A Christmas Poem.

Here is a Christmas poem, for you.

Christmas Box.

I fill a Christmas box
With things I want to share.
First in goes love,
Wrapped in an angels’ wing.
Then there is peace
Tied up with a ribbon of diplomacy.

Then I add prosperity
laid in a cup of common-sense
And medicine,
folded into a nurses uniform.
I put in compassion,
in pieces small enough

to place in your heart
And understanding sweetened
with sympathy so that
You may eat of it and
feel it from within.
Next comes empathy.

Enough to share with others.
Then joy to lighten the darkest day.
And hope in a dish
that never will be found empty,
Wrapped in a cloth of strength
to get you through the worst times.

There is magic too. Just a pinch.
To make one small thing happen-
By reading this,
you have opened the box
And all those things inside it
now belong to you.



Wishing you all the very best at Christmas and for the New Year.

Love and Peace to all
From Miki Byrne.

The Pneumonia Journal.

My time being ill with Phenomenon, plus the stay in hospital has resulted in 25 short poems that reflect how I felt. They are not depressing. I've tried to maintain good humour and a sense of optimism. Some are quite dark but I think that is to be expected. I also found drug induced feelings were quite interesting. A bit like being a Hippy again and on a quest for mind expansion. When I have edited the poems I shall put a few on here. In the meantime, to anyone reading this, Have a great Christmas and New Year. Love and peace to all. Miki.x

A confusing time.

I haven't written this blog since about the middle of November. I developed Pneumonia which has lasted till now and Is still making itself felt. My knee replacement operation was cancelled. Yesterday I saw my chest specialist at Cheltenham General. His opinion was that I still have a severe infection in my lungs and should be admitted to hospital for ten days to receive intra-venous antibiotics. I baulked at the ten day stay as it brings me right to Christmas and I have things to do, plus, I don't want to leave Harry for that length of time. It's possible that a shorter course might do the trick but I don't know till I start it. Since yesterday morning then , I have been waiting for a phone call that hasn't happened. I'm stuck to the house because of it and I can't pack half of the things I need because things like my drugs (many and varied) and my toiletries are needed every day anyway. Following after the confusing, inconvenient and discourteous way my knee op was cancelled I feel that this wait is too annoying for words. I can guarantee that when someone does call it will be couched in urgent terms and they will expect me to jump into action. Also, this is going to cost a fortune for Harry to visit me in Cheltenham and to park at the hospital. This is so stressful . On top of feeling ill in the first place. I do wish that the NHS was structured to include a little basic courtesy to patients. I am sick of medical appointments, brusque Doctors, lack of information and the whole dismissive-de-humanising ethos that is prevalent in the NHS today. Yes. It's a great institution. I appreciate that and all the the good people who do their best but right now I am seriously fed up with the whole thing. The only good thing to happen is that I have written a sequence of poems, about 16 in all, while I have been ill. When they are edited I shall put a few on this blog. I'm just contemplating phoning my chest specialists secretary to see if I can glean any information but I'm not holding my breath.

After Children In Need at Waterstones.

As I had hoped the fundraiser in Waterstones went off extremely well. I was so impressed by the way people got on board with the idea from the start. All the poets did really well. We had a delightful mix of words ranging from the thought provoking to some old favourites. Of course there was a lot of original poetry which is always wonderful. I admit to a little nervousness at the beginning when it seemed that only three poets were there but they all arrived in the end. The perils of public transport and parking in Cheltenham had simply delayed a few people for a while. The event went more quickly than I had planned but I think that's because I was whizzing about collecting money in between announcing poets and talking to people. The friends who came to help did a sterling job. Their fancy dress costumes were very well made and they brightened up The Promenade for many passers-by. Two of the partaking poets were very brave. both Gill Wyatt and Jay Brook had never read in public before. they both read well and provided some really good work. It's not easy to get up and speak your hearts work in front of strangers and I thank them doubly for shelving their nerves and doing it for the kids. So, after the event Harry and I took the money collected to the bank. H had to carry it as I couldn't. Have you any idea how heavy a bucket full of coins is? I then sent the required paperwork off to the BBC with the Bank's stamp on it. Then the total sum poster went off to Waterstones and the request for a Pudsey 'Thank You' certificate went to the Beeb as well. All done and dusted. All that remains it to watch the huge BBC Children In Need event on TV tonight. I've called us The Gloucestershire Poets.I wonder if they'll mention us on the banner that runs across the

screen?

busy, busy, busy.

Well, I have been busy with the forthcoming Children In Need fundraiser at Waterstones. I've found out my old copy of The Nations Favourite Poems just in case anyone needs to choose something from it. I have my collection buckets ready, complete with yellow Pudsey ribbons and stickers. The poets are working away on their words and I have just been interviewed for the Gloucester Echo. They should carry the feature on Tuesday. I hope it brings plenty of people into the book store. My own fundraising(sponsoring and donations) from neighbours etc. is going well. I feel a little momentum building now and it's great. I shall continue to email the world and its grandmother up until Friday night.It should be great fun. I hope to see you there folks. Please come along.

Update.

Well, the operation was cancelled at the last minute after a very frustrating and irritating few hours at the hospital. Not to mention starving myself and getting very little sleep the night before. I have though had more time to work on the children In Need event. It is proving a little frustrating. I have now got 12 very good poets to come along and read, plus a storyteller. However half of them won't tell me when they want to read and one hasn't contacted me since I first floated the idea weeks ago. I have tried to raise interest but my emails to the local papers radio and TV companies go unanswered. It's so annoying. I shall make another onslaught and hope for the best.

This weeks work.

it seems a long time since I last wrote yet it isn't actually too long. I have had many things to sort out prior to going into hospital for a knee replacement. I have no idea how well I shall be able to walk after the op. I assume walking with a stick will come first. It's a bit awkward trying to organise a fundraiser for Children In Need with the hospital visit falling right in the middle of me returning from holiday and the event itself. Still, I digress. I have had seven lovely kind poets offer their time and talent for the said afternoon and I shall read too, even if its from a wheelchair. I'm hoping it will be a good event. It's something I planned to do over the years but has always coincided with me being ill or having surgery. Maybe this will be the year! I have also tried to drum up some publicity and contacted newspapers, TV and Radio. No response yet though.

Besides all this I have brought back eight poems from my holiday in Wales and have been working on those. I have written a couple more chapters of my crime novel and entered a few competitions. This week I have four medical appointments so I'm fitting work in where I can. I was pleased to have a poem accepted last week but that was followed by two rejections. The balance is about right.
I have added the details of the Children In Need event below for those who might be interested

a lapse of memory.

I was so busy yesterday describing the tent and the event that I forgot to put my winning poem on the blog. Here it is:





Tideline.

I am at the feet of the dunes. Buffeted by a breeze
with feet blued by the lap and chuckle of an Welsh tide.
Rocks, pebbles, grit, and sand. Place strata of textures
for my seeking toes and the waters lacy edge deposits items
for my choosing. Gentled from the cupped palm of a wave.
Bladder wracks’ fat air-sacs bulge as it entwines
with glistening ribbons of seaweed. They glimmer sharp
as a diesel-spill rainbow. Razor-shells gleam, shiny
with pink nacre To lie like pooh-sticks on the sand.
Scallops scatter. Spilt coins from a Pirates purse.
Washed by the wave’s salty fingers. Hemmed in
by the conical swirls of worm-casts. Bejewelled
by the last bubbles of the creatures departure.
Even mans’ discarded items become the sea’s own.
They are faded. Eroded. Changed by briny abrasion.
All are softly rounded, Polished smooth with sharp edges
stroked into sinuous curves. The tide-line draws me on.
Each step shows more as I meander slow and wind-blown
along the water’s edge.

A Night in the Speigeltent.

Last nights Gloucester writers Network event was full of surprises for me. Firstly, the tent was a fabulous confection of architectural styles. A sort of melange of Burlesque, Rococo, Baroque and Fairground. I kept expecting a carousel of horses to rise slowly from the floor and rotate around us.The cupola was edged with coloured windows, the supporting beams were clad in moulded cherubs, people and various plant forms and the main roof was alternating great swags of green and dark red velvety fabric. The walls sported decorative mirrors, more mouldings in the shape of swags of foliage and every wall panel was coloured and decorated. It was all very opulent and there was a bar, just to make it even more civilised. The second surprise was how well attended the event was. Most of the tables and chairs were full and believe me it was a large venue. I saw many old friends and the atmosphere was very comfortable. I enjoyed the readings very much. The stories and poems were interesting, thought provoking, poignant and sometimes funny. All emotions were catered for. I also loved having a proper sound system for vocal clarity. I haven't been on a stage with foldback since I was a percussionist years ago. Thank you sound man, for getting the balance right. Rona Laycock organiser(and editor of Graffiti Magazine) did a sterling job of organising us readers and of being MC for the night. Finally, although I knew that I had won the poetry section of this competition (though not until a few errors in communication were sorted out) I didn't know that there was a trophy that I am to keep for a year or that there was a cash prize. I was delighted then, to go home feeling proud that I had won and hadn't fluffed my words and carrying the beautiful Poets Hare trophy and fifty quid in my purse. The Hare is sitting on my desk for inspiration and I am very tired. The only thing I didn't like, from a purely personal point of view, was that the step up to the stage was too high. My arthritic knees would't allow me to scale the step so I had to ask for help. Not something I like doing. Thankfully, Guy,who was also reading,was there to help me up. Thanks Guy and your story was brilliant. I loved it. So. A good night all round. I wonder what next years theme will be?

GWN Poetry Competition winners event.

Some of the best writers in Gloucestershire will be presenting their work at the Cheltenham Literature Festival
7.30pm Tuesday 11 October 2011.
The Spiegeltent, Montpellier Gardens, Cheltenham.




Tickets (£6) are available through the Festival Box Office – 01242 505444
or via the website
www.cheltenhamfestivals.com/literature








Some of the best writers in Gloucestershire will be presenting their work at the Cheltenham Literature Festival
7.30pm Tuesday 11 October 2011.
The Spiegeltent, Montpellier Gardens, Cheltenham.




Tickets (£6) are available through the Festival Box Office – 01242 505444
or via the website
www.cheltenhamfestivals.com/literature

Acceptances and a hard nights work.

After coming home to three rejections last week I was cheered up yesterday by Friction Magazine accepting two of my poems. I am glad when circumstances redress the balance of effort put in.
Last night I was working on my first and probably only, novel. It was very difficult. It's a crime thriller and has heroes and villains. I was working on a scene that established the evil nature of one villain. I was writing a scene where was being violent towards the heroine. I dug deep into my own and anecdotal experiences. I found myself getting quite stressed by it. I abhor violence, especially mindless, cruel violence. Putting myself inside the head of someone who was prepared to attack and murder was quite traumatic. I hadn't expected it to be so visceral. I also didn't want the violence to be gratuitous or extreme, yet I did want the scene to be darkly atmospheric and believable. I finally finished the scene at god knows what time this morning feeling wrung out. I haven't read it back yet. I shall leave a couple of days and then see how it looks.

Also this week. I'm looking forward to reading my poem at the GWN event at the Cheltenham Lit. Fest. Hope you can be there.

A welcome back. Not.

On my computer when I got back from a lovely holiday. Three rejections in my emails. Two from poetry submissions and one short story submitted to a memoir magazine. thankfully they were all pleasant and polite. At the end of the year I usually tot up how many submissions I have sent out plus the number of rejections/acceptances I have received It's amazing how many places reject as opposed to accepting work.Many places don't even acknowledge that your work ever got to them. It's not nice to be left hanging on for an indefinite period of time but I suppose its the weight of work they have. Comparing editors comments is interesting too (that is if they make any). The more of them you read the more you realize that that they accept or decline work based on personal preference. All we can do is keep submitting. I'm looking forward to Buzzwords tonight. I have a few new poems which I aired at Poetry Cafe just before my holiday. I might use these again simply because I am still tired and don't feel like preparing anything else today..

Today's little bit of blog.

this morning I read my friends re-edit of the opening chapter of the book I had looked at for her. Wow! the difference is amazing. She has really pulled it together. I hope she sends it out when it is complete. It's a great story.
Also today I have entered the National Poetry Competition run by The Poetry Society. I have sent off three poems that I am pleased with. They are quite new too. It's nice to have something fresh and sparkly to send. I also ruthlessly deleted a couple of poems that had been lurking for years and for which I just couldn't find that definitive change.I had a problem with the website for the National though. I wanted to submit on-line as it is so much easier. However, the website would not accept a change of amount and would only bill me for one poem. However I tried.(Four times.) It would't let me change the amount. I resorted to the post in the end. Good job I didn't leave it till right up to the deadline. I am looking forward to going to Poetry Cafe in Cheltenham tomorrow. Lovely venue. Very nice people. Gorgeous poetry. Hope you go too.

GWN event details.

I've put the details below of this years Gloucester Writers Network Event. It's where the winners of the competition read their stories and poems. There is usually an excellent quest poet too. Please support this event. There is often little space at Literary Festivals for local talent. This event is a good showcase for local poetic talent. I shall be there. I hope that you will too.

Sorry, couldn't copy the picture of the fabulous tent.

Some of the best writers in Gloucestershire will be presenting their work at the Cheltenham Literature Festival
7.30pm Tuesday 11 October 2011.
The Spiegeltent, Montpellier Gardens, Cheltenham.

Tickets (£6) are available through the Festival Box Office – 01242 505444
or via the website

New Graffiti Magazine Competition.

I have been busy. As well as the poems about Cornwall I have been working on I have started a couple of Autumnal pieces and two poems about the Painter Robert Lenkeiwicz who I knew in Plymouth and who I once modelled for. Today's blog though is to tell you about the latest writing competition from Graffiti magazine and Editor Rona Laycock. Graffiti is a great local mag. Filled with good poetry and prose by people you may well know if you live in Gloucestershire. I like to enter the competitions Rona sets. They are always stimulating, plus she doesn't charge a silly amount to enter. I've put the details below. Have a go. I am.


‘Urban Tales’ Short Story Competition Rules

This competition is all about towns and cities and the people who live and work in them. Dark and dangerous or shopper’s paradise, foreign or familiar, mean streets or boulevards, send us your short stories.
1. Closing date 30 October 2011
2. Entries must be in English and be the writer’s own unpublished work. They must not be on offer for publication or entered in any other current competition.
3. Maximum length 1,000 words.
4. Each piece of work, with its title, must be in clear type on one side of A4 sheet(s). Details of the writer must not appear on this sheet.
5. The name and address of the writer and the titles of all entries should be typed on a separate sheet of A4 paper.
6. The prize-winner will be notified by post, if SAE provided, or by email if email address is provided.
7. Entries are only accepted by post. Please keep a copy of your work, as entries will not be returned.
8. The fee is £2 per story. Cheques/Postal Orders in sterling only, should be made payable to:
Catchword Writing Group
9. All entries that arrive on time will be considered by the adjudicator, whose decision is final. No correspondence will be entered into concerning the result.
10. Competitors wishing to be informed of the results should enclose an SAE marked ‘Results’ or provide an email address.

Send entries to: Graffiti Magazine Writing Competition
C/o 33 Sandford Leaze
Avening
Glos
GL8 8PB

Prize: £25 The winning entry will also be published in Graffiti.

Editing.

I have just finished editing (to a point) and reading with a view to being a critical friend, a book written by a friend. it took a long time. I don't consider myself an editor. It's just that I have had more experience of writing than she has and I have taken about nine courses that have dealt with characterisation, plot, dialogue etc. so, I set to. I hope I did a good job. My friend is very pleased with my comments and found them constructive and practical. She is following the things I said and re-writing parts of the book. Her story, I felt, was well written and deserves publication. I wish her all good luck in pitching it. If she is successful with it I shall be proud to have had some input.Good luck Jay!. Since last writing I have worked on eight or nine new poems all sparked off by the workshop that preceded last Sundays buzzwords. I love it when the words flow. I have also submitted to two places today and written my journal. I only wish that my Arthritic hands did not make typing and writing so difficult. Never mind. the harder is to do something, the more we appreciate the result.Haven't worked on my book today. the plot is wriggling in my head like eels in a barrel. I shall carry on when my thoughts settle down. More next time.

One step closer.

You may remember that a few weeks ago I sent a pitch and a sample of six poems to a publisher. I heard yesterday that they liked the sample six and they have asked to see the full collection. I have carefully proof-read the poems (again) checked spacing etc. etc. and sent them off. Now I have to wait. the Editors are off on holiday for a couple of weeks so I don't expect them to read my work until they get back and into their work heads. I shall try to put it out of my mind and not think about it. Also, H and I go away just as they return so there will be a static three weeks with no information. In the scheme of publishing things this isn't long but when you're waiting...well...you know how it goes. It is one step closer. Even if the collection is rejected it is still a good thing to get so close. Wish me luck?

A Poem that raised goose-pimples.

Yesterday, Sunday 4th sept '11 I went to the event Artournament Gloucester-Big chill. It was held in the New Inns and what a fabulous old building that is. Full of nooks and crannies, beautiful Moroccan lanterns and nifty little architectural details. It made it all very atmospheric. I did a slot early in the afternoon. I felt it went well. Three separate groups of people complimented me on my work which was so gratifying and the lovely Kim Fordwoh (who I had never met before and is an organizer of the event) came up to me, thrust a goose-pimpled arm at me and told me that my poem had done that. What a reaction! The poem was about waiting for test results in the fear that AIDS might result. I have included the poem below.
I didn't stay too long. As you may or may not know I am registered disabled and due to my health problems I have to pace myself. Even then I pay for my enjoyment the next day in pain and fatigue. So, I digress. In the evening Harry and I went to Buzzwords at the Exmouth Arms. Cheltenham. It was a particularly good night. The Buzzwords poetry competition, which I had raised advertising for, had gained many entries. They were of a very high standard. I so enjoyed hearing the winners poems and seeing so many new faces there. I hope they will continue to come along and enjoy this great evening of poetry. I was also in need of the poetry workshop. The guest poet, Angela Topping gave us some very good exercises. It was just what I needed to stimulate a brain gone soggy with working on a novel plot and proofreading a story for a friend. The end of the night was special. Angela France, our Buzzwords Organizer and excellent poet herself asked me to share a guest poet spot in July. I am delighted to do this as I really respect the Buzzwords poets and the way we have stuck with it for so long, improving and moving forward all the time. The poem that caused goose-pimples is below.



While I was waiting I thought of You. By Miki Byrne.



I sat in this place forty-eight hours ago. It has been the longest
two days of my life. I still have the little round plaster in the crook
of my arm where the nurse took blood. It bled a lot for such a little
prick. I thought of you. I gazed at the garish posters. Syphilis,
Chlamydia, Gonorrhoea. They sounded like Greek goddesses
wrapped in floating robes. Robes...Sheets…shrouds…corpses. My
mind made connections, screaming inside my head. Billowing until

I felt that they would pour like sludge from my ears, swoop up from
my gut and whoosh out of my mouth in a hot fountain. My eyes were
Already leaking. A blue–clad nurse trotted by, paused and said kindly,
“It won’t be long dear”. That small gesture nearly killed me. I gasped
for breath. Was chilled, yet sweating. Nausea slithered inside me like
a reptile. I thought of you-the one who craved excitement. Who secretly
slept around. Who eventually told me that he was bi. Had been for years.

Enjoyed both, the more the merrier-no orifice spared. No condoms
either. Like wearing wellies you said. I imagined all those fluids mixing.
Yours. Mine. Theirs. I thought of what you took from me. What you might
have given back. My imagination became a microscope. Showed me
time-lapse swimming sperm. Cells mutating, viruses swarming and tainted blood coursing through every organ in my body. I remembered scary documentaries from the times when I would watch TV in the false safety

of our long deluded marriage. I thought of you. I waited on a blue plastic chair. The man beside me was unkempt. His arms scarred from needle tracks. He gripped the arm of a girl and said he was desperate. I almost laughed. A reflex bubble of hysteria that rose unbidden and hiccupped painfully into my throat. My own desperation crushed me. Turned me to jelly. Robbed me of dignity.
I remember promising God that He could have everything I possessed, heart soul and body. If only I did not have AIDS.

A poem accepted.

Well, I am pleased again. Hard on the heels of winning the GWN poetry comp I have just had a poem accepted by the World Aid charity. It raises money for the homeless and other deprived people. I had't realized it was a international company so the anthology is full of people from many places. I'm happy that my poem 'Where I Lived' is going to be included. I'll log it here when the collection is due so that you can buy it and help the charity. There's also going to be an on-line flip-book of it which is very nicely done. I don't know how they raise money via that though. I've also had a knock-on from the reading I did in Ross last week. My CV has gone to a care home where I might be reading to some enthusiastic residents. I think I would enjoy that a lot. I hope it comes together.keep writing everyone.

I have won a competition.

I'm very pleased to have just received confirmation that my poem 'Tideline' has won the poetry section of this years Gloucester Writers Network Writing competition. I shall be delighted to read this poem at the GWN event held at Cheltenham Literature Festival in the autumn. I have put the list of winners and judges comment below. My congratulations to the winner of the Short story category. I don't think I know the writer but I look forward to hearing her story at the winners event.


Results of the 2011 Gloucestershire Writers’ Network ‘Discovery’ Competition

Poetry: Tide-line by Miki Byrne
Short story: Fairy Story by Sophie Livingston

Judges’ remarks:
Poetry: Tide-line stood out on first reading and the subsequent readings. We were treated to textures of grit and sand, Bladder wrack’s fat air sacks and the pink nacre of razor shells. The whole experience was well observed and beautifully choreographed, it made one want to continue along the beach, slow and wind-blown, to see what more could be discovered.
Short story: Fairy Story has all the qualities of a perfect short story; the voice is compelling, the pacing is superb, and the meaning emerges smoothly and powerfully. I wanted to read it over and over again. As a writer, I appreciated and admired this wonderfully crafted piece of work, and as a reader, I was utterly engaged in the emotional journey.

Poetry runners up:
A Rough Guide by Phil Kirby
Found and Lost by Christine Griffin
Diagnosis by Gill Garrett
James Phipps Finds his Voice by Stuart Nunn
The Ice Man by Michael Newman

Short story runners up:
Taming Caroline by Cindy Moss
Thirteen Age of Discovery by Guy Hunter
The Scenic Route by Edward James
The Box Room by Stephanie Smith
Mr Gravina by Michael Skaife d’Ingerthorpe

Poetry on the Pavement.

Poetry on the Pavement turned out to be under the beautiful old Market House. Ross-on-Wye. It had a great view down the sloping hill of the high St. In the distance, golden fields of cut hay could be seen. The other poets were made up of members of the Inkwell writing group. There was a good range of topics read in a very enjoyable way. I had the privilege of opening and closing this event. The audience was appreciative. Even when the rain fell in curtains beyond the lovely sandstone arches of the Market House. We simply moved further in and carried on. As there was no amplification we did have to compete a few times with large lorries that rumbled by behind us. Being blessed (or cursed depending on your point of view) with quite a carrying voice,I was able to be heard. I met some lovely people and enjoyed the event very much. I am grateful to organizer sue Hill for offering me the gig. Also grateful, as ever, to Harry for driving me there and back and generally being my poet roadie. There is picture to go with this entry.

Reading in Ross-on Wye.

I am reading my poetry at(or under) the Market House in Ross-on-Wye on Wednesday August 24th. I am very pleased to be asked but the usual questions are rolling round my head. Will there be a stage, amplification, rain? Who do I see on arrival. With a moving audience of shoppers and tourists will anyone stop to listen? It's odd how organizers of events never think to tell you these things. It's a good job poets are flexible and accommodating. I am looking forward to it and have gone over my set many times in preparation. At times like this I recount the odd places I have read poetry in and see how it compares. OK. A bikers club in Birmingham. In a number of other streets. In a marquee, on a boat and in a field. On second thoughts-no worries. I'll tell you how it went on Thursday.

A short story.

Xenophobia. By Miki Byrne.


Professor Brenda Snead leaned the small black pull-along case against the wall. She pressed the switch to turn the kettle on and sank onto the chair that was half tucked under the plain pine table. Thank God she was home. It had been bad enough that she had had to leave her familiar laboratory to attend the convention in Prague. Worse to have to present her paper to the mixed bag of delegates but the flights! The flights had been by far the most nerve wracking.

She shifted her ample bulk into a position of greater comfort and pushed her large dark-framed spectacles further along her small but fleshy nose. It had all been awful. How she hated other people. She disliked those who she knew but strangers were loathed and despised as simply unknown intruders into her world. Brenda hated their proximity, the smell of them. Even the expensively perfumed and after-shaved left her feeling revolted. They always needed to talk. She felt that no-one knew the power and serenity of silence. The absolute pleasure and satisfaction of pure thought.

On the outward journey the man who sat next to her had wanted to chat. Not only that but he had done so in a manner that was flirtatious. Brenda had no time for such trivial social interludes. She had found his approach fatuous in the extreme. She was plain and she actively cultivated that plainness. She paid only lip-service to her appearance by keeping clean but never visited a hairdresser or cared about what she wore. Her hair frizzed out in a dark nimbus around her head and her clothes were only ever bought in shades of brown. Brenda was overweight and content with it. She used and valued her brain and saw her body only as a vehicle within which she could transport her intellect. She had glared at the man from behind her thesis “The Extended Use of Plant Toxins in Microbiological Delivery”. He was oblivious to her distain and even a curt
“Do you mind? I’m busy” did little to deter him. Brenda had sat feeling uncomfortably claustrophobic. Conscious of the smallness of the metal tube in which she was travelling and of the fixed windows that gave her a tantalizing glimpse of the fresh air and space outside, yet, allowed no access to it. She felt stifled, uncomfortable and the seat did not accommodate her weight easily. Her thighs rubbed together and her ankles had swollen giving her an even greater sense of discomfort. She had the ridiculous feeling of having somehow been inflated. Being fully aware of the medical details did nothing to ease the feeling. The man next to her, who was no oil painting himself, had made it known that he had no time for ‘skinny women who live on lettuce.’ He thought he was being solicitous. Brenda knew that he was being offensively intrusive. She felt trapped beside him. As the flight progressed he had taken his jacket off to reveal half moons of perspiration darkening his shirt under his arms then, when he had dosed off, his snores had reverberated in her ears preventing her from either sleeping or thinking. She sat through the inane in-flight movie with gritted teeth and a sense of mounting annoyance that came very close to the first red simmering of rage.

Brenda had been intensely glad when the plane had landed. She had disembarked and finally been ensconced in her small but spotless hotel room near the University campus. Her presentation at the University of Prague had been well-received. She had blushed at the compliments bestowed and had glowed from the respect shown to her by academics who led in their own fields of study. She had returned to her room smiling with satisfaction. Brenda had still been wrapped in the warm vestiges of that feeling as she manoeuvred herself into her seat for the return flight the next evening. Then, to her horror, the same awful plebeian little man had flopped down next to her and began a determined attempt to renew their acquaintance. The journey had passed in the same sense of unease and distress as before except this time her irritation hardened into a solid and deep dislike of the thick-skinned moron who was intruding on her space and thoughts. She loathed him for breaking her warm and rosy mood and for giving her a reprise of the outward flight.

As she stirred her tea Brenda recalled looking out of the huge window that gave a view onto the runway. She had paused in her effort to drag her wheeled case for a second. An Ambulance had been speeding dramatically toward the plane she had so recently left. She could see the stroboscopic effect of its lights and hear the distinctive wailing of its siren. Brenda smiled in grim satisfaction. The two drops of clear and undetectable liquid she had dripped into the man’s Vodka while he slept had had the desired effect. That was the beautiful thing about science she thought happily. You could always find just the right substance for the job.


Word count 857.

a piece of micro-fiction.

The Anguish of the Rain God. By Miki Byrne.


“Oh how I weep! I weep and weep. My tears fall hot and wet. They gather upon my chin. A salty beard that dries so fast it brings soreness to my face. I endure it like a penance.

My face that was so black and proud is grey with dust, blanched by fear. My tears dry in the air that was my friend. The wind blows hot. It scours the land. I see the verdant green plains crisp and dry. They shrivel before my eyes. Drought strides like a fearsome warrior across my land. I cannot make the rain.

Mother Earth is losing her cloak of clouds. The lifecycles that blossomed in the Earths beautiful turning, pause in indecision. I look down on creeks that shrink like the skin of a snake sloughed off to lie lifeless and desiccated.

I call the skies to me. I sift the wind. I breathe into the hot bowl of the creeping desert, yet, I cannot make the rain. Below me Elephant and Kudu, Impala and Oryx move in restless thirst across the land. They leap in hope. March in expectation, seeking water. Needing water. The land cracks in its discontent.

I speak to the sun and she does not answer. She sends greedy rays that lap at pools like Hyenas licking blood. The sun is now my enemy. She is ferocious. The hunter in the sky, turning her deadly incandescence on all below.

I plead with night and borrow its coolness. Holding it in my palms to wrest a few drops from its condensation. It is not enough. I cannot make the rain. All is changing. Once the elements fitted, woven like a reed basket. We worked together. We kept promises made to the land.

I speak to the moon. I take her shining beams that are so like water and wring them out. I twist them in my hands but they are dry. I weep but I cannot shed enough water for one tiny flower. I chant the old chants. No other God hears me. I dance across the sky beating the drum of sorrow. The great blue vastness mocks me as if I were an intruder.

Where is my power? I despair as my people are herded by thirst across tribal borders. I see them become outcasts begging at water-holes that belong to other tribes. They hold empty gourds to the sky and say to me “Why Mulengi? Why have you deserted us?” I hear the children cry with dust-coated tongues. It burns my heart like an embers touch. I am an empty god. Drowning but only in the thundering wave of my own despair. I am a helpless god. Feeble in my lack of strength. I twist like a fish on the hook of desperation. I raise my fisted hands in anger and scream into the parched and endless void.

I embrace the clouds. They turn from me and flee. They are coquettish maidens and will not join in union. I roar my defiance to every grain of sand, to every dry and wilted leaf. I howl down ravines seeking moisture. The wells are drying. The rivers are shallow ribbons. Rocks that once were covered, point like accusations. I am hollow. A storm without thunder. The world is broken, for I cannot make the rain.

Taking the step.

I have just this minute emailed six sample poems and a pitch to a publisher. I hope that they might accept the book proposal for publication. As I have sent out five collections in the past I am not too hopeful. Still, if we don't try, we don't get anywhere. I have worked hard on this collection. There are 21 poems in all. If they are not accepted then I still have 21 more poems to submit to other places. I shall remain optimistic. I am used to rejections(as most of us poets are) but I live in hope. I don't know how long it will take for them to get back to me so I shall put it out of my mind until I get a reply. More details when I get them.

Two photo's of my reading at Waterstones on 6.8.11.

A Scrap of colour.

A Scrap of Colour.


One late September morning
Under skies as grey as steel,
I looked about me and found
no vestige left of summer.

In the corner of my eye
danced a flash of coloured flame.
As one late seasons’ butterfly
Ribboned in the air.
It floated down so gently.

On wings of dusty softness,
Hovered above a dry teasel stalk.
I watched it for a count of ten.
Then my eyes followed it skyward.

This delicate creature flickered
incongruously in the air.
It saddened me to see it fly away.
To lose this spark of colour on a day
That was a dreary monotone.

A few more poems from my Poems in Print file.

The Comets Tale.

My heart is ice. My skin is debris
Wrapped in frozen gasses.
Diffuse grains flow around me in
Their millions as my nucleus glows.
A hard bright nugget at my core.
I relentlessly pursue my orbit.

That swinging ellipse that slingshots
Me from the black depths. I begin to
Absorb warmth. To grow my shining
Cape as solar rays bathe me. I travel on.
My coma becomes a flaring tail that
Glows in a multitude of colours. I sear

Across the heavens with particles
Sloughing away to glimmer and shine,
Like jewels in my wake. I blossom, flare
And flow, ever moving into space. I am
Viewed in many ways, through science
And superstition. I am portent, I am periapt.

Omen and prophecy. My sweep across
The sky is watched in awe and wonder.
My names are many, bestowed by man.
I have been seen. Birthed by nature
Immortalised by astrologers and I have
Had my time in the sun.


The Woman in the Raincoat.


They call her ‘mad old spinster’.
Watch her walk bare-headed in the rain.
Their whispers follow her like
Buzzing flies about her head.
She talks to herself as she strides.

‘Dried up’ they say. As if lack of
moisture is a sin, an aberration.
They pass judgement in ignorant
careless, corner-conversation.
Her coat flaps open unheeded.

She knows that soulless desiccation
Means tears are spent.
The wells of grief-wrenched liquid
Empty now. She walks every day.
Oblivious to sly-eyed glances.

She recounts the words
She would have liked to say.
Recalls the face she will not see again.
Compared to her pain
Mere gossip is insignificant.


Water Dowsing.

‘Don’t think, feel’ he said.
As he placed the rods in my hands.
‘Hold them loosely-don’t grip.
Let them have their way.

Suspend your disbelief and
Let a little of the primitive creep in’.
So I did. I walked forward,
Elbows to hips, base of thumb

To base of thumb. The rods held
like delicate eggs. Forefinger
and thumb making the ring
Wherein the rods might pivot.

I stepped slowly, carefully,
Not knowing what to expect.
Hope-and doubt- vied for the
Best seat in this new theatre

Of experience. Then, a twitch.
A half-felt friction as the rods
Turned in my hands. The left
Curving clockwise, the right

Swivelling to cross it.
The hair on my neck stirred
Like grass under wind.
My wrists tensed as the rods

Fluttered and connected, pulling
Down in a pointing finger of gravity.
A joining of forces as old and
Elemental as time.

My breath left me of its own volition.
Freed from its subconscious restraint.
I felt a surge of almost supernatural joy.
‘My god’, I whispered.
‘It works. It really, really, works.’






Lost and found.


I found this tiny little thing, like a leaf
Or maybe a dried up spider but
The colour was wrong.
It looked familiar but I could not place it.
It settled into the palm of my hand.

I lifted it with a fingernail. Puzzled over it.
Peered at it. Tried to hold it but
It was so delicately small I could only
Let it lie flat. I heard a whisper in my ear.

A mere suggestion of a voice.
A light pressure on my shoulder.
I sensed a presence as I looked to my left.
Then the fairy said
“May I have my glove back”?

Poetry readings.

I am looking back on yesterdays poetry reading held in Waterstones bookshop. Cheltenham. It was a good event. I saw a few other poets read and enjoyed their work. I also enjoyed reading my own set and found the audience very responsive. It is thoroughly rewarding to see the expressions on peoples faces when I am reading. It is an instant indicator of how well the words are being received (or not, occasionally). I also love the idea of reading poetry (or stories etc.) in a bookshop. It it so appropriate.It struck me recently that many people have never entered a bookshop in their lives and have never read poetry except for that which was force-fed to them in school. Personally I cannot imagine not having books. Words are such a huge part of my life. I find them fascinating. Interesting. Intriguing.I feel privileged to be able to write and to be able to stand up in front of people and express myself through my words. This is even more valuable to me now. Due to ill health and Arthritis I have had to give up at least three careers which I loved. All my creative outlets have been whittled away. My only creativity now is through writing,oh, and sometimes photography, though that is in the minority. I love words, and when I have a good reading and a good audience response, I can actually feel that the words are quite fond of me too.

A story on youtube.

I have just put a short story on YouTube. The story is called 'Xenophobia.' It was published some time ago so I think it's time I put it up there myself.

3 acceptances today.

I was so surprised and pleased today when the post brought me three acceptance letters for poems I had recently submitted. I would be more pleased but they are from Forward Press. I know this is a vanity publishing house but I have been sending stuff to them since I first started writing and couldn't tell a decent publisher or magazine from a bad one. Still, I don't buy the books they are pushing and have to assume that as they actually send out paperwork to be signed and a proof-sheet that they do use the work. In fact I did once see a friends copy of one of the books I hadn't bought and it did have my poem in it. I suppose I feel a little uneasy as some people scorn presses like Forward. On the other hand it does allow new poets to get something in print. Perhaps I should just ignore other people and their opinions of Vanity Publishing and Self-publishing. So far this year I have had 23 poems accepted by a varied range of places. I must be doing something right so I think I'll carry on regardless.

four & Twenty exercises.

I mentioned the Four & Twenty website recently. The object is to be as creative and poetic as possible using only four lines and twenty words. I tried this out and it's a good discipline especially if you don't usually write very short poems.I don't except the odd Haiku. Here are some of the things I came up with.I've submitted a few as well so I shall be interested to see if any are accepted by four & Twenty.


Leaves.

Blue sky shines warmly down.
On our sun-kissed lives today.
Soon autumn leaves, twirling, brown.
Will indicate summer’s swift decay.


Dreams.

My dreams in random cruelty
Invade my nights of peace.
I gasp and turn fruitlessly
Wrapped in damp twisted sheets.


Thoughts.

The river twists so sinuously
A metaphor for dreaming thoughts.
That wriggle so inside me
Like twenty silver fishes caught.


Stories.

Stories draw me closely in.
Unfolding tales of adventure found.
My imagination now slowly spins.
Detached from life’s solid ground.


Letter.

Words lie upon a page.
Sent in love most secret.
Response would take an age.
I shall simply keep it.


Moonlight.

Moonlight falls like silver mist.
I walk into the evening.
My shadow dances behind me.
A sprite at my heels.

A few more poems that have appeared in magazines.

About Edna St. Vincent Millay.


This poet speaks and
Her words slice into me.
Slow and tender like
A silken thread, pulled
Taut against the soft skin

Of a peach. The pain is
Inflicted gently without
Malice. Washed by tears
Slow and salty. The wound
Cannot close once the words

Have entered. They probe and
Swell. Expanding inside
Those blood- red chambers
Until they become absorbed
Into the very fibres of my heart.


An Adrenalin Moment.

The canine dug deep.
Penetrated skin in a split second.
It left a small grinning mouth upon
the back of my hand. Blood welled.
Trickled like strawberry sauce down
the pale slope of a scoop of ice-cream.
I saw the gleam of tendon.

Showing like a slender white worm.
This unexpected view into the workings
of my hand was strange and fascinating.
I felt adrenalin ripple through me and pain
shot simultaneously to my fingertips
and elbow. I leapt back and told myself
I should not have tried to stroke that dog.


By The Beach-fire.

We sat on the beach.
Backs tucked into hollows.
Scooped out of the peaked dunes.
The fire we had built flickered

And drew our eyes into its depths.
Sparks escaped from resinous pine
And leapt like twisting fireflies
Into the approaching dark.

The end of the day trailed its skirts
Of pink and blue and mauve.
Then fell slowly, very slowly,
Over the dark horizon.

Competition entry.

I decided today to stop faffing about and do the absolute, final, finishing re-edit of my entries for the Cinnamon Press short writing competition. I have written four pieces for it. Mainly to get good value out of the four for ten quid entry fee and had got to the stage where looking at them was becoming a headache. I took the plunge and sent the stuff off.I am so glad that I have learned my way (partially) round a computer. Cinnamon wanted entries as attachments and copies sent to two of their people, plus a biog and the usual contact details. Payment was via PayPal. A year ago I wouldn't have been able to enter this via computer. I didn't know how to cut and paste, or to attach, or how to use PayPal. I'm pleased that I am still learning and that goes for writing and life in general. It would be lovely to have a piece chosen Haven't had much luck with Cinnamon Press, though I was short-listed for something of theirs a while ago. Fingers crossed.

a poem from the past.

Had a letter today from Aspire Magazine. I had submitted a few poems to them in January 2010. At the time they accepted a poem but wanted me to change part of it. I declined to do that and left it at that. Strangely, the letter that arrived this morning told me that they had included one of the other poems from that submission in their July 2011 Issue. Just shows that sometimes things can come back even after you have forgotten about them.

New site to look at.

Discovered the 'Four & Twenty' site today. Nothing to do with the famous Australian 'Four & Twenty Pies'. It's a site that asks for submissions of poems of four lines or less and only twenty words. If you like Haiku you'll probably like this. I did five of these little poems for an exercise(have to refine them of course) and found it an interesting thing to do to get the mind working. Sometimes working on a very short piece can make you focus quite sharply. You have to get down to the real meaning of each word and it can be a challenge. Have a go and see what you come up with.
Just Google Four and Twenty short form poetry and the site will be found.

I love this photo.

teazels in the field.

My cat is bonkers.

A few pictures.

Three more from the published poems list.

Voice of the Angel

I shall and always
watch over you.
With gently folded hands
and peaceful eyes.
My heart spills over with love.

I revel in happy excess,
Your shadow is my form.
Compassion warms my blood
and I see all.
I know your heart.

Your thoughts are mine.
Your hopes and fears
find their way to me.
Your guilt is also known and
the sum of every aspiration

hoped for or dreamt.
In the end, you will come to me.
I shall welcome you for ever
With open arms and
shining wings of pearl.



In a Frozen Place.

Winter passed cheerlessly.
Each hour a stone
that weighted their backs.
Each day the snow and hail
raked their cheeks.
They withdrew.
Sliding deep into their veins.
Curling into their hearts.
Heads heavy with the heft of darkness
Caused their eyes to close
And they clung to the red warmth
inside their mouths.
It was a time of attrition.
As nature attempted to scour
all signs of life from the face of the earth.
To splinter it into crystals
That whirled in the winds howling.
The people grew spines of ice.
Drew the blood up from their feet
Even as they purpled with cold.
They worked and slept.
Huddled like field mice
around the precious flame and in the spring
when the ice began to crack
and a little blue smeared the sky.
They raised their faces
And knew that they had won.







Broken.
(The Girl in the Care Home Garden)

The song could be heard across the garden.
Wafting through speckled Laurels.
Floating above cerise Rhododendrons.
always the same.

“Shine on Harvest Moon.” Incongruous words
carried on a voice drenched in melancholy.
The girl sang every day but only in solitude
Hidden by foliage. Enclosed by shrubbery.

I found her once. She would not speak.
Her eyes were splintered crystals, unfocussed,
Bleak. Her understanding fragmented. She moved on
into oblivion. Her mind scarred and broken.

New collection.

As my poem 'Men in Dark Coats' gets a good reaction I have an idea to write a collection based on the times and people surrounding that poem. It refers to when I was working as a Go-Go dancer in the nightclubs in Birmingham in the 1970's. I have listed the characters i need to write about and drafted a couple of poems. I think I'll make this my autumn project. I can work on it when I am recovering from my knee replacement op and on those cold and wet afternoons when the weather becomes something to avoid. I just have to let the memories slowly bubble to the surface and as it was so long ago it will take time.

On a different tack; I see that Forward Press who have published loads of anthologies are going into receivership. There's mutterings about something not quite right going on. I hope no-one has lost money buying books that contain their poem(s). They were always good for sending stuff you wanted to try out. I didn't buy the books after the first couple. Too much like paying to be published. Anyone know what's going on?

Three more poems from my list of work published.

A Dream with Conscience.


The dream breathed out a sigh.
Saddened by its dark form.
It could not choose its clothing
when emerging from its random
nightly birth. Its nightmarish garb

had caused a lake of fear and its
guilt was a sharp probe needling
under its skin. As it flowed away
from the weeping child it hoped
that it would not have to visit again.




Black Eyes.



We walk Orwellian streets
Bathed in the bland gaze
Of watching automatons.
That perch on poles,

Hide under eaves,
And follow our every move with
Black eyes grimy and glazed.
They are not tempered by reason or

Gifted with judgement, they
Simply spy and relay.
Sharing our faces with
Anonymous digital databases.

Keeping tags. Storing us away.
For future checks and reference.
As we pursue our lives
Wrapped in our ignorant innocence.


Here is the Feather Forecast.

Featured on the website of Richard Angwin. Weatherman on TV’s Points West news programme.

In forests there will be a hoot of Owls,
spreading out to certain barns and wooded places.
Whilst coastal areas will see Gulls sweeping in
in a dense fog of white.
These will blow ashore with the occasional smattering
of Tern and Guillemot.
Further inland, low pressure will deliver
a depression of crows to most areas.
There is a severe feather warning to all towns and cities.
As heavy squalls of pigeons move onto high buildings.
In the countryside blizzards of starlings will
make visibility difficult for a short time,
while an anabatic flow of Canada Geese
will hover over hills with a gradual move toward the south.
There is a possibility of low clouds of Magpies
backing to the west and an incoming cold front
will ruffle all blackbirds.
In the east, Grebes Bitterns and Godwits
will sweep over the fens, swiftly breaking up
as they meet warm air coming up from the south west.
All rivers will see a continuing flash of Kingfishers,
with a flurry of swans along the banks.
Meanwhile there may be a slow precipitation of finches
and all gardens will have a slight scatter of sparrows.
And that is the forecast for today.

Rejections.

Following last weeks successes comes two rejection emails this morning. Lines & Stars magazine has sent me a polite refusal and Saxifrage Press suggests that I need to have 'imaginative leaps to create tension and surprise the reader'. I will take this on board and see if I can apply it to the poems I submitted. There's always room for re-editing. They have also suggested that I re-submit in six month's saying 'there is much to love in these poems.' I really appreciate it when I receive a kind and well-thought out rejection like this. I have received some in the past that have been positively rude which is, to me, unnecessary and quite destructive. It's not easy to build up a skin thick enough to accept rejections without any emotional reaction. I do take most of them in my stride but of course it is easier when you can balance the bad ones with positive ones or even better with a few lovely acceptances. I keep a scrap-book now with my nice acceptance letters/emails in it. Then when I feel like the worst poet in the world with no inspiration, imagination or ability, I look at the scrap-book and feel better.

acceptances.

I am on a roll this week. Hot on the heels of my lovely acceptance of three poems from Message in a bottle magazine I have had two other publishers accept one and two poems respectively. six poems in one week. There is a God. I love it when things like this happen and all the hard work is made worthwhile. Due to circumstances out of my control I haven't been able to do any writing today. still, on my to do list is; finish editing my pieces for the cinnamon Press mini-awards. Find a suitable poem for the Forward Press regional competition. Proof-read and return my accepted poems and finally enter the Lippfest competition and the latest Graffiti Magazine Autobiography competition.That little lot should keep me out of trouble for a while. Happy writing!

More poems from my published pieces.

(Shortlisted for The Poetry Society of Cheltenham comp.09)

Death In a Flood.

The ghost in the willow hovered
upon its bending branch.
Peering at its physical self.

At that cold blue body that
rolled limply away into the rising river.
The body had clung for hours.

Frozen fingers grasping hard in
deathly drunken terror.
The voice had screamed in panic.

howling for rescue that did not come.
The ghost in the willow hung on.
Bemusedly trying to grasp what

had sent it flying from its corporeal self.
Its mind was muddied. A sickly haze
of alcohol still clung to its ethereal being.

Memories of arrogant assertions
crept back like cringing dogs.
The body had been warned.

Had chosen not to listen.
Could not even swim and had wrapped
its arms around the Willow,

as water inexorably rose.
It had held and held
as strength drained away

Exhaustion and cold had done the rest.
The ghost in the willow knew it would
always cling to the rough bark and

rue the bodies recklessness forever.




New Shoes. 1958.

May gently smoothed the sheet of cheap paper
against the table. Pressed the fold-lines
flat with the pads of her fingers and breathed the
antiseptic smell that ghosted from the brown envelope.
She gazed at the outline of the small foot drawn in
smudged pencil with the line broken in a few places.
It was more poignant than any photograph.

Her daughter’s name was scrawled in one corner
in a hand too adult and ferocious to be her child’s. The sketch
came unaccompanied by letter or salutation. She could imagine
her little girl fidgeting as her foot was firmly placed and the wriggling
of her white-socked toes. May had bought the new shoes.
Brown and sensible with a good thick sole.

She had judged the size, carefully placing a shoe
over the drawing then increasing up to allow for growth.
the parcel had been posted the day before and May had
haughtily ignored the postmistress’s curious comments.
Now she placed the sketch in the kitchen drawer.
It would lie there with the others until a new one arrived
next year.



Passing Through.



This small town oozes grimness.
With poverty written into
Every shabby shop-front.
Charity shops display rags in futility.
Grimy windows cataracted by neglect,
Peer out at dirty pavements
And watch the litter that scampers

Unimpeded along grey streets.
Opposite, stoop shouldered houses,
Carry the burden of existence.
Dispirited people move listlessly,
Held upright only by the force of hope.
They are empty. Soulless.
Ground fine by the mill of despair.

a boost to the ego.

Well I have been sending out submissions this week.I've sent stuff out to nine places since the first of this month. (that's poetry. I have also sent a couple of short stories). As you are aware we often have to wait for ages for any sort of response to our submissions so you can imagine my surprise when the editor of Message in a Bottle magazine , Fiona Sinclair got back to me within a couple of hours. She sent me a lovely email and described my poems as 'suberb'. As it often feels like I am working in a desert it was so lovely to have such a welcoming response. This will be the third time Message in a Bottle has used my work. It's a good magazine with interesting articles and some good photography too. Have a look at it and their website and send in your work. It's well worth a try. so, I am still floating about on my cloud. Ready to set to and do more work but unfortunately I have to spend a lot of time today at Cheltenham Hospital having a pre-op assessment for my forthcoming new knee op. Things always just happen when you don't need them. Oh well, let's hope the pre-op doesn't depress me to the point where the euphoria dies and I lose the flow.Last thing. I would love to put the poems Fiona liked so much on this blog but I can't till after they have been used in the Magazine.

More poetry stuff

Well, I am sorry to have missed buzzwords in Cheltenham last night. Simply too tired to go. This new medication I'm on makes me very tied and writing adds to it. Still, I should get used to it(so the doctors say).
Today I have been working on the theme of land and travel. It's for a competition and as the entry fee is four poems for £10 I thought it would be worthwhile to write new pieces. I have adapted a piece that started out as a poem and has morphed into a short story. I felt quite stimulated by the theme and now have my four pieces of writing. I still have time to re-read and re-edit before the submission date. It's been quite satisfying and a good exercise. The other plus point is that the competition has been set by a reputable publishing house. I don't mind spending on this competition whereas some of them I wouldn't bother with.Mind you, they're all a bit of a lottery.

a new piece of writing.

I've just entered a Creative Writing competition run by the charity Arthritis Care. The theme was 'If I Were an Olympian' no doubt inspired by all the Olympic Games hoo-ha that is prevalent at the moment. The entry qualification was to have Arthritis. As I have had both forms of Arthritis for 46 years I felt well qualified to enter. I found the theme a bit dubious though. To some very disabled people it might have felt like having their noses rubbed in it. Or is that just a touch of over-sensitivity on my part? So, I set to and wrote and edited my piece. It has been duly emailed and will be nestling with other entries as I write. One other thing. The last competition by Arthritis Care I entered just disappeared into the ether. No results, no winners announced, no information found anywhere I searched. I hope that this time they will let me and the other entrants know what's happening. Such a shame really. Arthritis Care is a fabulous charity. Very hard-working and worthwhile. I have been a member of their People Bank for years and value them greatly.Now, what submission shall I send next?

New stuff.

I have been working on two new themes for two different competitions. I enjoy it when there's something specific to think about. Although it's nice to choose a fitting poem or story for a competition it's also good to have the stimulus of a theme set by the competition organizers. The first theme was a 'Dear John' letter which gives a lot of scope and the other was 'land'. this also has a wide interpretation. I got two prose pieces done on the 'land' theme. Both very different from each other. One was a re-work of an existing piece and the second one was completely from scratch. It was a good brain-stretching exercise. Now I shall let them stew a bit before deciding whether to enter them into the competitions.

Rejections.

I wonder why it is that certain places simply do not appear to like certain peoples work? It seems unfair that an editor may choose to continually blank a writer and deprive his readership of their work.Surely an Editor should choose poems that appeal to their readers wide and varied natures and not simply feed them what he or she(the editor) feels is good for them. After having many poems used by many well-respected magazines and anthologies I see a pattern emerging. There are now places that I know will not use my poems and many that I know will. It is a shame because the tendency will be to only submit to those places where my work is known to be acceptable. Yet, I still feel a spirit of rebellion and continue to send to places which have never accepted a piece of my work just for the sake of letting them know that I am still here and still writing.

Back to the blog.

It's hard to believe I have been unable to write this blog for three whole weeks. I have been up to my eyes in moving furniture, decorating, replacing furniture, waiting for deliveries etc.etc. I am very grateful to Harry for doing all the heavy work that I am now unable to do due to my Arthritis. He has worked like a Trojan and one so much in terms of preparation, decoration and construction.The good thing is that now the dining alcove that was our office is now a dining alcove again and the spare bedroom is now an office with a sofa-bed(yet to arrive)and a proper desk and PC space. It's so much more comfortable and easier to work in.I am looking forward to a creative autumn and winter in my designated soft green work-space where I can work without being disturbed or hearing the phone ring. With regard to writing and poetry, well, not much of that has happened over the last three weeks. I have put some ideas down that will be developed later and I did go to the Poetry Cafe held in that nice little Swedish cafe in Rodney St. in Cheltenham.I enjoyed that and my poems went down well with one man coming up to me afterwards to make very complimentary remarks about my piece 'Lost In Transit'. Bless you Davey Jones for being so kind.I have had a further problem in that I am getting used to a different and strong pain-killer for my pain. It makes me sleepy, leaves a bitter taste and makes me feel queasy. It's hard to be creative with that going on,plus, the underlying pain itself which is always present to a greater or lesser degree. so, as my old Da would say, It's a grand life if you don't weaken. I try not to weaken but it's a struggle. Against pain, fatigue, side effects and domestic life which intrudes but cannot be avoided.

writing exercise

I enjoyed going to Buzzwords poetry last night. The guest poet Gill Learner was very good. The workshop used an exercise using random words. Odd coincidence as it was very close to the exercise I had recently put on my blog.

some stats.

I have looked up how many submissions I have made since January 2011. These are to magazines and competitions. These are the results.

Submissions made. 60
poems accepted 07.

I think this gives me roughly an 11% success rate. I wonder if this is good or bad? As I am totally bad at anything to do with numbers I'm probably completely wrong.

A few more from my published poems.

Circus Girls in the Street.

One girl stands reed- tall on spindly stilts
And bends her slender waist. Her face
Though thickly painted, still retains the gentle
Curve of cheek and eyelash. She places
Her hand upon her bony hip and leans down

To smile at me. At her wooden feet two others twist
And pose in acrobatic parody of those passing by.
Their elasticity raises eyebrows while
Their merry eyes distribute laughter
To people who scurry in embarrassed haste,

Fearful of being noticed by the confident girls.
The costumed trio cling in a giggling embrace.
They strike sparks- one against the other,
Happily teasing and posing. They fill the street
With colour as they glide through shoppers.

To beckon and yodel ‘come to the circus’.
Their beauty is un-selfconscious and glows
Through their artifice. It leaves an unseen sparkle
In their wake. They are a comet that cuts
A coloured swathe through the patina of ordinary.





Lost and Found.


I found this tiny little thing, like a leaf
Or maybe a dried up spider but
The colour was wrong.
It looked familiar but I could not place it.
It settled into the palm of my hand.
I lifted it with a fingernail, puzzled over it.
Peered at it, tried to hold it but

It was so delicately small I could only
Let it lie flat. I heard a whisper in my ear,
A mere suggestion of a voice.
A light pressure on my shoulder.
I sensed a presence as I looked to my left.
Then the fairy said
“May I have my glove back”?





Wide Windows.


Remove at once the constraints of walls
And the oppressive weight of the ceiling
That crouches in sullen menace.
Pressing air heavy and stale upon my mind.

Allow the freedom of light to enter, flowing
Like quicksilver, smooth and lithe.
Fling the windows wide, inhaling the scents
And the dampness offered by the vastness outside.

Lift your weary face to the rising sun,
Allow its soft fingers to stroke you in joyous greeting.
And blink away the silver dewy droplets
That cling to sleep-glazed eyes.

Now the blood will quicken. The senses soar.
The mind will open. Dilating, absorbing.
Taking in to the depths of every cell,
the joy of the earths’ breathing.

Inspiration

Last night Harry and I were at a private view for an exhibition of paintings, sculpture and glass art. These beautiful things were so inspirational. They keep the appetite for lovely things sated and the desire to be creative alive.I am so glad to see that there are so many artists out there working in many and varied mediums to make things simply through the need to create and to bring the joys of colour, form proportion and texture to the world.

Todays work.

I have been working on three topics today. Vikings or rather Danes and Saxons at war, Homelessness and having chemotherapy. Thankfully I haven't experienced any of these things but I have come close to the last two in the past. so, research and experience has been called upon and four first drafts have been the result.Now I just want to flop and do nothing that involves thinking sensibly in any way. I had a rejection email today. Never mind balanced against having three poems accepted last week it didn't make me feel bad at all.

A warm-up poetry excercise.

1. Write a list of six to eight words that you like or dislike.
Select three. Write a short poem that includes all three of your chosen words. The poem may be rhyme or prose.
TIME. THREE MINUTES

A few more published poems.

Dozing While it Rains.


In the half-land when sleep has crept close
but consciousness still lingers. Images scissor.
There is a sigh of hem against stocking.
A wisp of blue smoke. A hand holds a cup,
little finger crooked in tea-time elegance.
And downstairs an old man shuffles.
The cardigan is holed. Wool is worming
out of frayed edges. His pate is liver-spotted.
He bends his neck to gaze into a meagre grate.
Picks up a faded photograph and listens
to the birds circling as he remembers the noise.
Outside, reflections in a silver pavement
flutter against passing eyes.
The rain tumbles to glimmering windows
and the sleeper turns over to the rhythm of the fall.




Gypsies Passing through Tewkesbury.


Tourists’ eyes rounded as the sound of many
hoof-beats slashed the air in staccato percussion.
Seven Vardo’s* with barrel roofs trundled.
With wiry horses in their traces and twining
gingerbread trim. No one sat on the boxes, no-one

held reins. They processed down the High Street
and were emblazoned on the morning. They moved
at trotting speed. Each horse high-stepping.
With a lithe runner alongside.
Dark hair and dappled manes

billowed mirrored movements in the drizzling breeze.
High cheekbones and bright eyes gave beauty
to this shabby crew. Paint gleamed water-wet and
tawdry goods lashed to Vardo walls clanked and rattled
as they passed by. Curly coated lurchers and scurrying

terriers ran, impossibly close to the horses hooves.
They needed no instruction. Livery tinkled as the Gypsies
maintained their pace, and trotted light-footed.
Surprised, we stood and watched them.
They did not watch us.


*Vardo. A traditional horse drawn gypsy caravan.




She who Helps

The Mushroom woman drew
a muscle out of her thigh.
It did not appear strange.
I did not flinch but remained
supine and still. She offered it

to me and I accepted. Held it
tightly in my fist. It softened.
Moulded to my hand spreading
comfort, skin to skin. ‘Keep it’
she whispered. ‘It will sustain you.’





Watching Jools Holland.

I glissando’d out of music far harder
Than I crescendo’d into it.
I had grasped the fingers of that life
As tightly as I held my cabasa in rhythm.
I only let go as slowly as a drowning man
Slides away from his failing rescuer.

I had hurtled into music, dived into gigs.
Rolled in rock and drugs and life was
A paradiddle. I careened from dark till
Light and back again.
Days and nights reversed
I sucked up all life had to offer.

Played con passione and then some.
Slept six in a van with last nights’ makeup
Streaking as morning light wiped our faces.
Searched for my toothbrush and clean knickers,
Tucked in with the tambourine and guero
To stop the rattle of jangling instruments

While I dozed. The drum key was
As precious as gold. Detuned skins were
No good to anyone. The key hung like a talisman
round my neck. I walked the walk, spent the time,
Shuffled the green and broke the blues.
But that was then. Now I watch Jools Holland

And comment on the people doing what I did.
Criticise as they suffer in their masochistic spotlights
And I render to shreds the made up musos’
Of synthetic TV fame.
I sit in vicarious limelight and warm myself
In the heat of someone elses sweaty gig.

inspiration.

I have been reading about Saxon england when the country was full of marauding Danes and other warring tribes. It's quite fascinating and I hope to write a poem about this period.

A few poems from my list of published pieces.

Agnes Brown.
A 21st Century Tale of Woe.


Agnes Brown looked back on the pages of her
Long and well-thumbed life. It was the same old
Story and as she neared the end she realized that
Any wands that may have been waved had drooped
And failed. Her Fairy Godmother must have had
An accident because she never arrived, although

Many years were passed in waiting. The prince who
Once found Agnes was not charming and he had left
Well before midnight. She always had two shoes that
Rubbed her heels. Serviceable brogues. Glass slippers
Were not Agnes’s style. She had made many wishes

But none had come true, though someone had cast
A spell at some point for she was slowly transmuted
Into an old crone. Her wishing well ran dry very early and
Her broom had done nothing more than sweep.
No helpful elves ever appeared at stroke of midnight
To ease her burdens. She never saw a Unicorn or a

Golden egg. When she bought pumpkin it was just for
Soup and her beanstalks produced only beans. As she
Embraced the cruel trappings of age and loneliness,
Agnes Brown could tell you, without hesitation that life
is not a fairy-tale.


Blue Latex.


Enter the drug squad. Quiet, stealthy.
Plain clothes and hand-cuffs.
Blue latex pulled tightly over flexing fingers.
Standing in a group. Talking soft as a breeze.
Men and women waiting. Outside a house
with drawn blinds and a look of closed eyes.
Early morning but not like on TV.
No door battering, yelling, pushing posse.
No screaming response. Half at the front.
Half at the back. Door opens upon a silent shuffle.
A sleepy half-struggle ensues.
Bare chest and gritty eyes
A hand with splayed fingers rests upon
a close-cropped head.
Guides him into the back of the car.
A slow drive off. Blinds are raised.
The morning sun enters on the heels of the police.
Glimpses of lifted articles flash like items at an auction.
Privacy is forfeit .The search is in full spate.
In the distance, the car continues its grumbling progress
into the soft summer day.
The door has closed behind them
before the rest of the street is awake.


(shortlisted for The Poetry Society of Cheltenham comp.09)

Death In a Flood.

The ghost in the willow hovered
upon its bending branch.
Peering at its physical self.

At that cold blue body that
rolled limply away into the rising river.
The body had clung for hours.

Frozen fingers grasping hard in
deathly drunken terror.
The voice had screamed in panic.

howling for rescue that did not come.
The ghost in the willow hung on.
Bemusedly trying to grasp what

had sent it flying from its corporeal self.
Its mind was muddied. A sickly haze
of alcohol still clung to its ethereal being.

Memories of arrogant assertions
crept back like cringing dogs.
The body had been warned.

Had chosen not to listen.
Could not even swim and had wrapped
its arms around the Willow,

as water inexorably rose.
It had held and held
as strength drained away

Exhaustion and cold had done the rest.
The ghost in the willow knew it would
always cling to the rough bark and

rue the bodies recklessness forever.

Disabled Woman Swimming.


She moves with aching slowness
From the changing-room door.
Feet tender upon the textured tiles.
She reaches the pool’s edge.

She does not dive. Can’t throw herself in,
Or prayer- point her hands and cleave
The water like a blade.
She does not even jump and strike

The surface like a barrel. She steps
Slowly down the ladder. Backwards.
Her twisted fingers tightly clutch the cold
Steel rails. She shivers as water rises

Tickling her calves’ inch by slow inch.
Creeps higher still, until she stands waist deep.
Then she ducks. Feels the water sluice
Over her shoulders and head.

She pushes off the tiled wall with
Her scarred feet, takes a breath through
Damaged lungs, stretches the shoulder
That was repaired and she swims.

She is released from gravity and weight.
From aches and pains and enveloped in
The euphoria of buoyancy, regains the grace
And speed that is denied her in the dry world.

Thumbs up to those poetry magazines who DO take simultaneous submissions. Those that don't consign your poems to the darkness for many months.If they then don't tell you you haven't been accepted then your poem(s) are out of action for a long time. I understand that Editors don't want copy-write problems but how often does one poem get accepted by more than one place at the same time? I think the odds are probably against it.

A lovely photograph

This picture of a dried Teazel leaf is gorgeous. It seems to show the Golden Mean rule of proportion so well. It's amazing how nature places things in the correct proportion or size ratio. And we think we invented it!

a poem accepted.

In my emails today. A very complimentary acceptance of two poems of mine by The Pygmy Giant. Excellent news

a poem about ferns.

Ferns.

In summers golden warmth.
The fern unclasps bronze knuckles.
Letting loose its grip on the fronds within.
They unroll. Natures green spirals.
Rising from moist ground.
To open a green crown
with a joyous fanfare
Of feathered intricacy.

A few pics from my album 'Arty'.

Good news today.

Just checked my emails and found an acceptance message for one of my poems. Great start to the day.

Other stuff done today.

I have submitted three short stories to a creative writing competition. I live in hope. It's such a lottery sending work off. I do send a lot though as publishers often won't consider a collection until you have had a lot accepted by magazines. So I keep bashing poems and stories off to these things. I've submitted to five places so far this week, put the three poems on this blog on the PC and edited some older work. It's a full-time job!

Stuff I have worked on today.

Blood Cycle.

At birth I wore a red cowl

Gifted to me by my mother

And bled a few drops

As they pricked my rounded heel.

Then, each month with the moons tide

My own red stream swelled.

In between, the first man left a smear

upon my thigh and a sense of something lost.

I sent my own child forth in a warm red rush

to birth her and almost left this world

in that dark exsanguination. At times

my heart oozed, broken by loss and grief.

Its bloody chambers full to bursting

And sometimes it swelled with the fullness of joy.

I later closed my eyes to wait for the dark

To collect me. With rosy drops upon my lips

I coughed my life away. Now in my box I sleep.

Couched in crimson satin. The lid is closed

upon the life that strove to bleed me dry.

Skint in a High-rise Block.

Without the means they live

in uncomfortable places.

With the wallpaper stuck like a stamp

to the noise from next door.

The curtains don’t meet

and there’s not enough warmth.

Meters tick away their lives

in increments of gas and light.
Lifts are moveable toilets taking deals

up and down in shallows of ammonia.

And special brew shows the way out

and a glimpse of optimism.

That dies in the shadows

of next morning’s hangover.

Drought.

The Rain God sulked.

Hoarded precious water.

Refused to let it fall.

Crops withered

and tribes danced for him.

They pleaded for help.

The ground cracked,

Patterning the earth

With empty veins.

Waterholes shrank

And fish flopped

In shallow water.

The Rain God turned his back

And did not relent

And the Sun smiled in her supremacy.

These three poems are all first drafts so please don't consider them finished. They will take a while to shape into the final pieces.

The first poem came about because I was thinking of the significance that blood has in our lives, particularly if you are a woman. It began as a list of the times that blood is visible in a lifetime (without of course, surgery or accident. ) the words followed from there.

The second  poem happened when I saw a block of flats. I combined memories of when I lived in a block with images I have seen of high-rises in other places. 

The Drought poem is a follow-on from a piece of prose I wrote quite a while ago called The Anguish of the Rain God.It was published by Indigo Dreams press in one of their magazines.