Category: writing and writers

the way it really happened

Discussing the draft of a new poem last night, I found myself close to using the phrase “but that’s the way it really happened” as justification for including an apparently inessential word.

This startled me. After all, I’ve made it clear that I don’t think of poetry as autobiographical. Life is a stepping off point for poetry, but I think facts can – and should – be sacrificed if they interfere with the poetical worth of the writing. So what made this particular occasion different?
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vicarious fame

Ellen Datlow, the editor of the Best Horror of the Year anthology, has posted a list of “Honorable Mentions” – the unpublished runners up for the 2009 anthology – on her blog.

My name isn’t on the list, but in third place (it’s alphabetical by author) is Poe a poem by Alfredo Álamo that won Spain’s Ignotus Award for poetry in 2007. It was published in The Magazine of Speculative Poetry in spring 2009, along with a translation into English by Sue Burke and me.

I don’t recognise many names on the list, but the second part (again, alphabetical), is headed by “King, Stephen” for his story Morality, published in Esquire magazine in July 2009.

I’d like to thank Sue for inviting me to assist her with a translation that has led me, albeit vicariously, into such august company.

not my own words

I had a dream a while back where I was telling someone that I earned my living from writing – “But not my own words.”

No, it wasn’t an admission of plagiarism. I think it was a subconscious recognition of the fact that I am too busy translating to do very much original writing.
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I have a spelling chequer…

…which seems to be a little confused:

no suggestions for correct spelling of "suggestions"

(The fact that the “match case” box is ticked is a red herring. That was for an earlier “search and replace” operation.)

Maybe I should point out that although I complain about the results of automatic translation and correction programs, I still find them relatively useful. And amusing, of course.

mardi garden

The cats are twitterpated: lords and ladies
of misrule, they squeal like St Martin’s pigs
in their carnal carnival. Birds’ nests burgeon
in the hedges and, on the early apricot,
a choir of ruby buds swells, ready to burst
into scented song.

 
 
More “notes for a poem” than a finished poem, I think. And they were notes taken several years ago.
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