Posts

Night Journey

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Night comes, all gaping jaws, all flail and spit; I feel it; it holds it does not bite, it will run and I will cling to the thrill of it: the journey has music, a pulse, a suddenness, a storm brewing: it bursts like a bruise, flowing outwards, under tender skin: teeth press the breath from flesh, everything is shaken up; claws snick on tarmac; and I cling to the thrill of it: rain falls, glass rain; each drop shatters, makes slicing pools where the world is cut in two, is turned upside down: here in the teeth of the beast, thrown between worlds; I feel it; it holds, it presses, it could bite; I know this is how the journey goes: at the heart of this knowledge, lodged secure, a strange safety, a strange peace, keeps a steady, quiet beat.

Careless Wish

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This morning, white river mist trims the dark valley slopes: in the sky, gold sorbet cloud. My eyes follow and rise. I receive the sight like a blessing. Yesterday's yearning for a heated beach is scoffed at. Until I take myself back to our little office room and sit at my desk, then it makes more sense. I'm ready for my reward now, for a shore of cash. Up lights the laptop screen. Bing! I got blogmail: 'Can I simply say what a comfort to find someone that really knows what they are talking about on the internet. More people ought to read this and understand this side of the story. You surely have the gift. I can definitely help you to get your talent shown and recognised worldwide, visit my website: CashLoansForValium&FashionPurchase.'

Mesmer's Weather

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Slavish devotion to laptop today, obsessed by learning to format an ebook. Rather startled to find there are people talking to me. Apologies, family. And knees: I have ice knee caps. Tellingly, I have remembered to feed the dog. Feed, and walk. This morning, before my laptop pinged on and the rest of the known universe vanished, all I wanted to think of was taking a holiday; flicking lazy feet over warm sand. Me and Dog sent up a neat spray of last night's rain, there were still strawberries to be found, so I could not think why I needed ; it felt like I needed ; to skip over a tropical beach. My hand on the door handle as the heavy rain falls. The smell of refreshed earth follows me in. Up to the bedroom to find a towel, and stop, and find that I am caught in the rain, in the lush-heavy sound of it.

A Hint Of Halloween

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All day, a shroud for a sky: does it bode? I don’t wish for it to bode. It is a trick of light, only, an evocative illumination. Yesterday’s figures of mist, drift to mind; reminds me to be respectful where I tread, for the dead are many and life is finite. This land is made of their labours. Slugs in the lane are feasting on bits of their tyre-split colleagues. It is the job of a slug, this pragmatic clean up. And since they eat in the road, in the tyre-smoothed section of road, it has a macabre circle of life vibe to it. As a restaurant concept, unlikely, but then slugs are not good at PR. There are wild strawberries, in the hedge, still finding enough light to ripe, we pluck out two or three each: carefully watching for traffic. 

Hullabuloo

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You can really launch yourself into an egg, Granma. You really can. Luckily, 4am was a false start. Tucked back in, Baby remembered sleep for a few hours more. Figures of mist drift in the field, later, after toast and egg. Dog gallops through them. I watch Baby in her Wellington boots fall over the tractor tracks. Mud print hands held up: ‘Oh no!’ Her sing-song steps and words, over the embossed earth, under the faint sky. Back to the road, to pretty stomps in puddles. Back to the coffee pot: Granma is flagging. Boots discarded, just a little way before reaching dry land, she takes on tasks: wearing sideways flip-flops, dipping a cup into Dog’s delicious looking water; oh, it has hair floating in it, fascinating, heh, heh, if I turn my back on Granma she’ll never know I am dipping my cup in here for a swig ; and what are these books doing, cluttering up the shelves? Wry smiling Granma hugs the hot espresso.  Dog, if they ask, you ain't seen me.

Beat Yourself Up

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Venue of: The TAGB Southern Championships For a competition morning, it’s not too early. Step to the car with the sun raising an orange eyebrow at us, like we’ve disturbed it. A pelt of cloud is slung above the road. I drink thermos coffee, think of this as a travelling cafĂ©. The cloud won’t fool me: inevitably, if I have chosen to spend my spare day in the maxi-sized box of a leisure centre hall, the sun will rise and stretch and shine. Fire doors are chinked open, to draw some fresh calm in, to release some steam and fear. I see the light outside: I know. But we have our own world in here, our own glorious perturbing friendly  fist-and-foot fast wielding world, propelled by lists, protocol, courtesy, the audacious desire to win.  The opportunities of losing aren’t always overlooked; a dinked ego can let some good in. (Treat with a sting of honesty, or a balm of the knowledge that you tried the best you knew how. If you’re unsure, you can ask one of our medics.) The

Gestational Metaphors

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Two of my old poems; circa 1995; which I am musing over: both use gestation as a metaphor for creative approaches. The idea of giving birth to stones came from how little people care that you make art, that it is seen as pretentious, indulgent, sullen and stubborn. But if you make art, you do it anyway. The second poem seems more content, though it is still quite insular.  I wrote them, so obviously they strike a chord for me, maybe I am posting them to see if anyone else can catch a note? I would like to read the male version of these verses, if anyone fancies drafting something? It needn’t be poetry, opinions are welcome. Barricade  She loves them But they do not move Her silence, dense with grief She washes them and searches For fingers, her tears come Hot in the cold stone night She has a wall of them A sturdy morbid construction The home of shadows Ring She lays down her carving knife Flexes clay hands Rubs the finger of her we