They say that “on the internet, no one knows you’re a dog” (although I reckon the bitches are usually easy enough to spot). It’s also sometime difficult to tell if the person you’re chatting to is real or a ‘chatbot’.
I reckon that Amy must be a bot –
Continue reading “the adjective in question”
This should, of course, have been posted a couple of days ago for the fiesta de la inmaculada concepción on the 8th, but I’d completely forgotten its existence. It was written as an example of ekphrasis – in this case, a poem inspired by a painting – and I think for once it’s absolutely clear that I am not the narrator.
Es injusto, ¿sabes? They’ve hung me here,
expect me to balance on this blue-green planet,
not to slip and do myself a permanent
impaled on that luna creciente, despite the worm
at my feet and this beastly little cherub
pulling at my cloak while his colegas try
and sneak a peek up under my robe;
I’m pretty sure that even that one
over on your right who’s looking
rather more demure is actually
checking in the mirror, just in case
he gets a better view.
As for the clothes, ¡qué asco
de ropa me han dado! Couldn’t they afford
a bit of lapis lazuli? They call me
“Queen of Heaven” and yet they dress me
in the dowdiest of drab without a flounce
or furbelow. It’s no good telling me
my sandals have peep toes – sin plataformas,
ni tacones they’re not exactly what you’d call
“letizios”, now, are they? And what about
that blessed bird? Everybody thinks
that it’s a crown of stars I’m wearing, whereas,
in fact, it’s all the good-luck guano
Paloma, there, has found it in her sacred corazón
– or elsewhere – to contribute to this travesty
of taste. No es justo, like I said;
it isn’t fair: here I am, in Spain, hung
on the Prado wall, while out there
in the street, they’re living la movida Madrileña.
Can’t anybody see I’d really rather be
a flamenco dancer?
In no particular order, and with no revision, a few notes that may find their way into poems later on:
Five days torrential rain, then:
Sparkling sunshine;
the orchard
smells of cider.Mushroom white
figs moulder on the bridle path;
I slip and slime
down to the road.
Continue reading “December images”
Having been reminded recently that I am not as familiar with the works of P. G. Wodehouse as I should be, I downloaded an audio copy of The Clicking of Cuthbert to listen to.
It’s slightly surreal to walk around rural Spain with something so eminently English sounding in my head, and it does mean that I am liable to reply in English to any neighbourly salutation, but I don’t find as much time for reading as I’d like and some of the free audio books from librivox.org are an absolute delight, even if they are read by amateurs.
Continue reading ““good enough for Keats””
I was at a writing workshop this weekend and one exercise involved writing about our childhood homes. When the first few pieces were read out they involved anecdotes of family arguments and illness etc.
Some of the people involved grew up during the War, so it’s not surprising that there were some bad memories, but the tutor commented that her experience shows the vast majority of people will write something negative. I suppose this ties in with the fact that first memories are often of some traumatic experience.
Continue reading “the bright side”
don't confuse the narrator 