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This New Chapter Repeats A Theme

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Final proofs for the Tae Kwon-Do book are received today by email, just as I'm heading out of the door to get to work. Override the urge to stay home and press home-printer ink to paper and tremble over the responsibility of using up all my savings. I should be used to this by now. I always use up all of my savings. I don't remember having any regrets over this habit, not afterwards: the nerves clang before and during. I said to myself: but I won't write about this or it will get boring, I will turn egoist. I won't write about the book or how I feel about the money: I will write about the washing that got rained off the line, how the blue morning grew sombre. And see what has happened?

Snapshots

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Not everyone has the opportunity to be photographed at work. One of the parents of a junior class student has a new camera, and with permission from us and the other parents, has been whiling away the wait with shutter clicks. In my desk based day jobs some daydreaming was inevitable. They were moments of retrieval: self-preservation. I would view my desk as a still life, see how all the greys of the table tops and old fat boxed computer screens were patterned in the shade of the office foliage, how futile the chain of coloured paperclips as perceived against the weight of in-tray contents. I would think up electronic responses that could never be writ, in case I pressed the irresistible Send. Inevitable, too, the gaze that drifted through the window out into blue or cloud or glare or stars or one's own reflection. In those in-trays lay so much that was nonsense and so much that was pitiful, regardless of the job. Generics and specifics, absorbed in my pauses, part

The Hit

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Only one alteration on the Tae Kwon-Do book proofs today: so the signing off for printing is very close. Brain cannot compute. Brain says: this has been spoken of for so long, it has built an invincible association with being far away. But like exams and giving birth, the day will appear, the real day, out of daydreams and practice some real testing, happening, hyper-real hours will hit my life… Then the aftershock questions: did that happen, has everything changed, why hasn't everything changed, is it good enough, have I wasted my time, did that really happen? Size: Finished: 297 x 210mm. (portrait) Pre-press: preflight: 40 page(s) PDF Proof: 40 Page(s) Printed: Cover printed full colour both sides on 250 gsm. silk 36 pages printed 4 colours both sides on 170 gsm. Inaset Offset Finished: Fold, saddle stitch and trim to size Packed: 13kg packed in boxes Delivered: One address local delivery Preflight, the specs say, silk, saddle stitch: 13 kilos o

What's In The Box?

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The new phone is not deep to look at, though it is full of mystery to me. The protective case for it is still travelling by post, so I carry the object around in its black and red cardboard casket: expensive, dramatic, surreal. There's a whole world in that slab. Fingers wind, puzzled, in hair: scratch head. Why have I such a device? Why am I here, peering at a tiny manual, learning this new language? Is this the black box of my future flights? One cannot know the success of any plan that is not put to action. More instinct than organized strategy, yet the truism holds.

A Climate Of Surprise

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Mr was attacking the pampas grass. It must go, lovely as it shakes under a night wind and brings to mind tropical storms and thoughts of white sanded island beaches. The whip of those leaves cut like paper edges. I had a plan to dig up the bushy tree that grows nothing edible, to make room for cherry and plum. Before my hand can touch a spade, the rain comes cold and wet. It's a commonly held belief here that if one is to be cold and wet one might as well be at the seaside. From the damp earth to Widemouth Bay we travel, by rusty car. One 50 pence piece, and one 10, drop into the ticket machine to buy one hour of car park time. Dog runs, the rocks are sculptural, the pools clear, the sun visible, warmth discernable, my feet jump out of their boots. Mr looks at bends of rock and sighs over forces. We run back to the car under pelts of hail: stop halfway home to buy hot pasties, gobble them up, giggle at the steam on windows.

The Haiku Challenge II

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Here's this week's haiku dabbling, as provoked by Suze : 'For the second week of Tiny Harmonies , grab the cat and start ruminating on adaptability . All haiku for week two will air Friday, 15 March… It's weird, last Friday as I read the offerings of participants, it was like having salt thrown on the tongue -- instead of satisfying, it left me thirsty for more.' First I ruminated on the limits of adaptability: Supple branch Through solid trunk Keeps root Rotted at core The supplest branch Simply snaps I don't much care for the second try, it seems too obvious: true, but obvious. The third try was more spontaneous and relaxed, so it turned out best, I think: Sun shining Into my boot tops Pyjamas tuck Also I am glad this is how I spent yesterday, for today it has mostly rained.

Sofa Throw Finale

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Dog announces her recovery from a bout of fatigue by sneaking next door to scent herself with chicken poop. The day is all crisp blue and white like a toothpaste commercial. This morning the washing is clipped to lines that sparkle ice and each garment emits a cloud of steam. Yesterday we thought that the sky had found a store of winter at the back of an old snow cloud, and we had no expectations for this brewing warmth. In celebration, windows are opened, carpets swept. Washing is hung out wet and brought in near dry: it only needs an evening of airing out. For a finale, out goes a fresh washed sofa throw. It is not fetched in till after dark. The faux fur has an ice crunch to it and tiny beads twinkle under electric light.

Who Is The Nemesis Of A Hero Duck?

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As a way of having a light to follow, a future project that dangles brightly past the draining check-check-check on spellings and spacings of the book which waits and waits to go to press: and because the cold is bitter and Dog is poorly and my car needs work and all our pockets are empty: here I am, jotting jolly lists. Good villains are essential, so that's my first list: The Evil Spectrum. I have traditional monsters, representing the dark side of human nature, including the Evil Genius, the dark side of the hero/heroine. On this branch of list are vampires, werewolves, trolls and dragons. I subtitle this list 'Chaos,' adding a note about parasitic possession and how magic possessions can be a metaphor for drug abuse but more widely any kind of illness. Under 'Anti-chaos,' the things that have logical plans but cannot be reasoned with: robots, despotic rulers, fundamentalists, insects, spiders, aliens, sharks, snakes. My notes refer to 'otherne

Trees On The River Slopes

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Stride out, into the bite of the wind. One dot of snow for every ten steps. On this dry ground the ice is limited: it finds some puddles and makes crystals out of mud. Sun beams over all of it, but the wind has blown the warmth away. Over the stream, over the stile, over the field where the old barn crumbles out the last of its days and the white peaks of Dartmoor edge the view. Dog and me and the sun and the wind and the rare snow make tracks all the way to the river and through the woods. On the slopes of the Tamar, encroached by the growth of the woods that once fed furnaces, there are the remnants of industry: a post for a chain bridge, dug back areas of rock, two old quarries, drainage tunnels, cart tracks, lime kilns. Across the river is the straight wall where a train ran on a broad gauge track. We follow a drainage ditch down to the bank where the beached tree has been partly cleared. It is cut exactly right for me to sit on, a pile of sticks at my side, to thr

Sleepy In Cold Weather

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Aerial ice, pretty as it is sharp. So sleepy, I am glad of the cold jabs. Freeze dried flakes of air flutter over tarmac like shook out feathers. I have a mindful of blizzarding alphabet, a limitless thirst for coffee. Could swallow an ocean of coffee, hot and awake. All the letters just wash, in waves of tired, and wild polka dots of snow fly the night sky, over my sinking eyes.

Grief

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This was a poem that seemed to jump into existence. What I write is not gloomy stuff, although I fully acknowledge and even appreciate the role of gloom in a life, so it's not too surprising a topic. I didn't write it for any particular occasion or for any particular relationship between people, it is quite generic. I decided to post it today mainly as in the UK it is Mother's Day and the sort of day that can highlight a loss. (My own mother is entirely well and full of news regarding loft insulation, and, of course, the vagaries of weather.) This Beast What is it, that I am being told? You are here, I know you are. This beast, my grief At my heels anytime Shifts weight, changes shape I will not acknowledge it Why should I acknowledge it: I can carry on as usual, nothing Can change, if we do not look If we do not look or speak of it Roll into intolerance Roll, rage, and the more It makes no difference: rage Why is thi

Birthday Table

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Girl says: 'Whoever thought of putting Crispy Duck on a pizza is a genius.' Mr says: 'Whoever thought of putting Crispy Duck on a pizza is a genius.' Mr Thorn orders a burger. He's not a pizza man. Granma Grace likes the Hawaiian best. We sit at the table's end, loving the view and the clatter and the state of the grandchildren after the cake. Our next grandchild is growing in a neat bump: this time next year, another high chair pulled to the table. The coffee is late. There's a little box on the table, it has a pair of cufflinks in it. Gold on silver, a present for Mr, handed from Granma, with a note that made him quietly cry. They were his father's, once. Mr's daughters made the cake. It is light and sweet with perfect crumb.

17 Syllables

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Getting almost sociable with my blogging lately: part of a poetry project today run by Suze at Subliminal Coffee . She explains: 'It's called Tiny Harmonies. What I'd like to do through the first of spring is introduce a theme at the weekend so that the following Friday, participants can post a haiku in response. The collaboration would run for three weeks and the first week's theme is origin .' [Hai·ku 1 . A form of Japanese verse, written in 17 syllables  divided into 3 lines of 5, 7, and 5 syllables, and employing highly evocative allusions and comparisons, often on the subject of nature  or one of the seasons. 2 . A poem written in this form.] On the theme 'origin,' I did some doodling, and here's what popped out of my biro. Might not be entirely in the count, admittedly! Attempts, in order of origin, (seems appropriate.) First, origin as the place that new life starts: Baby opens palm Mo

Legacy

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Half stub of mouse on the doormat this morning. More description, though I do a poetic job of it, is rejected: sometimes, even poetry must be on a need to know basis. What remains is placed under the garden hedge with the usual country wisdom: You are part of the earth now, little mouse, and probably part of the cat. Everything comes back to the earth. To make the best of this experience we are having, being sentient individuals, Mr and me and Dog make a brisk morning walk. A gentle run simmers up, and then we get home to work out arms with weights and then we go back outside to run through our Tae Kwon-Do patterns. The Nextdoor Chickens cluck at our kihaps, and a neighbour waves as she walks up to the village. Clarice plays cards every Thursday with two friends, 'For the company, dear, not for money.' I like her ethic. Old Poet Larkin preferred misery to daffodils, but I side with Wordsworth on that: the cyclical nature of renewal and the beauty of the unrepea

Lucid Walking

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Squid Tree  Cool humidity washes over the morning. It fades the hilltop backdrops to vague misted cliffs, to shapes of faraway things, like islands, like many dome-topped islands. In this muted sea I swim, along the root knotted lanes, dreaming, discovering. This bobble-eyed tree is a land octopus: Plantae Cephalopoda Gigantis. This fungus is dark as a smoker's lung. Birds dart, as fish do, flashing colours. This Squid Tree is diving. Sun deepens its reach, presses warmth, retreats behind a fine foam of cloud. Discovering, dreaming, in these root knotted lanes: mangroves coral reefs forests mountain trails anatomy oceans. The universe stretches from here, to back here again. Plantae Cephalopoda Gigantis    

A Journey Up

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In the bank of the river the roots of a fallen tree: sickly pale, lumpy metatarsals, poke out and shiver. The tree is further down, flood dumped and gathering its own beach. I climb where birds have nested and watch out over the water. Sun plays in the eddies: some look friendly and some deceiving. Daffodils on the path are budded; a warm spring smell of earth, onion, water and a hint of baked dung; see how the light makes a flowing jewel of the river: I follow the path through the odorous ramson leaves, over tunnel mazes where badgers mark their territories with gleaming coils of excrement: amazing what there is to marvel the senses here. All the way up the loose steep path, to see the river shining like cut citrine quartz.

Fizz

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One brain, fizzing full, like an effervescent tablet, full of bubbles and whirl, and, while from the outside a pattern may be seen, something fractal, universal, microcosmic: on the inside of these eyes it appears a drowning blur. Being worried for it won't help. Now is not the time for stilled waters. Now is a time to stir, to fizz… To the Deep!

A Brush With Death And Life

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Blood in its mouth, still red-wet, over bared badger teeth. Eyes sunken, dehydrated, unconnected. For a moment the creature seems to breathe: the wind moved its fur, that was all, but Dog and I are wary still: a force of life hovers in the air: a sense of displacement. I could touch that thick fur but a death taboo stays my hand. Dexterous paws with dangerous claws lie quiet. Pads of feet: so common to mammals: thoughts of kinship jump. A woodpecker knocks, somewhere in the trees: it harshly tolls. Off the lane and into the woods we walk, climb over the incumbent giants there. On each storm-felled tree something new grows. Green pushes from the cold earth, fells me with delight. Life: life is here: we are all here: my roots reach down: down to the molten heart of the earth. On the return journey I put my hand on the fur of the road-killed brock: thick, wiry, soft, like a good paintbrush.

Saturday Stuff

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By ten o'clock this morning we are parked at Newbury Hilton Hotel. Boy is launching into Part 1 of the Umpire's course, so he can learn how to assist a referee in bossing a fight. He has two cheese sandwiches, a sparring kit and a bottle of water. I have a poor girl's croissant (granary slice with butter) and a plastic flask of Lavazza. Light shakes through the leaves of the boundary trees. Outside is aching, incisively cold. New buds pucker on cold branches ne'er the less: that is the intuitive optimism of Spring. Gloves on and car locked in case some crazy thief wants to steal dog hair and log bark: a walk, I will have: around big shops: quite the novelty. I am twirling frocks on hangers, stroking fluffy jumpers, my eyes are slurping up all the colours and the forms of the piled up aisles like I'm in an art gallery. Such fun, all this Stuff: one does not need so much of it but there is no denying the Fun . (Boy did well on his course, incidentally,

Back From The Future Blog Party

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Another joint blog adventure- if you want to see who else said what the list of participants is here . The premise is this: 'You're up before dawn on a Saturday when the doorbell rings. You haven't brewed your coffee so you wonder if you imagined the sound. Plonking the half-filled carafe in the sink, you go to the front door and cautiously swing it open. No one there. As you cast your eyes to the ground, you see a parcel addressed to you ... from you. You scoop it up and haul it inside, sensing something legitimate despite the extreme oddness of the situation. Carefully, you pry it open. Inside is a shoebox -- sent from ten years in the future -- and it's filled with items you have sent yourself. What's in it?' Here's how I imagined it: Before dawn? Shadows outside, first forming. Sleep has gone, I don't know where. Coffee I can find. All the way from Machu Pichu, this fair-traded pack. Scissors are in the drawer, which