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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