My past has caught me up: this afternoon
I checked my e-mail, as I always do,
and found a message from an old flame who
I hadn’t seen since school. Out of the blue
a bolt that sends me tumbling through the years
to adolescent angst and teenage tears,
to poems scrawled in chalk while classmates jeer
and playground fights that fade when Sir appears.
I was his One True Love, there’d be no other.
At sixteen I was far too young: I fled.
But now he’s tracked me down; who needs the men
from Pinkerton’s when Google is your friend?
(Though Google’s failed me time and time again
in my attempts to trace his younger brother.)
Category: poetry
“the dreams of Gods”
A couple of weeks ago I was trying to locate a half-remembered short story. My “google fu” is not what I thought, apparently, and the story remained unidentified until I reached home and had access to my own bookshelves. Here, I found the story in the first book I opened.
It was Lovecraft’s Poetry and the Gods. (Easily found online now I know precisely what I’m looking for.)
Skimming through the story, I find this lovely snipe at modern poetry: Continue reading ““the dreams of Gods””
drop by drop
Well, I’m back in the pueblo and the weather is wet and wild. Yesterday evening there was a brief pause in the downpour, though, and I managed to take a few pictures. (As always, you can click each photo to see a larger version.)
I love the way the raindrops and buds work together, but I need to practise more to get the pictures I really want. A little sunshine might help, too. 
colourless green ideas
When I visit my elderly mother, word puzzles are the main evening activity; our newspaper of choice is The Independent‘s “i“ as even the more expensive Saturday edition provides an evening of entertainment for two for just 30p, which really can’t be bad.
Yesterday we spent so long over the word wheel – our combined words ranging from leat for a mill stream to the Hawaiian luau and the mineral laurite – that we decided to leave the cryptic crossword for today. By the end of this morning’s first cup of coffee, though, it was already half done and I was sent to the village shop to splash out on a Sunday paper.
Despite the weathermen proclaiming that Friday was the first day of spring, we have grey skies and a real feel of autumn in the air. There are a few daffs about, but the most interesting blooms I found were almost as colourless as the day:
make it fresh: pizzas and poetry
Closer inspection suggested that it wasn’t the only problem: my friend wondered what would happen if he turned up with a pizza that had seen better days and ordered them to “make it fresh.”
I was reminded of telling another friend about a poetry competition on the theme “Fresh voices” and her suggestion made that “fresh” ought to be reserved to describe bread, milk, eggs, etc. That discussion might have been pedantic, but it inspired me to write a winning poem.
Hunting around for it in the archives, I am amazed to discover that it was written in the year 2000. It also surprises me that I have never posted it on the blog. Here it is:
Continue reading “make it fresh: pizzas and poetry”
don't confuse the narrator 