by Hilaire Belloc
The Lion, the Lion, he dwells in the Waste,
He has a big head and a very small waist;
But his shoulders are stark, and his jaws they are grim,
And a good little child will not play with him.
This poem seemed very appropriate given all the tiger and lion maulings I've seen on the newspages lately.
It's also a tidy little poem, and I am finding that I'm enjoying Belloc's work. I haven't read them before receiving them in my email. I subscribe to a poem a day list. It keeps me reading poetry, which is even more important now that I've decided to pick up writing poetry again.
Poetry has always been my first love, and while I adore fiction writing, there will always be a special place in my heart for poetry. I'd like to improve my skills in it as much as I have in fiction writing. Which means more practice. Which means more poems. Lots more poems.
But I won't subject INK to my word drool. I have found in my past experiences that critiques groups and poetry do not mix, not unless everyone in the group is a poet, too, and then the few of those I've been in didn't work so well, either, though I've been thinking about the Poetry Group at the local library. That was a great bunch of poets. Wouldn't that be something, having a great group of writers to help my fiction writing and a great bunch of poets to help my poetry. How lucky would I be?