Poetry

Just words, really

Just words, really. I seem to be building a small collection of poetry, and so have brought some of it together here. Not for publication, necessarily, as most of these have been posted in one place or another, more to keep them together as a piece of work.

Sometimes these flow from the pen almost subconsciously, others have to be worked at, beaten, moulded and crafted, torn up, and re-written until they feel right. Even then, they sit and niggle, but I have a rule that once it’s been out there more than an hour, I don’t touch it again.

I do not know if any of these are good or not. The same is true of pretty much everything I write, whether expressive, technical, or academic. The inner voices of insecurity and failure haunt me today as much as they have my whole life. Covering up with bluster or trying to compensate with assertion convinces some, sometimes, but not me, ever.

“And so it goes.” – Vonnegut, Kurt. 1969. Slaughterhouse-Five; or, the Children’s Crusade: A Duty-Dance with Death. New York: Delacorte Press.

Like all art, it is not for the artist to decide the worthiness or value in his work. That is for you.

Thank you for visiting.

Nick Hood
31st December 2024