Tuesday 31 May 2011
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.
Monday 30 May 2011
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
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.
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.
Sunday 29 May 2011
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.
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
Friday 27 May 2011
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.
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.
Good news today.
Just checked my emails and found an acceptance message for one of my poems. Great start to the day.
Thursday 26 May 2011
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
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)