Posts

Bath Nap

Image
Lead limbs drop in a hot bath. Water slops to the overflow. Steam hangs like a sigh, sticks to the mirror. Incursions of night air, from a thin line of open window, touch cold on heated skin, hold off the tendency to sleep. Floating and sleeping slip together, too easily. Spiders and flies make a tapestry, on the white square of ceiling; spin a warning.  Plug un-nested; drains out dirt and somniferous danger. Weight returns, reluctantly. A towel wrapped shadow, in the fogged mirror, slowly combs wet hair. 

Add A Solid Fist

Image
Poor 'nice', poor over used, beaten up, inoffensive word. Privately one can use it, but publicly it draws ridicule. It has a taint of helplessness. Add a solid fist, a bag of grit, a pan of glowing cinders; knock off some flimsy pink and sugar: I wish I could recover this word. I would make a nuptial present of it: I know just the people for it. This is what I'm thinking, staring at a blank manila surface, reaching for a pen. What I'm smiling about, as glue and glitter are smeared barehanded onto folded cardboard. Put the card in the sun to dry- nice weather for it. The word is jumping at my heels. So, Dan and Anna, if you are wondering, that's what your wedding card is all about. 

Magic Light

Image
Look to the window, momentarily released from a writing trance. Ten minutes may have passed, or a decade. I check the calendar and a watch. Most of two days, it turns out. I think Boy went to school and we had meals, and other things like flying side kicks with Launceston Young Farmers, like playing in the nursery sandpit with Baby, like brief glimpses of star spattered sky and rippled cloud. But, for the most part, I've been somewhere between 1972 and 1977, between Bristol and Bodmin Moor. The window is the room, backwards and blurred by double glazing. It's October 19th, 2012, it's nearly half past ten at night. Just for distracting fun, I pull out an old notebook from the desk shelf. My handwriting used to be so neat. Here is what I read: The spark that removes you from the 'doctrine of perpetual flux.' When everything changes and you change, and you perpetually move. Your head spins. Centrifuge breaks you up, no hand holds, no connection. Wit

Over My Head

Image
Before the storm started up, something reminiscent of a hand mirror shone in the sky: sat in a dip of salmon coloured cloud, too still for a satellite, it could have been a star. Between the star and the pending storm, the river geese are set a-flap. An apex of them echoes our roof, turns back to the river. Lively improvising wind devises trumpety old car horn noises from the forgotten tv aerial: gets a round of applause, after I stop looking for the old car altercation. From the window also see dead branches on the fat trunked ash, dangerously reanimated. Takes my mind off the trouble I'm having with hyperlinks. Every step on the list- ticked. Works fine until I upload it- is lost in translation. Again! Stormy words and childish renunciations- this is stupid, like everything is when you can't understand it. After work, waiting for Mr, I stand in the shivery wind, on pitchblacked tarmac. Everything is rain drenched, except the rustle of leaves above; internal desi

Rose Tinted Planet

Image
Into town for an hour, for serious tasks, such as banking (using financial formula: take money from a , feed b ) and acquiring car fuel. Smuggled under my grey suit jacket, a lining of cerise pink satin. Blatant polka dots on a scarf. Home to my red and mud coat, home and out: here strolls me, there pelts Dog, through the clasped hand angles of the woods. Under the shaded steep slopes, a hundred tunnels lead to a hundred underground lives: tentacles of a terrestrial alien city. Out from branches, ferns, brambles, crisp fallen leaves, out to the furthest field, to a prairie of stalks: here strolls me, there pelts Dog; soft rain touches, hears my plea for the washing on the line, moves on. In the hedge, in warm wraps of sun, bright pops of ripe strawberry.  This is Strawberry Pig- most famous berry I ever picked 

If You Want To Fly, Be The Eagle

Image
In a flaming flurry of writing, searching out character notes that I put down here: breath, dear lady, breath- ah, there they are- now laugh at yourself- now, what's this? Ariel font? Rhyming couplets? Ah, yes, laugh with yourself. You wrote this, you remember, it was a show for children about the pitfalls of ambition and the joys of friendship. You wrote: Here's a story writ to warn us Of the hungry eagle and the envious tortoise All day long the birds he watched But tortoise on the ground was stuck -Ah, he longed so much to fly so free Good sense is replaced by rivalry 'I challenge you to teach me to fly,' He nagged at the eagle till by and by A free lunch opportunity The peckish eagle comes to see The bird complies, 'Oh very well,' And grabs poor tortoise by the shell 'Spread your wings!' the eagle mocks And drops poor tortoise on the rocks -He learnt his lesson all too late Eagle fodder was his fate If you

Interlude

Image
The day is a reflection of me; fields are contemplatively quiet, sky is grey and blue. Mud buffers each boot. I even wonder what to write of, today, and I know that isn't how this works. Words find me, I am their roost. In my mind, a dull settling. Overhead, a pheasant, thoroughly annoyed. I see the ornamental silhouette, too late for the camera to be pulled to action. Perfect time to remember the camera. Dog appears, another perfect timing, wagging her tail as though to check her brilliant diversionary plan has worked. The illusion of collusion. Now I am smiling, not thinking, work turns back to play. Here is light, here is shadow, here is the vast spread of turned earth, the warm fertile loosened earth. Run my hands through dried grass seeds, a shimmy of a noise. The beginning of music, I think, where things touch, and speak to the air of that meeting. 

Soup By Volume

Image
This is a sales pitch, of a sort. Not something I was born for, maybe I will think of it more as a performance: stage fright is the right sort of uncomfortable. This morning: traded a sixty pence parking fee and a jar of diesel for an hour at Widemouth Bay. Parked south, walked north, where the salt spray spumed from every jag of rock. Body tucked in a winter coat, trousers rolled up, flip-flops dumped in the car. Messy waves wash in warm, spread a brief mirror on the sand. The sun is floored, but still untouchable, no matter how much I give chase. The cold wind is what I breathe in, is what sticks to my wet legs as we tread sand back to the car. Put the choky old heater on. Sand is what I wear on my feet to drive home. This morning's journey is the pause I take before pressing the publish button. I'm not sure if it makes any sense, but it feels like a good adventure to have- this is what I've put together- 'Soup By Volume: A collection of eccentric, p

Portrait Of A Lady

Image
Today I felt exactly as portrayed. I remembered this poem, which my friend wrote, which is about me. I thought of it, glanced up, and there it was, telling me, yes, this is who you are, lady, this is who you are. It was written back in 1991, when I wish I felt like this. I found her I didn't look for her The hazy shine of a future brought her to me today Her mind grows with the bitter smell of morning coffee And tales from old wives. She's no hippy or earth mother She blows in like the driftwood and seaweed on The surf of the waves, evenly culled onto the shore- But she's firmly locked. The squelchy sand poses no threat for her, She leaves an even perfect footprint on the cool mineral. It's fresh, it may fade, who knows? Still her childlike perfection and security has impregnated it, Like the smell of rain sprinkled on tired streets. Feelings and words restrain me- she knows no fault Only the confident waver of a daisy in the s

Night Journey

Image
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

Image
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

Image
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

Image
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

Image
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

Image
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 café. 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

Image
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

Feral

Image
Coffee cup basks, sits on my desk, idly steaming. Clouds are lit up, rolling past, processional. Over the river, white birds with sun struck feathers fly. I walked Dog up to the cut wheat field, which is part dug over, which is becoming the field where the wheat was. Followed the turned earth, the stark chopped hedge that looks like winter, sharp bladed winter. I heard something; I could believe it was the sound of birds, or I could believe, there, the air warbles. Breathed deep; damp earth fresh sky. Under booted feet a soft soil thump. Three blackberries squish, tangy, in a chomp of molars. Back to my desk, to think, to quiver at lists, all the snarly details that aren’t so bad if you just pick through them. Sigh deep: desultory picking follows. I long to lounge and read a book. Naughty eyes sneak to the window. I fidget for more coffee. Hours are slippery, tiredness glutinous. At the end of a dark drive homewards, reverse clumsily up to our front door. Rain fal

Sequel

Image
This morning, three stems from the pampas clump rest at the back of the car, all bunched up and fluffy: a car with a bunny tail. Six wild strawberries, each, are foraged from the hedge. This is all we pause for on the stride to Treniffle and back. This is Trolley Bay Day 2: this time, time gets tighter… We have pushed pennies from jars for a half-day’s van rental. The objective is for one more trolley bay to be in bits in our garden by early afternoon. The cloud cover fails to keep us dry. At noon, the workmen are dragging any unclaimed shelters to the skip, via an angle grinder. Also I must collect Baby from her Nana’s house. Which is why there is a small child in a car seat waving keys and a mobile phone at grandparents who are wet to their undergarments and grimly wrestling twine around unwillingly rolled Perspex sheets. Flecks of blood from minor flesh wounds catch in raindrops. Such loveliness to be at home in dry clothes not shivering. To drink warm tea an

Faery Story

Image
Sticky mud lives up to its name, coats my boots till my feet are near hobbled. Step into long grass just in time; it licks the mud off with soft bladed tongues. Wind my wide-eyed way up to the flank of the corn crop. Here, no human sight can spy me. This is not a people place. The nettles bite. It takes two hands to break a spider thread. The ground lurches. Dog is drunk on scents, running jagged. Low-bellied badgers have been here, dragging paths through the crop rows, waistcoat pockets full of cobs. Fox prints ford the stream. For all its fine feathers, a pheasant has a slattern’s shriek. I daydream a house woven from the plants in the centre of the tallest deepest rows, a secret house that sways with the wayward breeze, where I sit with my legs dangling and my hair all tangles and wild sparks in my wide wide eyes. 

Steel Yourself

Image
This morning, three stems of fluffed blonde pampas grass were flicked over the car roof. A car looks preposterous with a wig. Mr collects some extra eyebrows on the lane walk, in threads of spider silk. ‘Is it fake hair day?’ I ask but he only laughs. We have four wild strawberries each and clear sight of the river mist. This is the prequel, but not to fake hair day. It’s trolley bay day. Mr has been clever, asking the supermarket refit manager what will happen to the old trolley bays. We are allocated two. He has put his budget greenhouse plan into action by hiring a van, and then we have panicked. We love the plan, a sublime blend of sensible, imaginative and ratchet spanners, and then there’s that dredging background static, the wearisome fear, the miserable part of a low end income: we can’t afford it, we will be caught too short, in desperation, sink in debt . We’ve done it, though, we’ve hired the van, we’re in the car park, wrestling nuts and bolts and several