Archives for category: Poetry

i

8:58PM
write poems
x1
x1
x1

I wrote on my week’s to-dos.
It’s 8:58PM on SUNDAY.
The radiator’s cranking up;
Counting down to the bedtime
routine. This isn’t a poem: it’s
a snapshot.

ii.
write poems
x1
x1

The idea was to help me
See each output as a ‘1’;
As a single entity achievable;
As a level in a game. To produce
this isn’t a poem: it’s
an item done.

iii.
write poem
x1


SATURDAY
All the things I had to do before I
could write a poem

Rise from bed by leaving warm duvet.
Eat breakfast, take meds.
Clean plug, thoroughly. Pull out
the hairs.
Dress for gym; catch bus; get there.
Take a class; do some more; stretch. Energy flags.
Buy almonds from Poundland and
have a coffee, write some notes.
Feel ready to do part two:

Groceries.
Buy lots of food. Have heavy bags. Wait for bus
to take them home. Carry the bags,
unpack, cook and eat.
Feel tired; have a shower and wash
hair; juggle doing laundry between – two
loads.

Now late. Make tea with mint
and give up to the day, now
Too late to start a poem.


Back in September I set myself the goal, which at that point seemed achievable, of writing 6 poems drawn from inspiration in my daily life. Since then I’ve written endless notes to myself in my weekly to-do lists in a quest to ‘optimize starting’, as they say in the productivity lingo. Some prompts included:

write – commute, 10 mins
poem = just 5 lines!
write just 5 mins!

My procrastination side-stepped all of these suggestions.

This last Sunday evening, I sat on my bed and decided – right, now, write.

Goal accomplished and just in time. The fireworks are going off outside my windows as I type this up on New Year’s Eve.

Thank you, dear reader, for another year of verse.
Wishing you a wonderful start to 2019.


Image courtesy of the Old Design Shop and is a detail is from from a small advertising booklet titled Franklin Sugar Candy Book.

Advertisements

“Oh dear, G_d…”
You want it and it and you think you want it.
“Now what?”
You say to yourself, you’re making

“I was having a panic.”
strides towards it.
“My whole stomach’s turning over.”
You plan and scribble little plans,

and bigger plans, goals and more
“I was just having a complete
panic attack.”
goals, why power and visualizing the outcome.

“Just about wiped me out.” More.
Plan more goals.


For another poem about goals see Highest Priority and for resolutions Reviewing the Pursuit.

Image is courtesy of the Old Design Shop and is “a vintage magazine advertisement for The Brainerd & Armstrong Co.’s annual Embroidery Book for the year 1900. The ad features an image of a well-dressed lady, seated in a beautiful wooden chair, doing embroidery work. The advertisement is from the November 1899 issue of The Designer magazine.”

layer cake image, cake printable, vintage food clipart, old fashioned cake, desserts sweets graphics.

What I Ate Today

Porridge for breakfast, again at three.
Stirfry for lunch; in the evening aubergine.

Brown rice with lentils, bulgur stirred in,
With the stirfry and at supper again.

A pear, peanut butter, boiled egg for a snack;
To finish it all a piece of chocolate.

I’ve been finding myself down YouTube wormholes recently. Favourite defaults include meal prep videos which loop into the auto plays of ‘What I Eat In A Day.’ After watching other people prepare and present their day’s meals, I decided to document my own version. This was a sampling from Tuesday last week.

Some other poems I’ve written about food:
I can tell a half bowl of you about leftover Friday rice
Making soup again
all breakfast?

Image above courtesy of The Old Design Shop from the Ryzon Baking Book by Marion Harris Neil, 1917

Muse, come to this blankness
and take my unrequited offer
to hold and stroke your shape to form.

Rest here where fingertips may take
their pleasured time with you. Today
we have all day

until 6pm when I’m due out.
Muse, come in and be
a while. My page is yours.


The poem above started with a warm-up line, “Making letters on a notepad making a swish and swirl that satisfies.” I simply love the action of writing. I live for picking up a pen and pressing it against a cushion of paper, whether in a notebook, or a notepad or just stacked up on my desk. My jotting time is consistently the best moment of my day.

It has been an absolute age since I have posted. Sometimes, offline, during this absence I have scribbled creative bits in fits and jerks. Yet almost every workday I write and write and write: emails, content, copy. The muse is not amused. Perfunctory craft is not an aphrodisiac. Or I haven’t yet found a way to tempt the muse with a subject line or ‘in 150 words outline your planned project’.

When I prepared to log in to the blog (like holding aside the overgrown vines to a long-forgotten treasure cave), an odd click-bait ‘ad’ confronted me:

After Seeing Why He Places
An Ice Cube On His Burger
When Grilling, I’ll Never
Make One Any Other Way

Below was a photo of an uncooked burger patty with a melting ice-cube in its centre. Is this what is supporting the online existence of the visits of my muse? It does not surprise me, this strange poetry.

I have been so self-conscious about returning on my rusty sea-legs and what was waiting for me were uncooked burger patties and melting ice-blocks in the virtual jungle. These were the psychological and virtual landscapes. While I prepared this post and poem, this was the atmosphere outside:

Afternoon.
The grating of
a saw, a far off
siren cries over
the arrival of a breaking train.

And from there I implored, “Muse, come to this my blankness.”

The muse and I started where we were.

Thank you for being here, too. Hope to see you back here soon.


**Art Patrons One and All — Composer extraordinaire needs your HELP **

Some exciting news about music, poetry and where small adventures can go.

Keith Moss, a friend from my orchestra days who is also an award-winning composer has been invited to premiere a full orchestral work in Brazil at a prestigious festival. The work chosen was inspired by one of my poems, “Wild Horses Don’t Break.”

It is such a favourite that in a post I claimed, “To date it is one of the poems I’d be happy to have on my gravestone.”

Here is Keith’s call for crowd-funding support: https://www.facebook.com/donate/291189468336629/10160816312270357/

Channel your inner billionaire art patron and give generously. Know that every $£R€ helps.

I know you better
with my eyes closed:

the blindfold’s bluff.

(c) Dec. 2016

fragonard_-_blind_mans_bluff_game

Jean-Honoré Fragonard (1732-1809), “Le collin maillard” (The Blind Man’s Buff) (1751/ c. 1760, oil on canvas, 117 x 91 cm, Toledo Museum of Art, Ohio) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Fragonard’s painting above and its partner, “The See-Saw” are discussed in this short clip: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IGLpQDFOfZM

At the elm spring
five birds sat in the trees
hoping that the
coming year is filled
with All is well.

31/12/16

Other poems about the shift to the New Year
A New Room
in the glow of celebration
Clementi Brings in 2013

By Randolph Caldecott (1846-1886) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

By Randolph Caldecott (1846-1886) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Fruit ice lollies (8588758339)

By Lablascovegmenu from London (Fruit ice lollies) [CC BY 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons

Warm mayhem

It was a scorcher today.
We ate ice-lollies in the office
and called it quits at five
only to find
the District Line had melted.

24/08/2016

It really is too hot for any more words about this very warm day in London. Some say it has been the hottest day of the year. The weather forecast suggests there may be another day or two of similar intensity.

A couple of years ago I happened to write another poem about a warm summer’s Wednesday and being confined to an office.

And along with the District Line melting, my internet connection has been on a go-slow while preparing and uploading this post. Perhaps the heat has jammed its way into all the day’s component parts.

Delacroix Unmade Bed

“Le lit défait” (1828) by Eugène Delacroix (1798-1863), watercolour held by Musée National Eugène Delacroix. Image sourced from gurneyjourney.blogspot.co.uk (with appreciation).*

Passing

The pillowcases and sheets
scalped from the bed.
The mattress turned over
your last impression

levelled out
sucked by the earth
through to its core.

c. 21/10/2015


Beds are such intimate spaces and bed linen is the shroud to these secrets of sadness, joy and contentment. When the moment has passed, the residue is washed out by soap and dried away, perhaps by the sun if pegged up on a washing line.

And then it is time for a new start with clean sheets.

* If your image appears on this blog and is not credited to your liking, or if you would prefer to have it removed, please do not hesitate in contacting BeadedQuill.

I spent an evening last week swatting down mosquitoes and moths. The moths are the vicious sort that will eat holes in fabric between one blink of the eye and another. It has been known for me to put a knitted item down on my chair, and then pick it up two hours later with three moth-holes chewed into it. In my room there is such a selection of moths in incremental stages of growth that I am convinced they are breeding somewhere in the cupboard or behind a bookshelf. The mosquitoes, I know, are breeding in the buckets and pots of stagnant water under my window in the yard below.

At this time of the summer, when the tiny flying and crawling messengers make their way into the house to eat up the last of the season’s succulence (my blood, the summer fruit, a cardigan), the closing hours are near. So near that there are already mushrooms in their colonies among the tree-roots in the wood (find a mention in my previous poem, ‘He could not pause too long‘). The nights are a little colder and only a week ago, we were expiring in the sunshine.

From this height to what feels like the season’s shift (although we may still be in for a second warmth) and during my battle with the flying fiends, I was reminded of a poem I had written about summer’s excess turning to rot. To my surprise I discover that it is two years old, yet it still speaks of current things.

An overdose of summer

Soft to the thumb,
the pear I sliced
was gone.
It was rotten inside.

In a wither of ruffles
the rose-heads have browned
dry in the heat.
They sodden after it’s stormed.

Even the blowflies ferocious
have stopped their wings,
landed their green torpedoes
for the last time.

Something from lunch
churns in my stomach –

the rice, three days old?
the dhal, two days defrosted?
the sliver of cheese, too sweaty?
the coffee, a cup too many?

Now I, too, struggle
to hold down this summer.

25/7/2014