One of the questions writers hear most frequently is ‘where do your ideas come from?’ That’s seldom easy to answer. An idea tends to arrive not in isolation, but already linked to additional sources to the stimulus that prompted it. For poets and other writers of short pieces, the question is more intense, because brevity of genre means a greater number of different pieces, requiring more initial ideas. Lance Greenfield of Andover, Hampshire can identify multiple sources for his poem Flutter Back, one of which is firmly rooted in Writing Magazine. He’s a member of Andover Writers’ Circle, and recalls an exercise being set as a result of a story appearing in the magazine that described a person’s life going back from death bed to conception. The exercise was to write a piece of flash fiction reversing the process for a situation of choice, and Lance Greenfield’s effort met with enough approval for him to be prompted to turn the flash fiction into a poem – a transition that often works well.
Flutter Back
Fluttering from flower to flower, Loving my life of fragrant scents. I’m a gorgeous, multi-coloured courier of pollen, Dancing gaily past those dowdy moths As I paint precious powder on every stamen.
Every day I feel younger and sprightlier, Relishing each taste of sweet nectar As I approach my youth, Showing off my beauty as I wave my wings, Twenty-eight sunsets before I stretch and yawn.
I fold up my wings and slide Into my sleeping bag, recently found Suspended by silk thread From a gorgeous green leaf. I pupate. I sleep. Deep sleep.
I unpupate and become fat and sluggish, Emerging slowly, crawling lazily onto the leaf. My beautiful wings have disappeared, to be replaced By a hundred legs. My belly is full. I am drowsy, lethargic, weary; dreary.
Tired and hungry, I set off on my journey. My many friends look exactly like me: Supple, exuding charm and constantly chomping On our compelling mission to reconstruct leaves On our little tree, our dinner.
Our labours rewarded: rejuvenated and slimmer, We’re shrinking and massing as the world becomes dimmer, Huddling together, curling up, becoming sticky balls, Cuddling our neighbours under green leaf. At last, and in the beginning, we are eggs!