges pushes me to a new level.

I'll admit, it may be a confidence thing - I'm not a biased judge of my own ability, in the absence of Mr Horobin and Mr Barrand (my English teachers in high school), I can only presume to rate myself.

Every piece I write I get a little better, every review and edit nets me a few more lessons to avoid problems in the future, but every major trial tests everything I've learned, and gives me so many new lessons.

In terms of talent and experience, I evolve into a whole new monster, with new lessons to learn and embrace. I find the end of a piece of work, or project, the most exciting time, and I need to focus on that when the challenge seems too daunting, or I lose the inspiration (will), I have reasons to carry on.

It's true of most things in my life, I'm a far better analyst now than I was four years ago, there are periods of gradual improvement, and those moments where I've jumped to a whole new level.

Now I've turned myself into a fictional firey Japanese lizard, I think the job is done for this post.

P.S. I don't know Pokémon that well, if I've got the evolution wrong, aplogies to the diehard Pokemon fans out there.

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Charmander - beause everyone should be a Pokémon - or something like that

[/caption] So Charmander gets in a fight, it's against a more powerful Pokémon, though his trainer is sure his Pokémon can handle it. The battle rages, and indeed"/>]]> http://aspiring.org/2009/05/evolution/feed/ 4 http://aspiring.org/2009/05/poetry-practice-day-nine/ http://aspiring.org/2009/05/poetry-practice-day-nine/#comments Fri, 22 May 2009 16:52:43 +0000 JL Legend http://aspiring.org/?p=158

Well today is day nine, I'm starting to feel good about writing poetry, well I always did, but having been away for nearly a year, I felt anxious about writing. I'm not a confident person, I'm honest, hard working, and caring - all great qualities but I lack confidence. Writing today's poem, I felt confident about writing poetry, and that is a fantastic feeling.

Anyway, here's today's poem:

Trumble

Trumble trumble
The train is speeding along the tracks,
Like the cliche it goes on and on,
It doesn't care how many poets pay tribute,
How could it? It's a train, it suffers no dispute,
Like the cliche it goes on and on,
Until age, fault, or accident attacks,
Trumble trumble.

Trumble trumble,
It might carry passengers or sacks,
Train doesn't care, just goes it's way,
For cheap fast long distance it suffers no substitute,
It's masters do, they're not nearly as astute,
They only care about getting more pay,
Preventing the goofd things train lacks,
Humble grumble.

©, Jonathan Lawrence 2009

Well we're back to political rantscommentary as poetry, throw in a bit of business, but mostly it's politically motivated. The train may not care about the state of British railways, but I do - between Labour and Conservatives, the railways have been turned into a wasteful, inefficient, unenjoyable, expensive and ill-fated form of travel. Why ill fated? Well if enough train companie go under, the rail network would grind to a halt - either someone wealthy would get wealthier running a shadow of the service, or it simply stops. The rail network, and it's subsidies, have been so artificially raised up, no government could take it back - though they'd happily pay as much to the wealthy hero to take over.

I'm grouchy - I love public transport, or loved is more accurate. Have such fantastic memories, and feelings of trains of old. By old I mean my relatively recent childhood - big black and white Intercity's with their golden stripe were always a mystery. I never got to go on one before they became GNER, then National Express trains. The design, and routes may not have changed, these cheap rip-offs, the amateur replacements are no match in my mind for the glorious behemoths of memories.

I remember going to the National Railway Museum in York as a child with my grandparents - if I loved the idea of the Intercities, this was where I was blown away. Amazing contraptions everywhich way, Mallards, and Stephenson's Rocket, walk through 30's 1st class carriages, and even take a short ride along the tracks, steam billowing from the front, distinctive whistles blaring.

I'm on a train now, a Pandolino (on mobile so not easy to check spelling), it doesn't compare, and though I have somewhere good to go, the journey isn't the same.

I should probably have written a second poem, this post deserved it, as did my memories. Maybe another time I'll revisit that passion.

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]]> http://aspiring.org/2009/05/poetry-practice-day-nine/feed/ 0 http://aspiring.org/2009/05/poetry-season-on-the-bbc/ http://aspiring.org/2009/05/poetry-season-on-the-bbc/#comments Thu, 21 May 2009 14:52:59 +0000 JL Legend http://aspiring.org/?p=147

It's always great when poetry gets media focus, it is one of the great things about the BBC, and definitely something that proves the license fee is needed. I doubt advertisers would have any interest in poetry - look what happened to Richard and Judy, that was a ratings winner, it's book club was a major influence on the book charts, and still it was booted to some random minor Sky channel, and then promptly retired.

The BBC is currently running a poetry season (no doubt the appointment of the new Poet Laureate, and the positive media coverage, with hits on the new story on the website, helping influence the idea). Last night Griff Rhys Jones was on a program on the Beeb called "Why Poetry Matters", haven't had chance to watch it yet, but will do this afternoon. Here's the program description from iPlayer:

Griff Rhys Jones makes a passionate and personal plea for poetry, exploring how verse has the power to enlighten, entertain, stimulate and seduce.

Griff dissects Keats with Simon Armitage, views a line-up of poetic dandies with Andrew Motion and encounters an experimental poem made from a dozen beach balls. He celebrates W.H. Auden's Night Mail with a team of railway drivers, takes a Shakespearean masterclass with Nick Hytner and is thrown into the bardic bear pit at a poetry slam.

If you're in the UK you can watch it on iPlayer, the link is http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b00kmtyn/Why_Poetry_Matters/

I'm watching it as I write this, some amazing poetry readings, and some wise words as to the importance, and impact of poetry among society. I may write  a proper review of it later.

There's also a whole Poetry season website here:  http://www.bbc.co.uk/poetryseason/

I've been going through it today, and it's well worth spending some time on. I did get caught up short though, they're doing a vote for the Nation's Favourite Poet, and I figured "Oh yeah, ace, I'll have a bit of that!", as you do, only to find myself torn over the choices. I'm intending on doing a post at some point in the future to explore my love of various poets, so I don't want to spoil that in this post. However, let me just cover the poets on whom I am torn, and briefly why.

First up is WH Auden, Auden most people know in some form, even if only for his poem "Funeral Blues" - though commonly identified as "Stop all the clocks", like everyone else I find this a profound and moving poem - but, I have to say I prefer September 1, 1939, it is an epoch marking poem, it was written during the first days of the second world war. I always think it was kind of sad that he grew to hate it, but sometimes, as a reader of poetry, you have to ignore the poet, and celebrate the poem and what it means to you.

Next up we have Seamus Heaney, his poetry is different to most I read, partly because I don't read a great deal of contemporary Irish poetry, however I was introduced to his works at school, and still hold them in dear regard. His poetry is lovely of detail, and often feels like real life captured in poetry - and makes you wish that you had some of those memories, until it triggers a memory in you, and then your just piggy backing from his memories into your own, which seems to make the poetry even more real, and draws you in. It is a tremendous gift to share, and to recieve.

Carol Ann Duffy is in there, another one of my favourite poets, and another I was introduced to at school (in fact Auden, Heaney, and Duffy were all part of my national curriculum set poetry for English Literature), she's written some of the best poetry I've ever written. What I like about her poetry is the technical side, not because it's technical poetry, but because her technique is more simple, more accessible. You're able to pick up an anthology of poetry, flick through to a Duffy poem, and just read. Her poetry has an often childlike quality to it, even as it handles adult themes and characters, there's a level of honesty, and understanding, that as adults, poets tend to lose in the need to appear intelligent, to hide depths within lines, and give altering meanings to written work. Of all her poetry, Valentine is my favourite, again it has an almost childlike concept of love, by childlike I mean innocent and idealised, something we find hard to achieve as adults.

WB Yeats, now there's a towering man of whom I am associated (intellectually, sadly he died before my time), with in many fields. I do honestly like his poetry, but I also have to admit, I have spent more time studying places in history he went. Not purposefully, however he was there, and that added great interest to my studies. I've spent a lot of time looking at the Theosophical Society of London, and the Golden Dawn, the whole change in spirituality, and the mood of the nation at the time - and the world in general. However, I would say of his poetry, Sailing to Byzantium is my favourite, it's a very bleak view of getting old, and of dying.

William Wordsworth, there's not a great deal to say here. I strongly suspect that he wrote possibly the best known poem, the most often repeated, and the poem more people think of, than any other, when asked "Can you think of a poem". Of course, this is very much a matter of opinion - I don't have statistical evidence of this. However, "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud", is there, if it's not as I describe, it's not far behind. He did contribute far more than that to the art of poetry, he helped usher in the romantic age, his vast array of poetry is some of the world's most beautiful, most meaning and poignant, and he was of course Poet Laureate for a while.

Lastly (that I will cover) is Keats. Now I didn't come to Keats until I was in college, studying my AS Level in English Literature, however he is the poet who's probably influenced upon my life the most. He lived a relatively short life, yet I feel his impact on modern poetry has been as potent and powerful as any of the romantics, he was sadly ill recieved as a poet during his time, but his influence secured his recognition.  He was prolific well, he died at twenty-six (my age), but he had dozens of poem published.  I would be hard pressed to choose my favourite, and i'll save my favourite Keats for poem for another post, dedicated to finding just that.

Now I've written that, I've made my choice - it's not an easy choice, all those I have listed have had a major effect on my love of poetry, and my writing of poetry. There are others too, but I don't want to exhaust myself trying to analyse them all.  I would have mentioned Kipling, Coleridge, Shakespeare, Milton, Blake, Byron, and Plath - each deserves as much of a mention as above, and indeed each of these, and all those above deserve a post each - and I aspire to provide that over time.

My choice however is Keats, his impact on me, on the romantics, and the profound sense of loss I have that he did not live to write more, I would have loved to see how his poetry evolved over time, what would have changed, what would have stayed the same.

There will be more to come from this poetry season, more programs, the results of the vote, and I'll be here to offer my humble commentary, and analysis, and celebration of a worthwhile idea, and hopefully finding inspiration among the poetic greats of past and present.

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