Simple, Really

by Ben Pickard   Oct 12, 2020

My wrist cracked as I attempted
pretty pirouettes. Lavender particles
evaporated as I fought to lay them down
on parchment that caught light, embarrassed
by what poetry had become; and the quill
snapped - distracted - while stealing a furtive
glance at what it really meant to write something
beautiful. The only words I ever really needed were
"I love you".

Now, I have found true poetry and am
a poet at last.


Ben Pickard 2020


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Latest Comments

  • 1 month ago

    by Lost star

    Hi Ben, I immediately had to favour this poem, the "precision" of poetry can take the life out of it sometimes, a break in connotation or flow can be seen as defective in someway, poetry, like life sometimes needs to break rules, it needs "imperfection" to contrast the "perfect" an thus becomes more human and real. I loved this poem so much. . .

    My only criticism is you put a comma where there shouldn't be one. . . ( only joking :))

    Wonderful write as always.

    • 1 month ago

      by Ben Pickard

      How dare you. I pride myself on my use of commas, lol.
      Thanks, LS.

  • 1 month ago

    by Michael

    A powerful piece Ben.
    So much emotion expressed here, and the pain of being a poet at times.
    Nicely done fella

  • 1 month ago

    by Brenda

    Beautiful Ben, I love your visuals !

  • 1 month ago

    by Poet on the Piano

    Haven't read your work in a bit, and I've missed it! This felt a bit different, and I love how you say it's simple, but I see the complexities here.... even with the first blunt image of the wrist, I had no idea what to expect at first. I keep going back to the "embarrassed by what poetry had become". I take it as either forcing the stanzas, and being uninspired and unhappy with yourself, and finally being moved. Finally, it's effortless, instead of maybe an exercise or a struggle with yourself and emotions. There's a purpose to it now, a fire, and in that revelation of "I love you", poetry becomes more than merely words. Beautiful, Ben!

    • 1 month ago

      by Ben Pickard

      Thank you, MA. You have it dead on: sometimes, poetry can be just an exercise in self gratification - writing for the sake of producing the perfect rhyme and getting the correct syllable count. It can become overproduced, and lose its meaning completely. Or lose its poetry, if that makes sense.