“Oh, that’s…um…great!” (awkward pause)
“But what’s it about?”
A brief summary then of some familiar responses to my half-embarrassed admissions that I write poetry. I suspect I’m not alone in this.
Even here in Wales, the land of the Eisteddfod, the Birthplace of the Bard and the erudite orator, the well spring of the Mabinogion and Dylan Thomas, there’s that little wince sometimes.
It’s perhaps the tight, wordless outward expression of the “Get a proper job” instinct that comes naturally maybe from the sons and daughters of a country hewn by men and women who carved out coal, sliced slate from the hearts of mountains, heaved mighty sacks of cockles from the mud and farmed forbidding uplands in the icy blasts of a Welsh winter (and summer).
In contrast, shilly-shallying about on an iPad or laptop does look a bit lame. But it’s what we do. So here’s a lovely summation of the whole thing by Carl Sandberg, gleaned from Pinterest. (And no backbreaking toil was endured at all 😉)