Tuesday 30 August 2011
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.
Thursday 25 August 2011
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
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
Wednesday 24 August 2011
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.
Saturday 20 August 2011
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.
Sunday 14 August 2011
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.
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.
“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.
Tuesday 9 August 2011
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.
Sunday 7 August 2011
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.
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”?
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.
Tuesday 2 August 2011
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.
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