Category: writing and writers

new year, old writing

John Hayes’ 2010 horoscope for Gemini tells me it’s

an excellent time for writing, asserting your views and for catching up on your paperwork. However, if you identify too closely with your views, you may take a difference of opinion too personally and so there is the potential for disputes and disagreements

That’s a neat reminder about the difference between the writer/ narrator and what is written. And it’s not always just the reader who forgets this distinction. Paraphrasing Hayes: If you identify too closely with your writing, you may take criticism too personally.
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new year

Orion
greets the new year
with open arms

 
One thing I love about writing, is that it forces me to learn. I’m limited to my phone camera at the moment so was looking for a copyright-free photo to put alongside this piece, and I’ve ended up discovering lots of things I probably should have known about Orion, but didn’t.
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right to read

One thing I try and do when I’m in London is get to the Poetry Unplugged open mike at the Poetry Café on a Tuesday night. It’s usually packed, often inspiring and always fun, not least because of the skill and wit of the host, Niall O’Sullivan. Each participant is allowed up to five minutes at the mike, so it’s possible to perform several short pieces or one longer one.

I was there this week and dithering about what to read as I haven’t been writing much recently – at least not finishing much in the way of poetry. Sitting and listening to the readers in the first half, I was reminded how the poems that are best for reading aloud to an audience are not always the ones you are proudest of, or that are likely to get published or win competitions.
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notes for a November poem

 

The trees are ragged with Autumn. The wind nags
and worries scabby leaves. I see the skyline fray;
black scraps tear off to become
a join-the-dots of rooks that threads
across unbroken grey. Virginia creeper
pours an oxblood waterfall
down the garage wall and yellow tears drift
under the willow. No still small voice
commands me from the prunus.
The pine trees fluff green fur and mist
purls over the estuary.

 
Published in Envoi 142 some years ago, and clearly based on November in the UK, not in Spain. Today, though, is unexpectedly wet and autumnal, so it seems a good time to post it.
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swan song

 

When I iron the white cotton shirts, slide creases
from collar, cuff and tail, I weigh the heft and fullness
of a changing power.

The dragon noses mother of pearl, and her hot breath
insinuates the twisted threads which swell
and straighten as she sighs.

My mind spins graveyard nettles, and I
am the sister of swans, accused, condemned and bound
in silence, intent on my task.

Each sleeve, a spread wing, offers hope.

Then he dons the white shirt, puts on
the power suit and quiet socks; he knots a careful tie
and slips his feet into immaculate brogues.

I would be Leda to his Jove.

 
 
(This poem won the 2007 Barnet Open Poetry Competition, judged by Fleur Adcock. I see that it is online on the Barnet Arts website without any formatting, so I thought I’d post it here as it should appear.)