ALICE
posted some fragments this month: any new undertaking has a way of
severely compromising the balance of what is. When I became moderator it took months for me to get into the way of 'writing poetry as well'. I've noticed the same thing happening with the new web venture especially as I'd not been writing for some time before that. At present I'm not happy with either my writing or the web site, and it's causing some tetchiness. This isn't false modesty, rather, I'm trying to see the wood and the trees, and still do right by the echo and my own talent.  After all, without the Echo and the Echo poets there isn't a lot to make a fuss about is there ?  Presently I'm not meeting my own standards but I am pleased that the attempt is at least showing me potential ways forward. The first fragment was posted in a reply to Porcelina Spring.

       children bark in the playground,
       and the old dog twitches under
       the forgotten milk stand by the gate
       but most of us never escape
       the dry wind from the west

The thought is there, unformed, and the sense that most of us never
climb out of the playground and playground mentality. But it is no more
than a fleeting glance. On the other hand, You Press your Button, I'll
Press Mine is a complete poem, without much to it. What it does do is
to express the place my mind and poetry is in, and has been for far too
long.

               This poem will not run
               through the synapse, call to mind
               a summer's day: will not
               fizz in the spine, or pop
               into the awareness of the same,
               it needs frames, and refrains,
               it needs pauses, it needs stops,
               it needs tension where it flops
                       and declines.

I liked Pause on re-reading it. It takes inspiration from Chinese
poems and from my own garden - but again, the content is reasonably
shallow. Good exercise but little else beyond hopefulness

                       Bells in the courtyard trace
                       the breeze that wanders wistfully
                       among the restless trees.

                       Now open, open
                       to the sunlight's shifting
                       gaze, and hold

                       till stillness comes,
                       a blessed, golden phrase.

Soul Sings on the other hand, does say something. It came from a
discussion with a composer about how the medium of one's art is also a
medium for listening to oneself, and of finding out what is going on
under the ceaseless activity. It is also about the way our ignored
emotions tend to burst out at the wrong moment and in the wrong way if we don't process them through the pen or keyboard.

                       How does one open to the beast,
                       the soul self whispering,
                       before it overcomes
                       and with uncomely violence
                       screams out her secrets to indifferent
                       worlds who shrug and gossip,
                       dribble privacies before they go,
                       their ways, their ways:

BOB had a special moment in Real Life this month. He was invited to read his poetry before a mixed audience which was not terribly literary. By popular request he was given more time than was originally allotted and rousing applause at the end. He also posted "Sunset", a restless,
energetic and provoking description of a real sunset.

 so colours spread across the lea
 cloud patterns, layers, twists and swirls
 makes the human mind just whirl
 colours start with brilliant scarlet
 painting clouds across the inlet
 yellow, orange, purple, blues
 melding in delightful hues
 slowly fading, chasing the sun
 as she goes to her night run

EMILY hasn't been seen often. She did post, as part of a message, this
holiday experience.

       Clear as a bell
       I see the water
       Crystal clear
       Rich royal representing blue
       Looking deeper I then knew
       I could see a dolphin
       First I could see its fin
       Grey like dismay
       Yet the dolphin had a cute bottle top nose
       It would pose
       In the water
       Twirl'n'swirl
       Round and round
       As it it were doing a special dance for me