Notes about my journey

I travelled by plane today at some silly hour in the morning. First time in a very long time. Mixed feelings. Here’s a little poem about my journey. Always leaves me a bit lost. From here to there in a heartbeat. Never quite sure if all of me has made the crossing of the sky.

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From my table in the restaurant, by Britta Benson

This unfolded so quickly, that there was no time to take a picture. I was left gawping. I know it happened. I was there. I am still lost in admiration. In a rather weird, disturbing sort of way… So, imagine Paris, sitting in a restaurant, staring out of the window… From my table in the

Travelling, by Britta Benson

Here’s a poem I wrote yesterday. I attend an online expressive writing session on Tuesdays, led by Michelle Berberet. The sessions are free and highly enjoyable, as well as inspirational. (https://www.eventbrite.co.uk/e/expressive-writing-zoom-workshop-fall-session-tickets-399661768107?) This Tuesday writing hour has become a bit of a fixture in my diary. So, here’s what I wrote: Travelling It’s what I do.

London Lanturne, by Britta Benson

Here’s my response to my own prompt guidelines for the W3 Poetry Challenge (https://skepticskaddish.com/2022/08/10/w3-prompt-15-weave-written-weekly/). I’m in London just now and this is my attempt of describing the city in the current prolonged heat wave. I initially chose the lanturne form, simply because of the alliteration. With hindsight, though, I think it works quite well. London

A London poem, kind of, by Britta Benson

I’m in London with my son again. Same procedure as every year… He’s sixteen now. I looked back at the poem I wrote last year, upon our arrival. Here’s an edited version of it. A London Poem, kind of Early morning coffee with my son. Victoria, and a long chat, staring out of windows, watching

Clouds, by Britta Benson

Just a silly wee one. My quest today: Find out if one can stare into the sky for too long. I’ll leave the judgement up to you. Clouds Clouds travel like pros. No baggage, just water. Always, keep hydrated. Clouds seek no one’s approval. Do their thing. Sometimes subtle, pointillist blots, scattered in the most

Packing for impossible, by Britta Benson

I’ll be off to Germany in a week’s time. I won’t need much, still, I tried to get things sorted today, it being a Saturday. I had nothing else on. I tend to travel light. When I looked at my pile of stuff, I realized that I will take less on this trip than on

The map, by Britta Benson

Today’s poem is based on an observation I made on the ferry crossing from Cairnryan in Scotland to Belfast in Northern Ireland. I watched two elderly ladies in full waking gear getting a map out, discussing their plans and then, trying to fold the map back into its original shape – we’ve all been there.

Another journey, by Britta Benson

I’ve decided to go away for a few days. Next week marks the second anniversary of my mum’s death and I feel, I need to be alone for a few days. This second year after mum was very different from the first and still, time is a fickle, unreliable companion and plays tricks on all

A nightbus pretzel, by Britta Benson

Turns out, you can write more than one poem about travelling on the nightbus. So here’s the poem inspired by my return journey. I came back this morning and I’m still a bit dazed, twisted and contorted. If you’ve ever travelled on a bus for a very long time and you happen to be rather