SPILL THE TEA

I only recently got back into poetry, and I can feel the obsession creeping over me. It worries me as generally when I get to a certain level of obsession over anything it is a sign that I will burnout and lose interest within 48 hours. For reference see – gym obsession, Rockabilly music obsession and more recently my watching other people do ultra runs on YouTube obsession.

Anyway – in my current state of craziness, I am hearing poetry everywhere and the truth is I sometimes wonder what is going on with my wee heid.

At the close of a summer day, I love sitting in the garden with my book and a glass of fizzy juice – and the absolute highlight is listening to the birds having a wee chat amongst themselves. It is so obviously a question and answer; an end of the day catch up. And I’d love to know what the chat is.

I think of my nieces chatting and bickering about their day at school – perhaps about classes, boys or their respective teachers. The kids call gossip ‘spilling the tea’. As in ‘C’mon girl – spill the tea!’ Give us the goss…

I would love it if the birds were doing the equivalent of comparing notes on books they are reading and perhaps some verse they found interesting. It’s unlikely but can you imagine if they had been flying through the sunny Scottish landscape and felt the need to quote Edwin Morgan:

"Let the sun beat on our forgetfulness one hour of all the heat intense and summer lightning on the Kilpatrick hills."

I know. Like I say. Obsessed.

Anyway – there is poetry everywhere. Poetry is not just held in dusty old books to be brushed off with a white gloved hand. It is the rhythm of traffic or the chat on the train. It is in songs and stories, rivers and seas. Just because it is not a perfectly curated piece of immaculate rhyming and metered prose, does not mean it is not poetry.

I recently attended the City of Poets PIES course – and of everything I learned; and I learned a lot – the main thing was that poetry does not even have to rhyme.

Eh - WHAT NOW?

I was literally taught at school that poetry rhymed.

Each verse – 4 lines.

Lines 1 and 3 – rhyme.

Lines 2 and 4 – rhyme.

And THAT’s yer poem right there.

I am a rhymer, but it blew the game wide open for me.

And once the rule book was destroyed, I realised that poetry is in the footsteps as we walk and is the very verse and chorus of our everyday life.

It is literally everywhere.

Again – OBSESSED!

So now I hear the wee birds in the garden as poets – although we all know they are really talking about the state of my grass and perhaps the fact that my fizzy juice is probably a gin and tonic.

Lauren Morris