writing and writers – Page 104 – don't confuse the narrator

fear of losing it

Actually, not fear of losing it so much as fear of losing them. Some ten years of digital photos (plus assorted translations, stories, poems, and other memories) stored on an external hard drive which is currently refusing to boot.

There comes a point, of course, where you have to admit that the past does disappear and this is just something you have to deal with.

I am currently taking comfort in the idea that “Nothing is lost for ever […] except for the Cathedral of Chalesm”, coupled with the fact that the little blue light still comes on when I connect the disk, so perhaps it is not altogether dead.

Some more recent photos, including this one, have not been lost:

sunshine

Yes, sunshine.

That seems to be all that needs to be said.

kisses

For no good reason, other than that it was growing close to a stone church wall, this flower reminded me of a poem written on a trip to the fiestas in southern Spain.

I remember taking an early draft to the local writers’ group for comments and being disconcerted when one of the women said she felt unqualified to comment because she didn’t know what I meant by kisses.

It’s true that I sometimes use everyday images in my poetry to represent bigger issues, but this wasn’t meant to be any kind of trick.

Sometimes, even when wrapped up in the weird perspective and mixed metaphors of an imperfect poem, a kiss is just a kiss.
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domesticity

Eight months after moving house, I have finally bought an ironing board. Wilko, in their wisdom, describe it – along with so many of their cheaper products – as “functional”. I suppose that has to be better than dysfunctional.

Today is bright and breezy, a good drying day, if only I had a garden to hang the washing in. I don’t, though, so perhaps I won’t bother with such domestic pursuits, and the ironing board can continue in its packaging while I go out and enjoy the sunshine.
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aspirations

For no particular reason, the rosebay willow herb is one of my favourite summer flowers. The name is one I remember learning as a child, along with so many other pink and purple blooms: meadow crane’s-bill, mallow, cosmos, buddleia…

I haven’t spent much time in the UK over the last 20 years and I am struck now by the willow herb spires lining the river banks and towering above the long grasses in the fields and meadows.

There seems to be something very aspirational – and inspirational – about how they point to the blue sky: I get the impression they are telling me there is no limit to the possibilities.

A closer look reveals a host of insects busy among the flowers: a reminder that without hard work ambition may count for nothing.