Poetic Ponderings

Apparently, way back in our family lineage, the name Wadsworth was adjusted from the original Wordsworth… be that fact or fiction, I do love my poetry.

Reading poetry feels like a guilty pleasure. It is a purely indulgent activity that you can only do when there is ample time and space to get lost somewhere between your imagination and the page.

I adore the way that some poetry must be read out loud to fully experience it, whilst in other works the magic lies solely in the text on the page. For the latter, it is as if speaking it aloud would somehow strip away the magic that only your mind can see.

Reading and re-reading poetry is an absolutely essential part of the process for me. Every repetition reveals some new perspective that you can treasure. Perhaps there is unlimited potential to extract more juicy detail, emphasis and meaning each time?

For those who love poetry, I hope that you may enjoy these snippets of my own and others’ intentional wordplays. Writing poetry brings me great joy and satisfaction. Reading poetry lights my inspiration-fire.

If you have not yet fallen in love with the world of poetry, please throw away any of your excuses and expectations and jump right in with an open mind and an open heart. Read with your imagination and your heart combined. Notice what feelings or sensations rise up as you do…  too vague? too pretentious? too boring? too controversial?

Remember, it is all about ‘the vibe’ really… the words, the mental imagery, the structure, your feelings, reminiscence, sensations and most importantly, the spaces between the words, the things left unsaid. Beware of poetic indulgence… you may just discover that you like it!!


Daffodils ~ by William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils. 


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