In a rare fit of truthfulness on the blog, I will admit that I am visiting my elderly mother for Christmas.
Having offered to cook Christmas lunch for whichever of the very limited family choose to attend, I decided that it was about time I stopped complaining about the inadequacies of the maternal kitchen and bought some kitchen knives that suit me. 
Enjoying the luxury of a real paper-and-print newspaper this weekend, I came across an article with the headline: “Mural supports English teachers’ favourite poet”**, and was surprised to see the piece was illustrated with a picture of Carol Ann Duffy. She may be the poet laureate, but I didn’t think she was that popular. Reading on, I think it must specifically refer to the teachers at Leeds West Academy where the mural in question was unveiled this week.
Continue reading “the writing on the wall”
The horses and riders who passed by at 7 am were obviously up too early to have had a chance to titivate. But at the ones who came by at eleven had all their ceremonial trimmings and trappings, and positively sparkled in the sunlight:
This gives me a chance to look back at a word I learned yesterday when I ‘bumped into’ the Lord Mayor’s Show. I knew the parade was scheduled, but was really rather hoping to avoid it. I was on my way to an exhibition when I suddenly heard drums and trumpets and found myself in a perfect position to watch everything. Since I rather like marching bands, I stayed.
Continue reading “more horsey bits”
I know London is not as quiet as the pueblo, but I didn’t expect to be woken at 7am on a Sunday. Then again, I’m glad I didn’t miss this scene:
Tomorrow, the South Bank Poetry Magazine launches issue 11, the ‘London Poems Anthology’, with prize-winning, commended and short-listed poems from the inaugural South Bank Poetry Competition judged by Niall O’Sullivan. The event is at the Poetry Café in Betterton Street and will include readings of some of the poems.
In the meantime, for those who won’t be there, here’s a London poem. Coincidentally, the original notes were taken when I was going to the award ceremony of the Barnet Poetry Prize a few years ago.
Towards High Barnet
We’re moled and burrowing
through London’s longest stretch
of tunnelling dark, until East Finchley
where sudden sunlight dazzles us.
A shock of daffodils tousles the embankment.
Ivy-drab drapes a dull brick wall
beyond which, an old man digs for victory
against perennial weeds in his allotment.
don't confuse the narrator 