A contextual note: Ella Risbridger is an author of multiple cookery/autobiographical books. I own her book The Year Of Miracles. It's really good.
Ella Risbridger has a habit of describing cooked fruit as yielding.
While this is a slightly weird image I find it rather charming, right?
That one can see the words she springs to, evident in her writings.
One can see her voice, in a way, so
why can't I accept that's nice?
My own writing must be totally unique.
No rhymes or structure, I reject them with an enjambement that
forces it into a rupture but
that possible rhyme just becomes in-line.
Tripping, skip
ing,
Predict this, mate, but wouldn't it be better off if I could just accept inevitability?
Maybe my poetry would be improved.
Maybe my writing career could begin to move but
here we are. Oh
boy, oh
joy, break
ing up now like a
tinny old-fashioned
radio.
Ella
Risbridger
wrote a cookery book on her partner's death, and
managed to create art out of it. My mother is having a depressive episode and I am writing about poetic
struc
ture.
Keep fighting. Or something. Sometimes people die and I am not -
not wondering why. It's just
mundane.
And here I am back writing about death aga
in.
No disruption of structure will stop
this. Each of my poems ends up
here.
I am yielding to predictability.
Like a raspberry in a pistachio tart
I can accept rhyming inevitability.
Or at least
I'm
trying
to.