Can you believe two years have passed since the London Olympics? I was fortunate enough to attend an evening of paralympic events. It feels as though it was only last year that I was sitting in the massive stadium, with an enormous lion emblazoned across my t-shirt and yelling encouragement at the athletes. Clearly, it wasn’t. That moment was in 2012.
In the spirit of archives – looking at the back catalogue in the present, possibly to inform the future – I encourage you to read this post about progress. Joanna Penn recommends measuring achievement across the span of four years by asking oneself, where was I during the last olympics? Equally, you can plot your goals by projecting, where would I like to be by the next games?
Where will you be in 2016?
In the meantime, I’m still waiting for this summer’s golden mangoes to appear on the local grocers’ tiers.
The sweaty gym clothes
yelled in the tog bag,
m8t$er f%$*er could the day get any worse?
But in the Zara and Topshop bags,
short summer dresses from the
50% off rack just giggled at the hope of seeing sun.
The backpack lugging the laptop
for an evening of more work simply sighed. Weary
would carry them home.
37 of us shuttled along as we sit or stand
with our regular doors.
They are the ones with which we enter
Thursday morning in Zone 1.
They are the ones where we could
change here for
Too late to exit for Morden via Bank.
Your regular doors
can be dangerous.
You could change after Euston.
Make the next start
Sea-salt diamonds dot
their freckled, crisped up skins.
They are the evening heels
that come to our table.
In a pub gathering there inevitably comes that moment when the group becomes peckish. Some institutions offer gastro pub nibbles, such as artisan-crisped potato skins. Depending on the group, these (or prawn crackers) are chosen over the cheerful packets of crips piled up on the counter. The poet imagines that the potato skins bring some glamour to the table.
My latest and third book, In the Ocean, was published this week! Preview this work and my other books on the BOOKS page of this blog or at my Blurb Bookshop.
I tweet as @BeadedQuill and you’ll also find BeadedQuill on Facebook.
in glasses: wine, cocktails, liqueur,
on plates as cake and biscuits
from two discarded plastic tubs,
a litre of ice-cream
Lonely is the currency of sugar.
I’ve eaten two squares of Lindt, 70% cocoa, as I prepare this post. My head’s throbbing lightly with the sugar rush. Depeche Mode is my soundtrack,
Can you feel a little love? Dream on, dream on.
I’ve just finished a Skype call with my mum who lives on the other side of the world, as do both my siblings. I chatted with them via Facebook this morning.
Originally I had entitled scribblings of this poem “London lonely”, because there are many of us living in this city who are far from (some of) our family or friends. There are still many who come from this city, or have lived in this city for a long time, who are lonely. It fascinates me that in such a bustling mass of humanity, disengagement and marginality exists. In our loneliness many of us find solace, either alone or with others, in the currency of sugar.
The man with the notebook
The woman alongside hum
drops her Evening Standard
Left-handed he is
writing with a ballpoint
in a Moleskine, A5-sized.
Two page turners
across from each other.