As I’ve mentioned before, I’m quite careful about not posting my writing on the blog, as I don’t want to scupper my chances if I want to get a short story published in the future. However, I can probably unequivocally say that I am NOT a poet. I love poetry, but I’m unable to write it well.
Thanks to the Open University poetry assignments, I have a homeless poem which I don’t think will be accepted anywhere for publishing unless the literary world develops a sudden penchant for slightly childish poetry. My other two efforts have been (very generously) accepted over at The Fiction Shelf, which is launching soon (go and submit your stories and poems to them, I think it’s going to be a great site).
So now, without further ado, here is a poem by my own non-poetic hands.
I dug a hole so I could see
a piece of earth unviewed.
I climbed up high and breathed in deep
and hoped that air was new.
I wrote a song so wild and free
which none had heard before.
And when I swim, my eyes are wide,
they sting to see new shores.
In the snow, my feet are first
to step out through the door.
And sometimes I can dream a world
where none have been before.