When poetry takes over

I'm not a poet. Never will be. But there are times when poetry, sometimes obscure in shape and form, seems the most logical and successful organiser of thoughts, a flask of emotion. I have been known to scribble my own personal set of stanzas, but to lay them bare in the world requires a strength that I am not quite in possession of. Perhaps that's okay. For me, writing is a cathartic excercise, a healing undertaken with words. Sylvia would understand this. And Martin is there for the happy times. And Stevie, well, one of Stevie's sticks in my mind always:

Not waving But Drowning
- Stevie Smith

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.

--

Oh don't worry. It's just thinking, not drowning.