Oh my goodness, so here it goes... Up until now I haven't featured any creative writing on this blog. Putting work out there for people to read can be pretty daunting, uncomfortable and difficult to get used to. It seems like sometimes these feelings double, triple or quadruple when it comes to creative writing. (That's not to say that non-fiction blogs or articles can't be creative, mind!) There's just something super vulnerable and personal about a story or poem - though there's also something super exciting about sharing them. I'm the type of person who reads a Facebook post five times over (even though most of the time it's only saying 'Happy Birthday') just to make sure that it's right and that I'm not going to embarrass myself. But sometimes I suppose you can overthink yourself into not pressing 'post' at all. This hesitancy and caution, in measure, is very healthy and wise, don't get me wrong. Too much of it, however, could have the potential to stop you from saying what you want to or sharing what you've made. I'm just going to post it. After an adequate amount of checking, reading and re-reading, here is a poem I wrote this week. (It's okay; I know you guys don't bite!) I'm not entirely sure what the title should be yet. Little birds blustering, flying on the breeze. Getting caught up by the gales, swept up and off their trees. Rustling and tumbling, they soar and then they fall, As though they're on a mission, and then hear somebody call. They don't flit or float or faff around, like this it may appear, But if you watch them closely, they follow what they hear. Determination and direction, fill their bodies, though paper-thin, You join with them mid-journey, never see where they begin. Glints of colour against the changing sky, but they stand out just enough, They assume perfect shapes like perfect specks, but close up are torn and rough. Some crinkled, cracked and worn away, others fleshy, waxy, new, All the same jumped up together, when the wind called them and blew. Who knows what their whispers and dances say, who knows where they all go? But they aren't wasting time as they waste away, whirling to and fro. In case you want a bit of background or are wondering what on earth I'm waffling on about, this poem came to me a few days ago in a beautiful barn in the middle of the countryside. I was surrounded by creative people who are part of a worship school. They were teaching/studying a course in songwriting, leadership and loving God. Outside it was a really blustery day and I saw leaves tumbling around in the wind. I guess these surroundings and observations influenced this poem.
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AuthorMegan Kate Chester Archives
June 2017
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