My Prose Is Turgid, It Just Hasn't

Poetry, Above All Is A Series Of Intense Moments ­ Its Power Is Not In Narrative. I'm Not Dealing With Facts, I'm Dealing With Emotion.

Where I Lived - Winter And Hard Earth.i Sat In My Cold Stone Roomchoosing Tough Words, Granite, Flint,to Break The Ice. My Broken Heart -i Tried That, But It Skimmed,flat, Over The Frozen Lake.she Came From A Long, Long Way,but I Saw Her At Last, Walking,my Daughter, My Girl, Across The Fields,in Bare Feet, Bringing All Spring's Flowersto Her Mother's House. I Swearthe Air Softened And Warmed As She Moved,the Blue Sky Smiling, None Too Soon,with The Small Shy Mouth Of A New Moon.

I Always Say That I'll Have A Go And See Whether The Poem Works And If It Does, Then Fine.

When You Have A Child, Your Previous Life Seems Like Someone Else's. It's Like Living In A House And Suddenly Finding A Room You Didn't Know Was There, Full Of Treasure And Light.

What Will You Do Now With The Gift Of Your Left Life?