Hi!
How can it be November already?!I've been talking for quite some time about my love of poetry. So, I've created a page for the thing - go check it out. I will update it regularly with poetry I adore as well as my own original work. I'll consider sharing your poetry here too, if you're keen. Send me your stuff.
Poetry and literary journals
By now I have quite a large selection of unpublished poetry. This week I've started submitting to poetry journals such as Poetry Magazine, Frontier Poetry and The Malahat Review. Wish me luck - I'm going to need it.Some history
The first person to spot my aptitude for rhyming, was my Grade 3 teacher, Mrs Zimmerman, who noted as much on my annual report card. Being only 9-years-old, I didn't understand what she was on about. I wish, more than anything, that I'd kept those poems and the report card. Little did I know that creative writing would continue to be my labour of love.I don't know where my love of words come from. It's just something that's innate: a knowing. I have a deep yearning to connect with people through the written word. Writing is my chosen way of creative expression, in fact, I feel like writing chose me.
During my late twenties I enrolled for a BA degree in Languages and Literature with Creative Writing as specialisation and received distinctions for my drama, poetry and narrative portfolio during my first year. A streak of bad luck thwarted my degree goals, but this hasn't dissuaded me from writing. I’ve had some poetry published on LitNet and my poem Motherland was included in the anthology, Murmuring Memoirs, through the Poetry Institute of Africa. Hop on over to my new poetry page to read Motherland.
Below is the first poem I ever submitted to a traditional publisher (before the age of the internet) during 2001. Back then publishers still posted fancy letter-headed rejection letters. Ah, the good old days, when receiving post was exciting, also when a certain young lady still had loads to learn about the craft.
Crafty Honey
Crafter’s
hands handling sands
Handling
sands the crowd demands
Making
money with his clay
From
the start to the end of the day
“Make
a pot for my flowers,
Make
a shelf for my shower
Make
a holder for my pens
Make
some beer mugs for the men!”
“Make
some tea cups for the ladies
Make
some cradles for the babies
Make
a present for the king
Make
him a fine clay ring!”
Crafters
hands handling sands
Handling
sands the crowd demands
The
baker has an easy life
The
gardener spends time with his wife
The
winemaker pleases every taste
Nothing
he makes goes to waste
They
break his pots, then he makes more
It
brakes again as it falls to the floor
The crafter man left the land
And all his work turned to sand
He bought some bees with his last
money
And made more selling his honey
Fiction update
I've been editing and adding to Scatterlings (title subject to change) one page per day. Slowly but surely getting there.
That's all folks.
Thanks for reading.
Till next time.
Erica

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