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Sounds of the Soul: Adventures in Time
"With a simple crank of time’s screw, our deepest convictions can evaporate or be up-ended. This uncertainty goes to the heart of the poetic form as I understand it. Each of my poems may be thought to involve a dialectical movement. This may be a critical dynamic between fulfilment and despair, or more fundamentally: between grasping at a nugget of truth and watching it seep away; between upholding the very possibility of meaning and yielding to the infinite and eternal void.
"Yet the very concrete form is then disingenuous. For a poem has a beginning, a middle, and an end. Yet time may not be so easily divided. Thus in insinuating the form of a conclusion, by one lookout I may have inadvertently turned truth on its head, for the flow of time is seamless and inexorable.
"It is futile to seek to determine in good faith where a poem should begin, and where it should end, or, pari passu, to seek to adjudicate between the causes of optimism and pessimism."
We knew Andrea wrote poetry, but it was not until after her death that her brother found this complete opus of poems on her laptop, composed between 2003 and 2009 and already arranged into groups (the headings are all Andrea’s), and with her Preamble already written, in typical Andrea style! We, her family, are very happy to now complete Andrea’s task and finally to publish her poems. We are very grateful to those special friends and members of Andrea’s family who have each contributed comments on some of the poems.
Andrea was beautiful and brave, witty and clever, funny and (definitely) scatty. She was a private person, trying to be independent in spite of all her problems, and never complaining about the hand which Life had dealt her. We think that everyone she came into contact with, in whatever walk of life, went away feeling better, inspired, touched by her light.
We are so proud of her.
From Sounds of the Soul: Adventures in Time
somewhere down my ‘to do’ list
I quite fancy regurgitating
the novel inside me
no doubt stuck somewhere down my windpipe
I’d draw on my real experience;
there’d be no point in constructing imaginary hopes and fears
and implanting them in stick persons;
the only novel I’d want to write
describes my journey through this life
but when I consider the matter plainly
I can’t work out where it would need to kick off,
without perpetually regressing;
birth is such an artificial
place to start –
and it’s beyond me to determine
where it should draw to a close
for with my life in a perpetual state of unfolding
I’m yet to identify the story’s moral
Scribbulations © 2013