just—some stuff

Not taking my own advice.

2011-09-26T19:15:00.001+01:00

I have been honing my collection into a shorter pamphlet so I can enter some upcoming competitions. In editing all of the poems I think are worthy I have realised a truth: though my collection is called How to speak to your mother, I am yet to write a poem that does.

The more I think about it, the more of an oversight this seems. How did I not notice this before?

Hey honey, it's been a while. Have a picture. A poetry picture.

2011-09-14T23:28:00.002+01:00

Pegasuses, and taking flight.

2011-07-12T23:33:00.000+01:00

I feel a poetry reboot coming along. Pegasuses have been plaguing my mind... and I feel the need for a load more work and a load more poems to send out and a general increase in poetic energy. And poetic focus.

All this, and I am still in training, with my first race (10K) on Sunday. It turns out, too, that I am not the only poet doing the Great North Run this year! (Not that I thought I was, but it's nice to find some other self-identified poet-types also taking on the physical task). Kate Fox, Sheree Mack and Scott Tyrell are all running, too, and probably much faster than me. I sense a most poetical exertion, and wonder how many other writers will be in the midst, without even realising that they are not alone!

Running, running.

2011-06-20T18:42:00.001+01:00

I'm doing two runs this summer, then, it turns out. The Great North 10K and the Great North Run. Yikes.

Having just spent a Friday at the Great North Swim witnessing C complete a 2 mile open water slog in lake Windermere, I am actually looking forward to the sheer event of a 'Great North [something]' and being involved in the collective effort. I am very nervous, though, about both - but especially the half marathon. The furthest I've run so far is about 11K, and I need to at least double that distance in three months. And in my barefoot running shoes, which my poor achey foot bones are still adjusting to, really. Cripes.

Does anyone have any tips for avoiding blood blisters on the bottoms of toes?

Anyway, in the meantime, I'd really appreciate if you'd sponsor my efforts. I know running two may seem a bit greedy, but they are for two very good and deserving causes, quite apart from my suffering feet: Scope (for all the times, as a kid, I used the horrendous words 'spaz' or 'spacker' as an insult, without realising where they came from) and the Alzheimer's Society (because so many people are affected by this ravaging disease - and I loved the recent drama Exile). Perhaps you could split the usual amount you'd sponsor between the two? Every penny counts.

Great North 10K
Great North Run

Thank you! xx

Ah, Summer.

2011-06-06T21:34:00.000+01:00

I miss very much the convenience of being able to run in the cloak of darkness at a reasonable hour, whilst the temperature is maintained at a very agreeable level of coolness to prevent such redness of cheek as to stop traffic.

In other news, I am enjoying poetry quite a lot at the moment, though not necessarily writing very much of it. It's proving much fun working with Well Versed (via New Writing North) and with teachers and children in schools. It feels very worthwhile getting involved in the teaching of poetry without sweeping into a school and delivering a workshop - and then invariably sweeping away again, leaving teachers with their classroom objectives and no relevant outcome to apply to the curriculum in a lasting way. Really getting involved in how teachers teach the writing of poetry feels like a longer-lasting, and confidence-building, exercise, for all involved. Including me.

There's definitely something to be said for professionalising poetry. I was discussing this the other day with the teacher I am working with: that sitting down to write a poem, especially when you have a full time job, feels self-indulgent and as if you're slacking off something much more important. Doing a course has given the teachers that sense of professionalisation, and my MA did that too, at the time. Taking part in some professional development like this is having the same effect on me now. I like it.

Sometimes I wonder if the self-doubt and debilitating over-thinking that accompanies being a poet ever goes away, or diminishes with an increasing output of published work. Having attended the Poetry Society annual lecture on 'On Being Old' delivered by CK Williams (author of 14 collections, a 'Selected' and a 'Collected'), it seems that this is not the case. Even he often wonders if he is really a poet at all, or can claim to be called one, when he's not writing. Though mildly alarming, this is also somewhat comforting.

He also had this brilliant advice: "Wisdom is basically poop, except for patience." Indeed.

Just testing - much excitement

2011-04-29T23:15:00.001+01:00

...and confusion, apparently, about my new phone.

Also, we're just watching Pride and Prejudice. Matthew Mcfadyen is a most agreeable Darcy.

Konnichiwa!

2011-04-04T20:16:00.000+01:00

Ogenki desu ka? I'm getting ever more excited about Japan, even though there is still much to do at work. So much more to do, in fact, that I'm not entirely sure I'm going to be able to fit it all in. But we fly on Friday! Kuukoo niwa dooyatte ikeba ii desu ka?

I appear to be taking four cameras with me.

I am getting my hair cut on Wednesday for the first time in, uh, at least eight months. It's just a trim. JUST A TRIM. I am made inexplicably uncomfortable by hairdressers. Even though I've had the same hairdresser for years, now, I am embarrassed to be recognised by her along with the realisation of how long it's been since she last got hold of my locks. She asked me last time, even, who had cut my hair last, as if she was trying to catch me out in my infidelity. Sampatsu ga hoshii desu.

Sumimasen. Watashi wa nihongo ga hanasemasen.

Arigatoo!

Rejected.

2011-03-29T23:03:00.000+01:00

But only by one publisher so far. I still have my fingers crossed. (And I'm okay with it. Honest.)

Not long now until Craig and I depart for Japan. We booked before the recent events, of course, but have decided to go anyway as a kind of show of support and solidarity and trust. We're flying into Kansai airport near Osaka (which has been changed from Narita, Tokyo) and this is an airport built on created land in the sea, which may be an experience in itself. As well as Osaka, we're visiting Kyoto, Nara (for my birthday) and (hopefully) Tokyo. I can't even begin to imagine what it's going to be like over there, so mostly, at the moment, I am excited about the flight. I think this is my brain's way of making sense of the trip, but I'm embracing it anyway. Craig doesn't think I'll be able to sleep (I think he's wrong..) and so will be exhausted upon arrival and will need much rest before embarking on adventures (...but he may be right). But at least, by then, I will have experienced the screens.... in the BACKS OF THE SEATS! (perhaps a nap upon arrival will do).

As well as an exciting trip to write about, I have also been inspired today by a friend at a writing project I'm involved in (Well Versed - working with teachers to aid their teaching of creative writing to children) suggesting that I try translating German poetry into English. I'm not sure about this suggestion, as I find it hard enough to fit English poetry-writing into my everday routine at the moment, but maybe there's something in it. Durs Grünbein, who I heard reading at StAnza (where I was also reading this year!), is an amazing German poet that struck a chord with me, but I had never heard of him until I saw him read (and Don Paterson read the English translations). How do you find out about foreign authors not published in the UK? Durs Grünbein is, in translation, and I hadn't even heard of him. What about those who aren't? A puzzle.

I have taken to walking everywhere in Vibram Five Fingers. My feet feel stronger. I feel like it makes me more atuned to what's going on around me, more attentive to the detail of things. Always good for writing, I think, to have that extra sensory thing going on. There is a lot of broken glass around; the other day I ran underneath a flitting bat at dusk; my core needs more strength. I have also signed up for the Great North 10k and the Great North Run, and will be doing both barefoot style. Perhaps this, or more particularly, the physical slog of training for this, will inspire some running poems - I don't think I've written one yet..

Collection submission

2011-03-02T18:40:00.000Z

is a terrifying process, and now complete (phase 1, at least). The only part of getting the submission together I really enjoyed (this is separate, in my head at least, to writing the poems) was lining up the stamps reeeaaally neatly. The shuffle of envelopes landing on a pile of envelopes, finally beyond your grasp, is both a relief and a wrench.

Nothing will come of this, I'm sure, but I've crossed my fingers anyway.

Nanopowders and Assembler Breakthroughs

2011-01-16T17:12:00.000Z

Reading about science stuff in order to inspire poems is a joy. I got a book of Modern Science Writing for Christmas, and should really get around to reading the books on Quantum Physics I have, because there's nothing more spectacular to write about. I'm really looking forward to the nanotechnology-themed workshop I'm attending tomorrow. It should be brill.

In other news, I haven't been writing much because of how incredibly busy life seems to be all of the time. I really need another project to inspire time prioritisation - but I can't help feeling that if I make time to write every day, it will mean not being able to read the Guardian every day, and I take a lot of pleasure in that, so it will be a shame. There's not much left to give, though. And I don't even have kids, or dependants, or any other practical responsibilities outside of work! I don't know how many writers do it at all.

Oh, it is Elevenses! How quickly this spectacular changing of the seasons and of time has crept up.

2011-01-03T00:03:00.000Z

I haven't been writing very much, hence not much posting. Christmas lead-up is just so busy busy, isn't it?? So much making to do, and baking to do, and enjoyment to have. Needless to say, 2011 brings creative challenges and some more goals my way. Here's to at least getting my work on a publisher's desk in the next couple of months...

Almost at an end.

2010-10-23T12:39:00.000+01:00

But hopefully this doesn't mean the end of productivity!

It's been brilliant having some dedicated time to think about my writing - and also having the space to spread 45 poems all out over the floor without having to move them to go to sleep or let other people use the space. I've been wandering over them clutching a cup of fresh coffee and speaking them outloud to the pond. It feels very indulgent to walk about in socks in my warm little cube, pondering the best order for my poems to go in, and editing ones that aren't quite working, and taking some time just to look and watch through the two sets of french windows. I saw a woodpecker yesterday, a great spotted woodpecker I think, and some sort of bird of prey swooping very low over the site today, flustering the resident crows and jays into an awful lot of noise.

It's going to be hard getting home and having to go back to work - though talking to the other writers here makes me realise how lucky I am to work where I do. It's amazing what people have to put up with in order to make space for time to write, and I feel disproportionately privileged to be where I am, so at least that's nice. There are so many hours in the day that could be spent writing, though, and that's a difficult thing to lose now I've realised I am actually capable of sustaining creativity for a prolonged amount of time.

Saying that, when left to my own devices in the evening the other day, I did go to bed at 10.30pm. 10.30! Ha... that's very early indeed. I think it's got something to do with the lack of noise and telly distraction...my, how I haven't missed telly! (Though I am looking forward to catching up with tonight's Strictly, Casualty, and Merlin. And this week's Holby City. Oh dear. I shouldn't have started thinking about it.) Radio 4, however, I have missed. The radio I brought with me doesn't like to find radio stations, so to stop myself having to listen to white noise, I've been downloading Radio 4 podcasts... and not enough programmes have podcasts!

Anyway, yes. Going on a retreat is a marvellous thing to be able to do, and I would recommend it to anyone who writes/paints/sculpts/draws but who doesn't normally have the time at home to pursue it for a number of days. Even staying this one week has improved my poems no end - especially with Polly's guidance and encouragement - and made me much more confident in what it is I'm trying to say. And much enthused about the possibilities for saying it. And, perhaps most importantly, almost convinced that other people might be interested in hearing it.

So, I'm going to go back to it for the rest of the day, and try to write a poem on the theme of 'naked' for a zine I'd like to be involved in. There's been a lot of editing and reading aloud, but not that much writing this week. This is good, as it's what I was aiming for, but it would be nice to have a couple of new poems to take away with me too. Wish me luck!

I am here. I am writing. I have run.

2010-10-20T15:53:00.001+01:00

So things are going pretty well, really. I've had my first meeting with Polly and it seems like my work has enough going for it to carry on... and that I've already been doing all of the usefully organised things like entering competitions (Picador Poetry Prize... fingers crossed) and sending work to magazines and collating work into pamphlet as well as collection form. I'm still not sure how to progress in approaching publishers, but I think it means being very selective and reading their back catalogues (more than I already do) in order to find a place where I think I might fit in, should they choose to take me on (fingers crossed). This is opposed to the scattergun approach to submissions, which I think can work against you.

There are just so many other super-dooper poets out there. It is a little alarming to think of all the other people doing scarily similar things to me and keeping their fingers similarly crossed for exactly the same things. It's a wonder any of us gets anywhere, really.

The cube is a super place to sit and work, anyway, and highland cows keep wandering past my window, drinking at the pond or ripping up great mouthfuls of grass with their surprisingly powerful tongues. A duck had a little fishing expedition on the water this morning, too, and I'm sure I can see frog noses or something popping out every now and then. There are a couple of beautiful jays flying about as well. Just enough excitement to keep me from going mad with isolation, but not enough to distract me from the creative pursuits which brought me here in the first place. Excellent.

My first frost of the year was experienced this morning, and I made myself run out in it in order to get the full experience of being present in my surroundings. I think it worked. Today has been my most productive so far, though I have a niggling feeling that I'm coming down with some sort of chesty cough. More fingers crossed for that one, though they're crossed for the negative rather than the positive this time.

Oh questions. Poemy questions.

2010-10-13T19:51:00.002+01:00

Okay, so when I decided to go on a Fielding Programme retreat, I thought great. Some time away to work on my collection. I'll have all my poems, and I'll edit all the ones I don't hate, and something will emerge. I do still think this, but it's dawning on me how much work editing actually is - and why I go to such seemingly great lengths to avoid doing it, without even realising until hindsight kicks in. I am more than a little daunted about sitting in a room with Bookbook and 'putting a collection together'. I actually have no idea what this actually, minute-to-minute, involves.

Also, I have questions. Questions that I know don't really have definitive answers. Like, what's the deal with adding new poems? When is it too late to add new ones, which haven't had as much time as the others to settle and mature? Does it run the risk of becoming disjointed, if you keep old ones as well as adding new? Does anyone's voice really change enough for anyone but the author themselves to notice? Should I just save new ones for the next collection? What if I want some of the poems to be gathered together in subject-matter in a pamphlet-length collection? Should I try and get something like this published before a collection? Is it okay to have poems in both?

I'm sure Polly will be able to help with these questions, but for now I feel like I'm about to leap into some sort of poemy abyss of indecision. I guess I'll have to have a good go at discovering my own answers to these questions next week, even if it's just for the sake of getting my money's worth. I am taking my running shoes, and my swimming costume (in case there are any tempting-looking lochs and half-decent weather) for physical, worthwhile thinking-time distraction. And my camera, for non-related creative distraction.

And Teach Yourself Writing Poetry - just in case.

Contemplation.

2010-10-08T18:05:00.001+01:00

Hello!

Here I am again, full of apologies again, but this time for a much bigger gap. I have been contemplating what to do with this blog, as it has recently come to my attention that some competitions and publications see previous publication of poems on a personal blog as disqualifying them from consideration. This is a problem, as I'm sure you can imagine, as there's no point in writing a load of poems and then not being able to send them anywhere (not that success and acceptance is usual, but you can't live your life so pessimistically that you don't take these things into consideration!)

So. What to do with a creative blog that I can't really post poems on any more? Yes. Well. This is the question. As you can probably tell, I haven't actually come up with an answer to this dilemma, so here the blog remains.

I am going on a retreat at The Fielding Programme in a week or so, so perhaps I could blog about the process of trying to put a collection together whilst staying in the beautiful surroundings of Cove Park?

Perhaps you would be interested in hearing of my new barefoot running addiction? No? Can't say I blame you. (My new shoes are the coolest though. Really.)

How about I ditch it all and you follow me on Twitter? (@sophiefbaker). Hm, I don't like that idea.

I think the creative process could be interesting for me to write about - mostly because I struggle with it a lot - and really, that's what this is about, isn't it. Self indulgence. So that's what I'm probably going to descend into, with the occasional poem or notes. I hope that's okay.

It's been wild.

2010-07-29T22:20:00.000+01:00

And the aftermath of winning an award has been extremely strange. I've been in Culture Magazine! And I'm in it again! And I've bought a netbook (Bookbook to its friends)! And I'm going on an Arvon course! And I'm going to the Fielding Programme for a week in October!

And yet, and yet.. the writing is still going too. Miraculous, non?

And I know I haven't shared any here, but it's all getting a bit crazy, so I'm not sure what to make of my poems at the moment. Clearly my own opinion of my work is worth virtually.. nothing. I never expected to be in this position... yet here I am. And it is still as embarrassing and marvellous as the minute I found out.

I promise I'll post some soon.

Promise!

Well crikey.

2010-06-25T16:21:00.000+01:00

I am humbled, and slightly embarrassed, but this is my writing blog so I guess it's okay to post this here...

Noodley noodley noodley noodley noodley

2010-06-16T23:32:00.001+01:00

I have just been reminded of how much fun this is to say. Try it. Go on. No-one's listening, I promise. In fact, keep saying it, over and over, until you get lost in a brain loop cul-de-sac and can't get out. Fun, innit!

More people should do with this poems. In fact, next time you read one you like, make sure you read it aloud to yourself; try a 'poetic' voice, then your normal voice. Try emphasising the line breaks.. then the rhymes (or resonances).. then nothing at all, and just saying it as if it's something you're just saying.

Do you like poems? Try this: Poem-a-Day. Does what it says on the tin. With really good ones. You might find one you want to read to the room on there.

There was an Alice in Cumberland party last Friday. I was dressed as a Momerath. Not that you could tell. Those there are my legs on the left.

Readings readings...

2010-06-10T19:20:00.002+01:00

Well May was obviously a quiet month after the splurge that was April, but here I am back after doing a real, actual, live reading at Free as a Bard at the coast (Trojan Rooms, Whitley Bay) last weekend. Needless to say, I survived the experience - it's been a long time since I got up and poemed in front of an audience - and live to write another day.

Ah yes, writing. Well, I don't have anything new to share with you at the moment, as I've been concentrating my creative efforts mostly on redrafting and organising poems which already exist (not least a couple of the worthwhile ones from NaPoWriMo). I have, however, done a little bit of photography here and there (which you can follow in full at my Flickr account). So in the tradition of Catalogue25, when I would quite often share an image with you instead of writing a poem, here is one I made earlier.

On a slightly different note, I do blog a little more regularly over at the Mslexia blog, should you ever be in the need of a few handy writing links, or a glimpse into Mslexia office gossip...

PHEW.

2010-05-05T22:37:00.000+01:00

That was a very intense month for poetry! I did enjoy myself, though. There's nothing quite like the pressure of one-a-day to blow cobwebs through the writing muscles. Those metaphors don't work together. Maybe I've worn myself out, imagistically.

Anyway, it did enough to get me thinking about my pamphlet, and I've moved beyond thinking about it into the realms of doing something about it. So... give me a few more months and I might have something to work with! You never know, it might even include one or two of the new ones written in April..

In the meantime, I don't have anything else to share yet. But uh, watch this space? I guess?

NaPoWriMo #30 - It's too dark for cats

2010-04-30T23:59:00.002+01:00

It’s too dark for cats

Eiders were an answer in the crossword today
and I remembered ducks and how they shout with every wingbeat
as if protesting their innocence to the air. And then I looked them up
and we are their predators along with peregrine falcons
who don’t use their feathers for duvets, but may do for nests.

I’ve seen a lot of ducks around lately, and have even sought them out.
I’ve laid trails of grain to attract them, and taken photo after photo of them sleeping.

NaPoWriMo #29 - How to be a fashion designer

2010-04-29T19:26:00.004+01:00

How to be a fashion designer

Take in all the angles, by which we mean those of limbs
as well as light. Infringe the privacy of anyone you can
with their measurements. Reach a deal with the sky –
it has your career in its sights. Record colours you feel
as abstract feelings and tantalising flavours of macaroon.
Remember the best temperature of the year. Aspire to it.

Don’t let the body be recovered, even after many years,
and make sure any memoir is frayed. We are not saying
you must control what it is of you that’s seen,
but you must control what it is of you that’s seen.
Blurry is better, but keep the material in sharp relief
on other people’s tits. Don’t be afraid. Cut, cut, cut.

NaPoWriMo #28 - Phone calls

2010-04-28T23:48:00.001+01:00

Phone calls

It was not busy as we talked, and no-one could hear
save you, who stood with one eye on duty and one on me,
your face filling up with concern. You were not the first

I had told but the third, and this was reflective
of where you stood with your back to the room
and your two feet still on the wooden floor.

Excitement filled my lungs almost as quickly as the words
on the cool night air as I walked home alone, one ear
on the chatter of a homecoming, one on the swish of trees

NaPoWriMo #27 - I spend National Tapir Day at a zoo...

2010-04-27T23:59:00.001+01:00

I spend National Tapir Day at a zoo, but do not realise the significance of the date until I get to the tapir enclosure late in the day.

There was never any question of the shape of their snouts but
as a flexible version of a nose
perfectly at odds with their surprising heft,
it does not seem unreasonable of me to
require a demonstration before I leave. None is forthcoming,

though the creatures are less than a metre
away and there is
plenty of food for them to be snuffling out
in this sorry excuse for a tapir
run.

NaPoWriMo #26 - Possession

2010-04-26T23:58:00.001+01:00

Possession

I woke to the news that you’d given your parrot
to the gas-man. The only impact left to me
is other people’s reaction to the news.

I remember possessions like water to you
– so easy to give away. A room
with piles of alphabetised CDs and a clean, fresh bed

hardly slept in. False wings up high in the corner.
There is no surprise left in your disappearance
and even the parrot, so I’ve heard lately, has unlearnt your name.

NaPoWriMo #25 - The threats hang like stone-coloured clouds

2010-04-25T23:50:00.001+01:00

The threats hang like stone-coloured clouds

Behave. If you don’t behave, you’ll get no
That’s not yours, is it? No, it isn’t.
icecream. No, or pop.

So sorry, he seems to have a mind of his own when it comes to
Don’t put that in your mouth! It’s
whether or not to listen.

dirty. See? Not nice having sand in your
Get away from the dogs!
teeth, all gritty. Yuck.

I don’t think they want to eat sand from your spade
Don’t pick up other people’s rubbish. Oh,
and they might think it’s okay to eat you.

okay, well, don’t play with it – let’s just dig a hole
The sea does sound like it’s roaring, doesn’t it?
and bury it there. Go on, dig!

NaPoWriMo #24 - An old flame walks past wearing red sunglasses

2010-04-24T23:57:00.003+01:00

An old flame walks past wearing red sunglasses

There are nets to keep the pigeons
from the sandstone windowsills but nobody looks up.
They are all on the pavement warmed by the sun
save one man in a hurry in the shade,
and the postie is in his short-sleeved shirt – the second
I’ve seen today. And aren’t there so many roads to cross?

A protective dad rests his arms across a small girl’s shoulders;
a woman slips her hand into her lovers as they step from the curb.
I must be the only one still in this city today, the only one watching
-- except a blonde-haired boy rushed by his push-along parents catches my eye
and won’t let go. I feel seen and wonder if they do:
this man leaving William Hill with a slip as long as his muscled forearm,
this well-dressed teenage boy in the back of a topdown car,
this girl only just small enough for her pram.

And across the road, waiting, there are so many secondhand guitars for sale,
and all of them affordable.

NaPoWriMo #23 - Naturalist

2010-04-23T23:52:00.001+01:00

Naturalist

And here she lies in an unnatural habitat,
naked and fully aware of her surroundings.
She sits in one pose whilst many others, mostly of the opposite sex,
scratch around on what looks like paper,
using crude mark-making implements like burnt sticks
or chunks of white rock, seemingly trying to depict
what they see. How extraordinary,
and if we take a closer look – they don’t seem to mind us
stepping in, as long as we don’t break their concentration –
no one picture is the same.

Hang on,
there’s a pause. Maybe if I step in to the centre,
careful not to touch this enchanting central creature,
close enough for some of them to see...
yes, there you go. They’re even drawing a version of me.

NaPoWriMo #22 - Out on the hills

2010-04-22T22:45:00.000+01:00

Out on the hills

Flinching from the squaw of a crow,
a man rubs rust the colour of spicy peppers
from the gate post he was leaning on.
Sounds seem closer to him today
than other days, and the smell of seasons changing
might be on the wind. He wouldn’t know.

He isn’t fooling anyone with trainers like that
on terrain like this, and the sign might have said
this way but now he is more-or-less lost.
More or less of anything would not be desirable,
he thinks, as the fierce light glints on the rustle of grass.
Things are unsustainable – he has not thought

ahead and brought lunch, or a jumper – but
he finds himself unable to contemplate change.
So much so that he’s dizzy with the thought of it:
all that stuff that might cascade
without a moment’s notice; all this space
to lose it in and nowhere to hide.

NaPoWriMo #21 - And so we arrive at the imperfections

2010-04-21T22:26:00.003+01:00

And so we arrive at the imperfections

This means my underarm hair is growing back.
It also means that you’ve caught me
in more than one position of which I would be unhappy
if you’d taken a picture. You haven’t taken a picture.

There is nothing perfect about trust.
There is also nothing perfect about the way my brain lurches
around new-found corners using your words
and passing them off as my own.

I have my eye on you. Just so I can count
the imperfections, you understand, as qualities
it seems easy to overlook. I will not reveal them
given all the exuberantly fruity chocolate money can buy.

NaPoWriMo #20 - I'm a fuckin' hero

2010-04-20T22:50:00.000+01:00

I’m a fuckin’ hero

But who do they think they are, putting me here?
Do you know what I’ve done? Nothing,

and there you are, mapping desirable characteristics
of your own onto my flexible nose. There are snots up there

and I am still human with a predisposition for falling
from high places. Watch out down there.

NaPoWriMo #19 - The logistics

2010-04-19T23:58:00.000+01:00

The logistics

I am trying to control the speed of my heart
and you are not helping with that throwaway comment
and my ground is shaking and the words
have not found a way out of my mouth yet,
but they are forming. There is nothing stopping us.

Agreement turns into symptoms
I will list for you later (nausea, twitching, a quickening)
but right now I am forming denial around logistics
I've been adding up in the absence of a plan.

NaPoWriMo #18 - I am like a cat

2010-04-18T22:59:00.002+01:00

I am like a cat

But I am not who you think I am and I have two names
as well as a problem. Perhaps even three, though you will never know
what I call myself. I have the feline qualities you all desire

in a creature. That wiggle just before I pounce is adorable,
so I’m told, and I play rough but with my claws in. Mostly.
So many people state independence as strength.

I am loathe to disagree except, really, it is the neediness you crave –
with a contrast so it all appears worthwhile. I don’t mind pretending,
but what does this say about you?

NaPoWriMo #17 - She asks a question

2010-04-17T10:45:00.004+01:00

She asks a question

And she keeps on standing, expecting
some sort of answer from posture, even,
or sigh. And his face remains still and his heart
is pounding out of sight when he opens his mouth
to cough. And she is already hurting
though it’s hard to tell, and the grip that he has
is more than the fact it is raining outside.
And the distance between them keeps growing
and stretching and yawning whilst neither of them moves

except for the blinking delivering tears
down one of their cheeks. Will you let me go?
she ventures again but the rain keeps falling
and they can’t move and the beige walls
they decided on years ago look like only the sun can cheer them
if only it shone. And she stays unanswered
and he still won’t speak though he moves to leave the room.

And if only the physical proximity they shared
had anything at all to do with it.

NaPoWriMo #16 - Café

2010-04-16T11:00:00.005+01:00

Café

Here the cups stick around for longer
and the coffee may as well bend time
in its inky depths. We all feel taller
for eating here and it is not just our ears
that keep growing as we natter on
about each others’ weaknesses.
There are no clocks but that is not all
there is lacking: there are no children either,
just the elderly and those with a lust
to wile away the sort of time a child has
forever to realise. To re-enter the world
is to realise how short everything else must be.
Even my feet seem longer,
my toes more able to take the weight.

NaPoWriMo #15 - The comfort of endless scrutiny

2010-04-15T11:48:00.000+01:00

The comfort of endless scrutiny

Occasional birds snap my eyes across a sterile white-out sky
I see through high-set windows. This room is monotony,
rows of bottles with labelled content and goggles
reflecting strip-light white.

A clatter brings me back and we are driven to sudden words
though it is nothing that will stick. My memories
are like the distant windows: so far above the day-to-day
they seem experimental, avant-garde.

What I will remember are days like these flayed bodies
in exacting standards of sterility, dreams of white-walled rooms
and so many little pieces of thought, gathered
in a bleak and chemical silence.

NaPoWriMo #14 - Holiday equipment

2010-04-14T11:14:00.006+01:00

Holiday equipment

I have decided to take two cameras              – two cameras to carry, you say
because it reflects more readily                    despite my sore shoulders
what I might see with my own two eyes        and I welcome the distraction.
One is for instant frames of nostalgia           One is to fill with pictures
we will gaze at just after the event               with our faces smiling from a recent past
that we can barely remember                        that will still have the power to surprise
however much we look at them                     on our return, and months after.

NaPoWriMo #13 - Poem beginning with a line from Norman Dubie

2010-04-13T15:45:00.001+01:00

Poem beginning with a line from Norman Dubie

In the near field, an idle, stylish horse raised one leg
and brought it down, with some force, onto the ground.

The ground was hard that day, from hours drying in the sun,
and the tremor made a dull noise that roused the sparkling bees

from the daisies they had been feasting on nearby.
And because they were roused from their small-scale feast

we were sorry for them and remembered how hard it must be
for a bee in this world we are creating for everything

with our concrete, our chemicals, our countless untold wonders
of technology. And because, all of a sudden, we were worried

our own food lost its appeal and we left it resting, while we thought,
on the spotty blanket where we sat. And it was sweet and so a wasp came by

getting high on sugar, grooving its stripy legs to music
only the nearby molecules could hear. In the next field

the idle, stylish horse had stopped stamping and was eating its hay again.
The bees had settled and we went back to our cake, waving the wasp away.

NaPoWriMo #12 - The chair sang to us like an old music box

2010-04-12T22:34:00.003+01:00

The chair sang to us like an old music box

We didn’t mind the chair, it was as it was and there was no changing it.
What really got us was how the whole house spoke in tongues:
cabinets tinkling and string chords echoing through pipes we thought empty for decades.

Even new objects took on the music once we were all moved in: a chorus of trumpets
from the mop and bucket, all quiet like it almost wasn’t there.
None of us believed in ghosts, but as the walls rattled a washboard rhythm
we would look at each other, startled, trying to decipher intent from the notes.

We never wrote it down, never tried to record it. Perhaps we fancied that in the house’s tongues
there was a message of delight through the major chords – or pain in the minors –
too personal for any equipment to track. Like intruders we’d tiptoe from room to room,
cocking our heads at the slightest tune, refusing to hang pictures, play music, wear shoes.

The house, in the end, took its toll on us. Living a silent life
was never something any of us had planned. Now we keep our shoes on and sing.
I still keep an ear out, though, when it’s quiet at night. I’m sure I’ve heard the armchair join in.

NaPoWriMo #11 - Decaffeinated over you

2010-04-11T22:37:00.003+01:00

Decaffeinated over you

I didn’t choose you because of your affect on my heart
and its quickly quickly. You keep me up
past bedtime and I don’t like that, sweetie.
You make me need you once a day, five times.

I don’t like how much control you have when I do say yes,
or how it comes that I rely on you to do that.
And so this time I didn’t choose you, darling, this time
I chose a softly softly version with a lack of sting to my heart.

And you, you don’t even know what it is to want or need
but I’m sorry, honeybunches. Sorry nonetheless.
I didn’t choose you this time because you give me palpitations
but when they calm again I will be back in touch.

NaPoWriMo #10 - On a birthday night out

2010-04-10T09:38:00.000+01:00

On a birthday night out

Balloons and a short-stemmed daffodil
someone had rescued on the way, its head
lying loved between the pint glasses. A bunch of cards
propped on the tables and a glass of wine.
Some empty chairs. Some low-level music in a shared venue.

More than one conversation about your nipples.
You said you know who your friends are
on a birthday night out and I knew what you meant.

NaPoWriMo #9 - The family waits

2010-04-09T19:41:00.003+01:00

The family waits

They sat still in winter coats like limp marionettes
alone with thoughts of their own dampening armpits.
Outside even the puddles were frozen thicker than your finger,
stowing winter underneath. Cold enough to make the memories stick
like blackcurrant jam. In here they gathered as if a campfire blared
from the chimneystack, all staring at the blackened grate. All still.
Somewhere in their collective memories a fiddle played
against the strum of a guitar and the room,
filled with the bruise of winters past, shifted slightly.
The snow fell in sheets on the city winds, shaking the windows and doors.

NaPoWriMo #8 - Perhaps he is

2010-04-08T23:40:00.002+01:00

Perhaps he is

a waterproof coat, an extra blanket,
new shoes which never hint at blistering
the whitened skin on the soles of my feet.

The whitened skin on the soles of my feet
does not know how lucky it is
not to know blistering.

Perhaps he is homemade gloves or
the signature which does not say my name
but whose loops and Ms seem to spell me out.

I do not have Ms in my name
and I cannot remember a time without handmade gloves
since learning to cast on, cast off.

Perhaps he is the ring of the bells
someone brought back from India for me
and their gentle song every morning by my bedroom door.

I had not thought of them as singing until now,
but as an annoyance that might wake others
as I leave the room early to shower.

NaPoWriMo #7 - they had been standing kissing

2010-04-07T19:30:00.000+01:00

they had been standing kissing

a blue cardigan and a black toggle coat
the click of tangled buttons
they stumble closer trying to undo the mess
she is thinking how smooth his face is on hers
and about the love of another

NaPoWriMo #6 - So many birds, and all of them oblivious.

2010-04-06T23:49:00.002+01:00

So many birds, and all of them oblivious

Dinosaur feet. And what if their own evolution spoke?
What could it say? It would have the voice of a goose,

perhaps, or softly softly pigeon. How about this one,
where the swan is set against the backdrop of a frozen lake.

Beautiful, but what is speaking? The ice, this time?
The broken bottle? The cold webbed toes of a royal white bird

tired of swimming? Or is it me, in all of them,
and my awkward frame or too-quick summing-up.

So many birds, and all of them oblivious,
and all of them just sitting there, or swimming.

NaPoWriMo #5 - Poetry as possession

2010-04-05T23:53:00.000+01:00

Poetry as possession

I carry them with me, these beasts
of magic. There is only room for six:
we all have our favourites. Possession
is overstatement and there is no guarantee;

they change with the moods of things
with the state of the weather
with however it is they conceal themselves
when my back is turned.

There is no leaving them behind now
they’re in from the cold, balled up in my pocket
where they click together like marbles
with the swing of my walk.

NaPoWriMo #4 - At the edge of outerspace

2010-04-04T23:59:00.000+01:00

At the edge of outerspace

Pulling 5 Gs in the upper troposphere
he reminds himself how easy it would be,
how flimsy this all is, to punch a hole
straight through to outerspace.

No-one would notice at first except
all the greenest tips of the tallest trees
would start to flutter, break free and travel upwards
towards the hole. Soon clothes from drying lines
and paper waste would gust up too, and whole plants
with their root foundations waving.
Eventually, with one last gasp
of the escaping oxygen, our own bodies
drifting up and out, we’d look down
at a barren world in wonder
of what kept us there so long.

NaPoWriMo #3 - Grilled hamster feet

2010-04-03T23:49:00.001+01:00

Grilled hamster feet

I used to lie awake with worry of what to save
if the house caught fire: a whole cage
plus hamster or armfuls of possessions

- warm clothes, some shoes, a painting of a horse;
photograph albums, novels to read,
sketchbook; my favourite duvet cover - instead.

Indecision and consequence. I might sleep
by the time the fear has faded enough to ignore
but my dreams are of grilled hamster feet,

the blackened stripes of hot metal bars scored deep.
And all the saved things hugged close in the night outside,
the smell of singed fur drifting through the heat.

NaPoWriMo #2 - Realtime Weather Processor

2010-04-02T15:46:00.001+01:00

Realtime Weather Processor

And so it has finally come to this:
a sudden sense of freedom from the wind in my hair.

My eyes water with the gust of it but here I am
on my way; runny-nosed and full of courage,

volumes of air all on my side. My skirt
is a contradiction of directions

but today everything travels with me,
even the storm-heavy clouds.

NaPoWriMo #1 - Way Out

2010-04-01T21:49:00.000+01:00

Way out

They say he comes from California, a head of
close-cropped hair and a passion for the novae
of the Milky Way. Trapped in his own perspective
with his eyes to the stars, they say he is immovable
and compromise-free, the sparkle of desire on his skin.

Looking up from my own head glue I catch sight
of him glistening out of context, eyes down. There is a moment:
denial but no way out. They say a lot of things about us
but it just boils down to love: he loves everybody
and me. We are sky-bound on my trust that it’s enough.

Flexing my writing muscles...

2010-03-29T23:24:00.000+01:00

.. with another reworking from Catalogue 25. All in the name of practice!

Upon the movable earth

It's the hole in the road that does it,
makes him test the ground at rest.
It seems firm like before but he can no longer know

the impact of his weight or the weight
of the sky. He clings to the fence that holds
him back from falling in; pulls slowly on the reigns

his mum holds with one clenched fist.
A revelation like this takes time to settle. It will be years
before he remembers the fury of his own ignorance;

how he cast it off with the tethers
which no longer held sway tied to anything
upon the movable earth.

NaPoWriMo

2010-03-26T00:25:00.000Z

I have made the pledge, I have signed myself up and counted myself in. One poem a day for a month, this April. It will hopefully bring back some (pleasant) memories of daily composition. Anyone else taking part?

I'm looking forward to it. With trepidation.

Stooge.

2010-03-22T18:48:00.001Z

Another poem from the Back-catalogue(25). Or, perhaps, 'one from the vaults!'

Stooge contemplates a law of physics

An accident of gravity, I am hovering above stage planks
in Newcastle’s Theatre Royal when it dawns on me
how long I have lain for him.

I have pored these hours over amateur mathematics
trying to figure it out; the wonder for me is not in suspension
but how things must always fall.

They say gravity is an overlap from another dimension,
a dimple in the shape of our continuum, an equation
no-one can override. I have not yet got it all ironed out.

Sometimes, when I drift off, my dreams are of waking naked;
all eyes on my gooseflesh skin.

Believe it or not...

2010-03-18T19:42:00.001Z

...an actual poem! Reworked from an old one from Catalogue 25. I knew there was a reason I did one a day for a year: the fun of editing poems I'd forgotten about.

Embrace

The man I am hugging is decidedly taller
than I'm used to and wearing a leather jacket
in a fetching shade of red. We are skewiff,
my head towards his shoulder out of line.
We are not alone, but I feel only our own hearts
beating. I am contained; in possession of his shoulders.

My arms tighten, my grip is stronger. I test myself
against his ribs; he responds by breathing. Our breaths
stretch us out, give us purchase for the deepening hold.

With my eyes closed it is not just his heart I feel
but the veins themselves; tissue fluid whooshing between cells
all calling for combination. There is no way out
but through. It feels for the longest time like stalemate.

My arms are shaking. I am lighter than blood
through his head through his knees through body cavity

I am lost in a singular us. I hear a sudden silence as now
and break out gasping. We turn to each other. His coat is open
where a button is missing; on my chest its imprint remains.

Important, time-consuming tasks that have prevented me from blogging so far this month:

2010-03-18T18:22:00.000Z

Working my way up to the Pokémon League with Hetty, Josephine, Therese, Valerie, Wayne and Phyllis.
Getting the Mslexia directory into a state that is passable for publication in issue 45.
Watching Skins. And getting quite upset at the latest plot turn.
Thinking about blogging.
Blogging elsewhere.
Reading Twitter.
Going on adventures with Craig.
Tidying.
Getting my Northern Promise application together.
Reading Bleach.
Considering my poems, and then deciding that I really need some new ones.
Drinking coffee (decaf).
Reading the Guardian.
Looking at design blogs longingly. (Ffffound and Yay! Everyday, particularly)

These also all apply as reasons I have not been writing poems.

Oh! This means I have constructed a blog post whose entire reason for existence is EXCUSE. Excellent.

Pamphleteering

2010-02-07T21:42:00.003Z

So I have decided that it's about time to collect my work together into a pamphlet. This is more difficult than it sounds, because although I have had a few poems published by magazines here and there, I have not had anyone look at a collection of poems and tell me that they work like that. This means, basically, that I am completely unsure as to whether any of my poems are really good enough. This is coupled with the unfortunate phenomenon which means that the longer ago I wrote a poem, the less I like it; so my recent habit of not writing means that I don't have many poems I like any more.

So, um, oh dear.

Still, I am getting an entry together to apply to a seminar that might help, and will hopefully send in an application for a Northern Promise award (gotta be in it to win it, however unlikely!) so I have my fingers crossed. Trawling through old poems is hard work. Trying to express why I need help doing it, in order to be in with any chance of help, is even harder. I have been procrastinating all day with Zelda and Pokémon - and cleaning the oven and reading comics and watching Casualty and Star Trek and sorting out photos on Flickr and drinking tea and making Chilli. And now, writing a blog post!

...and even posting a poem! A Renga written with two other members of the Salsa writing workshops, Josephine Scott and Rowan Ferguson:

White light casts no shadows
the sky has been full for days.

I watch a wader
brave the river.
Its purple head-feather bobs.

A pause grabbed mid-morning for champagne
Rushing all day to catch up,
evening poems only dent the surface.

Under the railway bridge
the rain cannot reach me.

We watch the shifting clouds
for a glimpse of the moon-
it doesn't appear.

Now... hop to it! (This isn't part of the poem. And it is addressed to myself. Bye-bye!)

An extra blog! AND I am still here.

2010-02-04T00:20:00.001Z

Hello everyone!

I am aware I have not been blogging much. Or uh, at all.

There are a few reasons for this shoddiness (none of which, surprisingly, involve knitting. Some of which involve the new loan of a DS...), but one of them is THIS. Read me here too, why doncha! It is work-related, but hopefully interesting. Perhaps more interesting.

Also, I have joined Flickr in an attempt to organise my photographing in a more useful way. Link's in the left column there.

Oh, and I promise at least one poem this week. At least!

....hey! Get off my back already!

A poem.

2010-01-19T22:30:00.004Z

The Falling

And so we come to the domestic avalanche,
that great weight of silence that does not wait
for the night, that forces us to gamble its steadying.
A muffled crack, a naming in your ear,
a slow slide from the church roof onto graves.
The first time any of us have looked up for days
or conceived of the white as anything but beauty.
There have been icicles forming for weeks;
and so we come to their falling. Swift. Soundless.

Everybody loves a montage.

2009-12-30T21:44:00.003Z

Some yuletide crafting I've been numbing my fingers on. Hope you've all had marvellously festive festives, and happy new year!

I have not stopped making.

2009-12-14T23:33:00.000Z

But I cannot share any of it on here yet. I have been having a lovely time, though my back is aching quite a bit, and I have a numb patch on my right ring finger from knitting.

Preparation is key.

2009-12-02T01:20:00.000Z

So I have had busy fingers!

Bought some stuff last night... quite a lot of stuff, online. It felt good.

So today I went and bought some more stuff on my lunch break. That felt pretty good too, especially as it meant I got to spend time in an art shop. It smells so good in those places. SO good.

I have been skills-swapping this evening, though I am still owed some instruction from Stacy. I have also been having my way with some colours. Really good colours.

I think this is probably cryptic enough.

Time is a multi-winged beastie with a tricksy air about her.

Next weekend I'm going to see I'm Sorry I Haven't a Clue being recorded in Scarborough!

It's all in a name.

2009-11-23T00:20:00.001Z

This is just a quick exercise poem. I've been trying to keep my hand in but it's getting increasingly difficult to find time for writing around knitting, crocheting, card-making and various other time-swallowing activities which go hand-in-hand with the Christmas approach. The nature of these crafticles also means I won't be able to post pictures, in case the recipients get any ideas. Perhaps I will leave some cryptic posts, like, um: today I have been folding the wrong parts of flowers and making berets for foodstuffs out of thready fluff. Hm.

Anyway, here's the poem. Go easy on it. It's as new as a new thing that's still got water in its ears from the birthing pool.

She is known by her name and so becomes it.

Her skin will blister with the suddenness,
her clothes bleach white then grub up with graft,
her surroundings dry to desert in the oven heat.

The next morning she wakes it will be virtually night
and the afternoon time to lay her head
on wheat-sack bedding, flour on her nose.

Dough will settle in her knuckles, her upper-arms
toughen for kneading. The flesh she has left
will rise and crack soft like a batch loaf roasting.

[EDIT - I decided very strongly against the last stanza, and so deleted it. Please forget it existed. Thank you.]

Pop! Whizzzzz!

2009-11-06T00:22:00.010Z

I took a few, here are some. Oos and Aas abound.

SQUAWK,

2009-11-04T00:29:00.001Z

My Hallowe'en costume was homemade, so counts as creativity. This means I have something to post! Hoorah!

Perhaps brought on by my assumed character, I have joined the ranks of the birds at Twitter. @sophiefbaker. I am against the idea of hyperconnectivity, so will endeavour to avoid talking about anyting too banal. I will also make sure nobody ever feels like they know what's going on in my life on a moment-to-moment basis. There might be some poetry. Very short poetry.

As you can probably tell, I am slightly disappointed in myself for caving. I still had a little thrill when Jon Ronson @replied to me, however, regarding bloody goat meat...

Take some time out. Have a moment. Here's some to model yours on:

2009-10-25T14:52:00.006Z

Pauses

I.

Three swans flew over this city and it did not seem strange
to stop and stare, their necks lined up with the bridge,
their heads travelling a steady line. I cannot explain what juxtaposition,
the sky’s exact colour is a mystery in recollection.
It only makes sense in relation to pauses. Three
white pauses, and a smile I might struggle to explain
but when it comes to it, enjoy.

II.

No crackle of radio silence, or the muffled movement
of a microphone out of visual context. But I have stopped,
there is time to fix my eyes on the radio alarm, my mind empty
of relatable experience for the gaps in air, the drifting silence
after Sailing By. No drama, no pips, no nuclear explosion.

And then a chap, unhurried, a
technical glitch, a wry smile in his voice. The World Service. Sleep.

III.

My hand on your thigh, your mother
an unfair mechanical cackle down the telephone line.
Your own voice changes into a depiction of what you’d become—
your father—if it wasn’t for nights like this: us, entwined. Me
staring at the paused screen; a woman’s breast mid-fling, her nipple blurred.

Durham Book Fête

2009-10-24T18:37:00.003+01:00

So I have just returned from a day knitting at a book festival. I can't really think of a better combination of activities, except it didn't involve any writing. I did, however, swap some clothes for a skirt, and some books for another book, so I reckon I came out on top regardless.

The theme of the day was knitting from recycled materials, namely plastic bags. It sort of turned into an advert for Sainsbury's as those were the predominant supply of bags, but the orange, I think, sets off Wendy's eyes quite marvellously.

I was knitting a book bag, but then the day was drawing to a close and I had been a little ambitious with the size, so I turned it into a hat. Good job I did! Turns out Wendy liked it enough to take it home and off my hands! I did get some pictures first though.

Howdy..

2009-10-23T20:43:00.000+01:00

..and welcome to my new blog. No rules at all on this one, and no limit of a year! I think that's where I was going wrong. Either way, I've imported the stuff from Catalogue Twentysix and hopefully will be more inspired to update regularly now it's called something I can relate to more. Just--some stuff. Sounds easy enough! Wish me luck!

Proof. And an incurable knitting fever.

2009-10-11T15:42:00.001+01:00

I have been being creative, though it hasn't involved much poetry. Maybe I am exploring knitting as a sort of poetry with objects. Very long, thin and flexible objects.

One in a month

2009-10-07T22:08:00.000+01:00

is an unacceptable situation to have gotten myself into. Shucks.

I have learned to knit. I have been poorly. I miss swimming. My lungs still hurt if I cycle uphill in the chill nearly-winter wind.

A new poem, unrelated:

Spurn Head

The whip of dune grasses and cuts on the soles of my feet.
It alters, chances the river that feeds it. I race
to the tops and bottoms of dunes that no longer exist.

It is downwards that haunts me, giant slow-beat strides
in the shifting sand. My legs are salt-numbed and hefty; load-bearing
and practical, covered to the knee with every step.

I don’t remember the disappointment, the slowing down,
but lose myself in the towering impermanence
risen from the shining dark. Salt in my hair, cool sand between my toes.

I will return with you to this end of the end of the road
and lie myself down, my hair in my mouth and then your mouth there
with the wind whipping dune grass on us from the folding sands.

I will not tell you that there is permanence in its alteration,
that this is all I have dreamed of whether you are here or not:
that you could be anyone with sour-breath kisses in the dark.

Something new! Callooh! Callay!

2009-09-19T22:44:00.000+01:00

Job’s worth

Occasional birds flash across the sterile white-out sky
and snap my eyes across the high-set windows.
This room is monotony too: rows of labelled content
and blank goggles reflecting strip-light white.
A clatter, and some sudden words—nothing we can look back on
from outside time. My memories are like the distant windows:
so far above the day-to-day that they seem experimental, avant-garde.
I remember days like these flayed bodies in exacting standards of sterility.
I am stripped back to colour and unapologetic.
I had thought perhaps I wanted the change of discovery,
but find myself missing the comfort of endless scrutiny.
There are no right-angles I can lean on now,
only dreams of white-walled rooms and so many little pieces
of thought, gathered in a bleak and chemical silence.

Another one I found that I'd forgotten..

2009-08-16T16:39:00.000+01:00

The Inherited

Generations have died before they've had a chance
to tell me how I'll go. One sudden death after another.
How do I prepare? Perhaps they are themselves
the indication and I'll just go like they did: in the morning
unable to sit up for fear of pooling blood; in hospital,
a pink swab mopping saliva from sunken parts of face;
eight weeks from diagnosis.

I could carry round whole heaps of hows to stop it, but slings
and plasters are no prevention. Every pain I have could be
where things will loosen first, every limp and yawn
a last hurrah, a sign of things to come.

I am not calm, but my oblivious heart is tapping out the truth
on my love-torn ribs: b-bum, b-bum, b-bum—
I think hear correctly: all is well yet, all is well.

I just found this on my computer at work.

2009-08-11T13:23:00.000+01:00

The blue and yellow roller-boots handed down to me from the 70s

I was in mid-air when I noticed the blackbird nest:
I soon felt the snap of flightlessness in my coccyx.

The cats would wait here at the bottom every summer,
tasting imaginary bones, re-enacting the catch

while the parents bred and fed like crazy
their fat, stranded children.

It's been a little while.

2009-08-05T23:11:00.000+01:00

And in that time I have been on holiday. Also, a moth came to visit me that was as big as my palm. I'm not sure where it's gone now, but hopefully out and toward the real moon, wherever that leads, as my big broken paper lantern (as it just learned) is not the same thing and leads only to trouble. And a headache.

And so for a photo, first, and then maybe a poem later.

My hips are sore.

2009-07-23T00:03:00.000+01:00

I have no cure, only stretching. And I have no particular reason except over-use. And I have no way to avoid over-use that doesn't involve sitting down for long, boring, periods of time. And I hope they feel better in the morning without me having to do anything about it.

And now, a poem.

This is the story of an urbanite

or so you say in that way you have
when it gets to that point in wine-consumption
that ignites a passion for the centre-stage.
Under the soft-focus light of an audience

I am nothing but polite.
You turn your gaze towards me,
indicate an appetite for a tale
revealing nothing but a crucial oversight. But we are not there yet.

The streetlights still orange the windows
and you have given nothing of me away.
I smile, wait
for the rest of the story to latch onto me like a parasite,

close my eyes. This is the story
of an urbanite, you start again, and her search
for a way to begin.

Science. Poetry.

2009-07-16T00:47:00.000+01:00

I am not necessarily pleased with how my brain keeps these seemingly disparate subjects in different segments of itself that prefer to be cordoned off and virtually unaware of each other. I'm trying to get one side waving. I'm not sure which side has the longest arms.

Stem Cell Therapy Symposium, I

Trickery. Trickery and fiddling.
This is, we are told, the only way to heal the heart.

My heart overhears and it does not like this fact,
quotes back some facts that seem to offer counter-argument.

I tell it that its research is out of date, that it’s alone,
but console it with lies and emotion, hold it steady

from its fluttering. Do not falter, I tell it, just because of this.
And anyway, I say, breaking is a state of mind. Mostly.

I have been re-writing toads. So here it is again.

2009-07-10T17:47:00.000+01:00

It's probably not that different now I think about it, but it's closer to how it was supposed to be when I got it down the first time.

Toads

At the thought of each toad, a shudder, and I
have my ears covered as the car pulls off.

My dad and I pick our way for the last three hundred metres
in the pitchest night through the slap-slap

of toad bellies on concrete. There is a flash of carcasses
with every sweep of torch, so it's turned off

and we are straining our eyes with our heads bent low,
afraid for our own weight on soft bodies.

The black closes in, so much so that it’s hard to imagine
a receding fear amidst the croaking and my hand

in my Dad’s hand. The search for the ground is pointless so
I close my eyes against the nature of the dark.

I'm really quite sad about not being able to see foliage any more.

2009-07-10T17:43:00.000+01:00

I don't remember being consulted. And now I won't know which skirt to wear because there's nothing I can see that will indicate how windy it is in the morning.

In memory of the only tree I could see from my bedroom window.

Forgive me, but I am thinking of you again.
They were chopping down the tree in your old front garden
when I woke up this morning. The unknown bird
I hear sometimes will have no place to hide and sing.

I Googled you today; your online presence only lists
you at your old address, your other name that rare occurence
of ‘no results’ – you are lost. I watched the tree come down
in pieces and exclaimed to you, though I have no reason

to believe you care for birds. I will try just your first name,
maybe, and see where in the world you have flown.
I used to treasure my space in your life, the one last connection
to the past. But I understand, this is what makes me unknowable now.

The tree is gone and I am home, the bird unsteady somewhere and in flight.
If only I could put it back, crack trunk and green from air.
As it is, I am only waiting to happen across you – perhaps
face to face in some tree-lined avenue we don’t consider home.

..and another.

2009-07-08T19:11:00.000+01:00

Lengths

I am underdog despite my 43 lengths
so far this morning and it seems my age
is holding me back. I cannot keep a straight line to myself

and no allowances are made for any mis-timing.
The only place I am alone is when I brave the front-crawler
whose arms boom at different pitches to each other

with every steady stroke. His journey is the bass-line of our orchestra,
straight and uncomfortable. The beats pound my heart
and I earn my first looks of acknowledgement

though it is hard to catch them with eyes
stinging from the backsplash.

Ok, so it's been longer.. but I've been writing new ones!

2009-07-08T13:27:00.000+01:00

Toads

At the thought of each toad, a shudder, and I
have my ears covered as the car pulls off.

My dad and I pick our way, for fun,
in the pitchest night through the slap-slap

of toad bellies on concrete, their high-pitched
rumbles. I don’t picture a torch,

but I do remember the flash of carcass
in the passing of our own car ahead. The black

closed in, so much that it’s hard to imagine
the receding fear amidst the croaking and my hand

in my Dad’s hand and yes, I remember now,
my eyes closed against the nature of the dark.

That gap was too large, yes indeed. Won't happen again!

2009-06-28T20:51:00.000+01:00

In the morning

I remember sneaking in at 5am
and hours on my feet replayed through my soles
with every beat of aching blood.

I remember how you slipped, gentle from sleep
and rubbed the life away back into them
with cooling hands, perched

at the end of the bed. My secret tears
faded to sleep except for the crystals

now I wake. And my feet, oh my feet,
on pillows; your head on the bed.

Let me know what you think of this one, if you're reading...

2009-06-18T23:28:00.000+01:00

Be honest now!

At the sink, with La Traviata on the radio

The ink suspended mid-thought, dried
in the trappings of nib and well, succumbs

to gentle swooshing in hand-warm water
where she bathed me once too, small as I was then.

She stands for this uncommon ritual.
It will take as long as opera for the colours to loosen,

for the sink to deepen to lichen green or summer blue.
Only the red stains her wrinkling palms

as the stubborn brown gives way to her patient hands rocking
back and forth in a humming of arias.

A week's gone by so quickly, and this one is fast slipping too.

2009-06-15T23:14:00.000+01:00

Resting your eyes

There was something about the way you were sitting,
startled, which made me ask. You told me your eyes
were closed as a sort of compromise
for the time its possible to waste in front of the TV,

wearing your eyes out needlessly, shortening their life.
I didn't ask, then, any more of your explanation
but often wonder if it works for other things.
Sometimes I stop myself from seeing you at all

in case what we have runs out. Other times I catch you
blinking back the sight of characters who've aged unrecognisably.

Mostly, though, I watch your closed-eyes vigil with my own eyes
open, wearing them out on you and your quiet, secret, snoozing.

A new one. And a nightmare in html.

2009-06-08T22:58:00.000+01:00

Swimming

A polar bear pushes off with its left back foot
its fur a waving forest in the flow. It stands up,
shakes the wet from its ears,    walks back.

A pygmy marmoset is frightened
by the size of our faces; tries to feed while we peer
at its exquisite flash of tongue; plays hide and
hide with a quizzical look we treasure for days.

An oilslick raven buries twigs under dinosaur feet,
its beak a delicate tool in sand. The sun is out. Tapirs
surprise us with their heft on straw. The polar bear

   pushes off with its left back foot, its fur a waving forest in the flow.
It stands up, shakes the wet from its ears,     walks back.

A leopard looks straight at me through glass,
rubs its fur against the window pacing paw-shaped grooves
we do not notice for the speed at which it moves.

A raven, oilslick black against the sky, perches
watching twigs disappearing under sand.

             River hog bristles are still
                                           in hot air.

The polar bear pushes off with
its left back foot, its fur a waving forest
        in the flow                                              It stands up, shakes
the wet from its ears,
                                walks back.

Welcome back to the Black Clock Arms; every pub you've ever avoided.

2009-05-31T18:15:00.000+01:00

The Black Clock Arms

IV. Babs

She knows she's only there as the inevitable
namesake but revels in attention lavished

on her by rough old queens. It's all natural,
duckie! rings sharp through karaoke notes.

She flashes her puce nails; works there
on the basis that she only pulls pints;

is wary of newcomers, who see through rouge
with clarity not befitting dim strip-lighting; prefers

the company of regular strangers, who don't see
her face, but never fail to compliment her nails.

2009-05-31T18:07:00.000+01:00

The Black Clock Arms

III. Geoff

Geoff's shined velvet seat, black with polished dirt,
cools in the almost-night Black Clock Arms.
He'd lost touch with the flesh of himself until it started to brown.

He sits several feet from the people he recognises
but can't place the names of out here; their stories fade
in the light. His pint and his arse reach a unison of temperature:

one warming on the bar, the other cooling on a bollard,
while he realises how little he cares about the barstool
now the only place to chain smoke is here.

The only thing missing is a place for the smaller papers, spread
open and every sentence read and repeated over again
to kill the time he has more of, now, to himself.

I shall be starting yoga again very soon, so this is apt.

2009-05-25T22:48:00.000+01:00

To be still.

Grandstanding with my knees on my elbows
and in one of my favourite outfits—a skirt
I bought two of, a black cardigan—
I am at tipping point when I come to the realisation

that it's not about strength, but balance. And here, now,
I feel a little silly for the times I've almost toppled,
straining in almost-position wearing jogging bottoms
and a Pennywise t-shirt, waiting for the muscles in my arms.

Weightlessness, like someone said, occurs
firstly in your toes. The only thing that stops me
breaking my nose is knitwear
friction on the backs of my arms.

Tattoos

2009-05-17T18:49:00.000+01:00

Waiting at Northside for you

There is only one red sofa and anyway it has the best view
of the green three-breasted women I can find. Every time
I've been here a man with a balding head has chosen 'luck' over 'love'
and would have 'sex' if only the option was displayed on the wall.

There is a buzzing in the absence of scream, and an awful lot of
blood, concealed and sanitised amidst the cartoon colours
of juicy hearts struck through; and a language of needles:
the backpieces, half-sleeves and cover-ups—the freehand fee.

A pregnant woman hums a tune either side of the mechanical whine
when the sudden burst door shouts a social conscience
Don't do it! There is a ripple of laughter but it is too late for you,
who emerges beaming and bleeding and ready for home.

It's nice to be able to post more than once a day

2009-05-15T22:36:00.000+01:00

Birthday Sessions tracks 5-18

Only that it seemed the right thing at the time,
to keep pressing record, to tempt out tunes
you only appreciated as halves in a fishpond memory
you had willingly drained, to wait the several phrases
before your fingers found their feet, to push,
to remember myself a childhood spent bouncing
on your foot under the pretence of making you stop.

But listening back, the tracks are mostly talking
and the beginnings are missing. And the tinny tunes
don’t convey the mythology of it, the smiling
recollection of it, the fairy lights and dark curtains
that turned everything cosy, the journey
we were all taking with you, the absences
that have since come clear.

I've been reading an awful lot of Donaghy.

2009-05-15T22:17:00.000+01:00

Snowglobes
after Michael Donaghy

They have long since lost the air of delicacy
you expect, but it is a common condition, the longing.
I too am convinced there is a word for them missing,
erased neatly except for the gap, but they are not metaphors.

They do not house importance in their swirling plastic storms;
remember how we stood that time with our most sarcastic voices
praising the value for money, the ‘igh quality purchases
we were mad to walk away from? It is just another way

of summing up a place for all the reasons you don’t recognise
in landmarks. Maybe we do hold them high above our heads,
but it is not carefully. In the same way we never visit
our hometown’s icons, they are long since plastic.

Cells speak.

2009-05-13T23:26:00.000+01:00

Riding Out

We did not hear God’s words. If God spoke
it was not on a cellular level, but we ride out
with the rest of them on those intentions.

It starts here, we perform. A chemical reaction,
divide and replace. No words. Only ever
the endless balance, the timeless demands.

Forwards is not just on through the horse’s mane
and ahead into fields, but onwards into time as well.
We can see a lack of hope despite the hope

of thousands. We know this will not end well.
When does it ever end well? Function is repetitive
and not exact; we lose sight of the perfection

with every repeat. The future would do well
to take note, but we have no sway in the decisions.
You say we are remembered, but what is memory when God is involved?

A very new one, still fresh.

2009-05-13T00:16:00.000+01:00

The Point

We’ll begin this time with the atmosphere—I am too tired
to consider the vastness beyond, though you do seem to be pointing
upward, outward, towards existence itself. But you say no,
you are not pointing at that. I bring the focus closer and clouds come clear—
I see ducks and the obligatory ice-cream cone. But no, you say, not that
not that. The tree, I think, and I begin to try to figure out which leaf
it is you’re asking for – because it is an ask, it seems to me, though not
a big one. What would I want with a leaf? you say. What interest would I have
in that? I am struggling, seek the answers in tricks of circumstance.
The window, perhaps, the glass. The very thing I am taking for granted. No.
Your finger, then, the nail upon it. I set up my own laugh as I search your face.
Is it that?. Your head is shaking, side to side to side, your eyes are sad
with decline. I am firmly in the room, the walls are puce, the smell a distraction
from the truth of it. My laugh is still waiting. It must be, then, the cells of you.
The failing, flailing cells of you, dividing, slowly slower. Your hand, still pointing,
wavers. Your heart beats on. Take care of the pieces, you say, look to the future.
I follow your point backwards up your arm and on to your stubbled face.
Why is it the future is always away, up and out?

Dancing, photographs.

2009-05-12T23:58:00.000+01:00

Suspension

Out from under the lights everyone is
peach-coloured, a normal combination
of skin tones. It's hard to know from this,

sometimes, which moments to acknowledge
as real, but documentation is an inevitability
in these digital times.

I might be mid-air in that picture
you took, but that doesn't mean
I never landed.

Something and nothing. Probably not much.

2009-05-05T22:25:00.000+01:00

from music #3

We’ve gone down low again, but this time with theatrics.
There is manipulation in chord progression, aspects
of sound that are not agreeable to the dizzying heights of relief.
We are not in it for relief, but revel with the worms
and the darkness, the filth shifting into subversion from embrace.

Dear cells of mine, dear body, is this how it’s meant to be?
Somewhere wholly imaginable in the muck, sharing
lack of surprise that there are voices speaking to us from the dark?
This must be the answer because there is nothing else.
How easy it is to turn from the sky. How clear its incomplete deceit.

The reply is not un-looked-for, but it doesn’t come as echo
from above. We live with it or feign surprise. We aim for the dark
because we want to be much as we started: microscopic
in proportion to importance; unable
to pull ourselves together in time to answer back.

Some other poem about a distant place.

2009-05-04T22:41:00.000+01:00

Resort

Everything solid here is on its way out.
If you believe that, you'll see this picture I took
of decaying arches as a recent history of waves
that rust fat nails clean from wood.

Beyond the inky black of seaweed creeping down the walls;
beyond the sea-fret sky you watch in rockpools long-since clean
of crabs, the walls are distinctly graffiti free.
The green of the rocks is a signal of how fast you could fall;

the length of time I sat and watched the fizzing sea weighted
with the penny slot-machines that tinkled like a distant fairground ride.
Even the Vitadome is grinning as it is slowly picked apart,
one facelift too far beyond collapse.

Another revision

2009-05-04T14:36:00.000+01:00

They’re hardly touching

It's only after the carefully timed removal
of his coat that they appear to feel at home.
He gets up, abandons the perfect shape
of his arse in mounds of coat piled on the seat
and a woman with a blonde bob fingers the corner
where the zip is with a nervous purpose.

It's taken a whole spritzer each to reach this point
of layer removal, to the revelation
of his pink-striped top cut off at the sleeves
and an overwhelming smell of fabric conditioner.

The woman has clearly done everything
to rid his scent from his public self.
At home, though, in quiet moments on wash day
I reckon she lifts his worn shirts by the sleeves
and sucks deep breaths through the weave,
her nose in the armpits, savouring the intimacy
of every last molecule of sweat.

Something new for me and for you.

2009-05-03T23:30:00.000+01:00

Letter to a troublesome heart

Dear heart, please do not betray me
whilst I breathe with others in this room.
Please do not presume dominance
over the needs of my other organs. You do not
dictate my actions. I am going to try and take
good care of you, carry you more gently
than strictly necessary. I am not averse
to your slippery beating in my hands. Do not be alarmed
at the hole in my chest – I am cutting all your ties
to my emotions. It is for the best. I feel
there is a lot we can learn from one another
as separate. Please calm down. The pressure,
I know, is getting to us both.

Still it seems you deign to tell me how it is
these days are unsteady and unknowing.
I do not want to hear it but cannot block you out.
How easy it is for you, unfeeling and inevitable;
rhythmic and relied upon. There is blood
on my shoes but even that is not enough to distract.
I don’t know, any more, what I have to offer but
dear heart, surely there is something,
an arrangement we can come to?

A revision.

2009-04-26T17:09:00.000+01:00

The Gifts

Here, for you, a long slow sky at first;
feel it open you up like water to thirst.
Bring this morning to your snow-dead toes,
to each body part a meditation in coming to terms.

Take next a sliding acceptance of horseback,
feel the horse's own gait through your spine and relax.
It is my gift to you: use it as a distraction,
perhaps, from anything else, from preoccupation

with the facts. You've shut your eyes by now,
I can tell. Feel my fingers up your spine.
I'll count the hairs I've raised there one by one
whilst you escape the panic of a striptease

of feelings straight to bone. Stay with me, I still
have a few things to offer. Ignore the voices
out of reach through the white noise; don't fish it

for the one you think you know. Let me shiver you
out of dreaming alone. There, you can speak now.
It’s so good to see you. There's a lingering smell

of pine-damp picnics whenever you're ready.
Eat until you're full; don't stop until your cheeks
match the colour of a shepherd's delight.

Been busy today!

2009-04-19T20:30:00.000+01:00

Extended metaphor for a washing machine

My thoughts are tired of churning
churning and my nerves are sick of being soap.
My only softener is hope and there is not enough of that

only turning and the inevitable spin.
So I’m ready for more spinning and spinning
and no way to stop it, to open the door

without something spilling out. The noise
is sleep-unbearable so I hope I don’t disturb.
It follows me to bed, and everywhere the judder.

A bird, too quiet, in a holly bush

I chased the thought of save it into the holly bush
and, bare-armed, pulled out a bird too willing to be well.
Triumphant I held it close, my palm covering its eyes
from freedom and it was still. I stumbled home
with its delicate heart beating fast under my thumb,
boxed it with holes punched for air and sat for minutes
in the dark, the box between my feet.
I told no-one for fear of the right thing to do,
and named the bird over and over; a mantra
as desire for its affections, as recognition of a deed well done.
The next day its hunger was palpable through its thin
cardboard walls, though it never sought to let on.
I took the box outside and whispered its name again,
once with every step and the lifting of the lid. The bird
blinked at the sky and went to it. I called its name
to the wind, but only got the wind back. It took days
for the cuts on my arms to disappear.

Salsa Workshop Poem

2009-04-18T16:25:00.000+01:00

The truth of it

The monumental blue clouds sit heavy on our horizon,
but I am trying to tell a story of the inside, here,
though there’s something to be said for the looming.

It all comes down to your monumental I don’t know,
drama lent to it from the blue-cloud sky I stared at
to avoid your eyes. Or perhaps it was you
who avoided mine – who said outside, look,

the monumental blue clouds are filling the night
and me who agreed, who held on to it, who is here now
waiting for this I don’t know to happen amidst all the other unknowns
we wait for and prepare. I clamber out, slip between
the blue damp and home; a resolution, of sorts,
and your heavy I don’t know obsession in my pocket.

Hello and welcome!

2009-04-13T23:59:00.000+01:00

Well, here we are. A new blog and some new ideas, and a whole new year to play with.

I'm not entirely sure what to do with this one yet, but whatever happens there will be poems, so please check back soon to read them.

xx