Winter’s Trail

Gold chrysanthemums -
each one smaller than the last -
dropped at intervals
along the dark, wet pavement:
sunset on a winter’s day.


27 November 2008


A tanka, as I cldn't quite fit it into a haiku! Why do I find pavemnets such a source of inspiration? (I actually ought to count up how many poesm I've written about them!_

Munchausen Worries

My son had a temperature
of 102 for thirty-six hours.
He did not ask to play
on the PS3,
or to use the computer.
He was polite, and grateful
for everything I did for him.
Now he’s himself again,
I fight the unmotherly thoughts that
I look forward to his next illness.


25 November 2008


William got that terrible flu that has been going round. I've never known him so ill, but it did have its upside!

Leaf Fall

William Morris has
wall-papered the pavements in
shades of grey and gold.


18 November 2008


After a long discussion at the Poetry Society meeting on Sunday, about the impossibility of not writing a cliched poem about autumn (having already tried a few weeks ago with Paula!), I thought I'd have another go, and have done two versions (see below). Still not sure which version I prefer/is less cliched...

I think I thought about William Morris because I went to an exhibtion of paintings, photos, sculptures and poems, inspired by him a few months ago. I also discovered there is a William Morris Museum in Walthamstow, which I haven't yet managed to go to, as its opening hours are a bit restricted!


Leaf Fall [Version 2]

William Morris has
papered the pavements in shades
of grey and yellow.

18 November 2008

Armistice Day

There seemed to be more
old-enough men
in the café than usual,
eating their set, roast lunches.

Had they just stood,
straight-backed,
cold-cheeked,
by the memorial,
as the Last Post soared above
the wreaths of remembered blood?

Had they dropped bombs
over Dresden?
Had they waited
with salt-wet boots
for the last boat at Dunkirk?
Had they marched under “Arbeit macht frei”,
to find corpse/s [piles],
dead and alive?

“Did you?
Did you?”
I asked, unsaid.


12 November 2008


This was another exercise with Paula during our creative writing workshop, the day after Armistice Day. The poem describes what I'd felt at lunch in my local cafe the day before. What surprided me when I wrote the poem, was that I assumed I'd do something about the First World War, for which I have always felt a particular affinity, but this is what came out. She felt she'd like another verse, bringing it even more back to the present. Not sure if the concentration camp line shld be just "corpses", or "corpse piles". I also wonder if the whole thing shld be in the present tense...

Organ Practice at St Anthony’s

The organ loft is warmed
by risen candle-heat.
Spot-lit, we float glowing
above the cavern of the nave.
The pipes release birdsong -
the sudden squawk of seagulls;
the swirl of nightingales.


11 November 2008


William has been learning the organ for a few months now, and we go once a week on a Tuesday, to the nearest church with a functioning organ, for him to practise. The church happens to be Catholic, so has quite a different feel from the churches we are more likely to visit in the UK (usually for tourism reasons...). Apart from anything else, it is always full of people: lighting candles, crawling up the aisle in bare feet, praying in front of the statues, and buying devotional items from the shop. Now it is winter, I was struck by the surprisng warmth of the organ loft; and now we can't rely on natural light at 5pm, the odd fact, that the nave is left completely dark, and even the side aisles are mostly lit by candles, whereas we are in an island of light, about 30 feet above everyone else. The varying sounds of the organ, capable of being very beautiful or pretty hideous, also seemed exaggerated by the darkness and our isolation...

Wraith

There was a hope once,
inside a living thing.
Now, a cold moment
in the empty air is her
refusal to say “Goodbye”.


22 October 2008


This was a homework exercise with Paula, set at our regular creative writing workshop. It was her choice of topic, and as Halloween was coming up, she thought it wld be fun to do something "spooky". I suppose this was my "take" on what ghosts are?

Autumn

Either/or.
Crisp or soggy.
Dry or wet.
Still or wind-swept.
Blue or grey.
Fresh or humid.
Bright or dull.
Clear or foggy.

Waiting for winter’s certainty.


8 October 2008


This was another creative writing exercise with Paula, but my choice of topic (not evry original, I know!). The day before had been miserable weather-wise, whereas that day was the perfect autumn day, so I was trying to write about the possible contrasts...

Freedom

The hill.
The arms outstretched.
The wind.
The swirling coat.
The rain.
The cold-trickled face.
The sky.
The open mouth.
The voice crying [in the wilderness]:
“Yes!”.


8 October 2008


This was a creative writing exercise with Paula, when we met on Wednesday. It was her choice of topic, and my mind was a complete blank! In the end, it was just an image that came to me. Paula found it rather scary, and said it reminded her of Munch's "The Scream". Not sure about the "wilderness" bit, with its obvious religious connotations...

Paperchase

Along the street, I

follow the smiling trail of
rain-sequined photos.

30 September 2008

How could I resist imagining the "back story" to this scene: at least 20 photos of happy people at a party, maybe even a wedding, scattered along the rainy street? I wanted to avoid cliche by directly referring to the drops of rain being like tears on the photos, and hope I have managed that.

An earlier version was:

I follow the trail

of smiling photos along

the rain-sequined street.

But I think the later verison is more evocative. I'm still wondering if I shld just drop the haiku format, in order to say: "I follow the smiling trail etc..."

Ring of Fire

At dusk,

tangle-haired boys

light lemon-flamed torches,

spearing them into the soil.

The circle of light surrounds us,

as we sit drinking wine

around a round table.

The Lord of the Flies

cannot touch us here.

14-29 September 2008

It was obviously a day where I felt I had a lot to write about! We went to my friend, Michele's, belated 40th birthday party in the evening. I was very struck by the ritualistic/tribal nature of the scene, when her step-sons lit citronella torches at dusk to ward off mosquitos.

Chronicles of Death not Foretold

On a mission
to buy hot chocolate
for the tuck shop,
I look left
instead of right,
and only see the car,
when it stops beside me.

I shudder for the children
waiting unaware,
while the sirens mourn
a street or two away.


14-29 September 2008


This incident occurred a few weeks ago, when I was volunteering at the Newham Academy of Music Tuck Shop, where I spend most of my Saturday mornings in term-time. (See "OCD in the Tuck Shop" 29 June 2007!) I wasn't really concentrating, and very nearly got run over when crossng at a slightly odd junction, where a small one-way street joins the main road. I basically forgot about the possibility of any traffic coming from the one-way street. What affected me most later, was the thought that, had I been killed (or even just seriously injured!) no-one at the tuck shop would have known what had happened to me, and would have been waiting (perhaps slightly impatiently) for my return, and woudln't have connected the distant sound of sirens with my absence... I am still not sure if I need the last line, or if I've made the right choice of verb for the sirens (I had 7, as I said in the previous posting! They were (in no particular order): weep, mourn, sob, wail, howl. scream and shriek...) The title's also probably a bit "over clever"...

Somewhere

The trains pass

At the bottom of the garden.

In the dark, thundering thoughts

Rush through my sleep-seeking head:

Somewhere out there,

You are probably weeping.

Somewhere out there,

You may be dead.

18 September 2008

I've had several poems "percolating" for quite a while, but wasn't at all sure about any of them. I had another go at them today, and have got them to a state where I think the versions I'm putting here are possibly the best I can get, but I am still very uncertain about some of the decisions I've made. When I tell you there were some words for which I had 7 choices in the first draft, you might understand why! This is one of the "divorce" poems, written during the night after we finally heard some real progress had been made in the investigation into my ex-husband. We stayed at my friend's, (where I wrote "They Said it Would Snow" on 6 April this year.) that night, as I felt I needed some support. It's obviously a place where I can feel inspired... I don't think it's a good poem at all, though I quite like the second verse, but as with "Anniversary" (7 April, this year), I had to write something...

Mother's Pride

Chocolate milkshake
remains undrunk, while my son
reads Wildfred Owen.

12 September 2008


This is a sort of "sequel" to two other poems about William: "Not by Bread Alone",16 October, 2007, and "A Worried Mother", 25 May 2008.

I don't think it's very good, but it's been worrying me that I hadn't written anything recently, so it was a relief to get something down on paper...

Untying the Knots

We bought the rosewood dining room suite
For our fifth wedding anniversary.

We had dusky pink cushions made
For the eight uncomfortable chairs.

You tied sixteen knots,
To attach each cushion to its chair.

You said I couldn’t tie them tightly enough
To stop the cushions sliding about.

My friend borrowed the chairs for a dinner party,
To celebrate her fortieth birthday.

We took the cushions off for ease of transport.

I struggled with each knot,
but succeeded in the end.

24 August 2008

This is one of my increasingly rare "divorce poems". Yesterday, Gerry came to pick up my chairs for Paula's 40th birthday dinner next Saturday. I was horribly struck, as I undid each knot, that the last time they were tied, was when Peter did them, about 15 years ago. The parallel between that, and the divorce, is of course, blindingly obvious. I just dashed this off today, so it may well need a lot more work, but next week is going to be unbelievably busy and stressful, so I thought I'd better get it down on paper, as I have been aware that I've hardly put anything up recently...

Mehndi

Black icing squeezed from
a golden, paper cone stains
swirling lines and dots
on my pale forearm.

A fortnight’s fading,
and the lacy tracery
is just a rusty rash.

Three weeks, and my skin
has amnesia.

15-24 August 2008

This is the other one I've struggled with. I'm still not really happy with it. I felt the mehndi was a very strong metaphor for love/relationships, when a friend commented that my mehdi looked like a rash, after about 2 weeks. I felt it was interesting how something that always starts so beautiful, changes to something ugly or diseased, and finally, disappears altogether... I had a verse about decoration, disease and disappearance (note the alliteration!) being three staging posts on the road of love, but have dropped it, cos it felt far too laboured. Also, can I safely assume everyone knows what a mehndi is, or do I have to put in "henna tattoo" somewhere?!

The Way to her Heart

Tenderly, the young man studies
Quails’ eggs on Stratford Market.
“Who’s the lucky girl?”
I want to ask.

(Not that I like quails’ eggs,
But because you only serve
Quails’ eggs, if
You want to impress.)

15-24 August 2008

I have written two poems recently, that I've struggled with, because I wanted to draw parallels with something, but I either made it too obvious, by including extra material, or worried that it wasn't obvious at all, if I didn't. Hence, the 2nd verse being in brackets here. Do I need it or not? The structure of this one is very much influenced by a poem by Leonard Cohen, which I've always loved:

For Anne

With Annie gone,
whose eyes to compare
to the morning sun?
Not that I did compare,
but I do compare,
now that she's gone.

Rapunzel's Lament

I never foresaw
the tangled webs each morning,
shrouding the plughole.

29 July 2008


This is another idea I've been wanting to write about for ages. I wrote "Rapunzel" on 26 June 2007, when my hair was probably only about two inches long. Growing it seemed totally positive, and symbolic of my new-found freedom. Now, it's about 9 inches long, and I'm surrounded by black snow-drifts and bird nests; I can't stop fiddling with it; it takes ages, and tons of shampoo and conditioner to wash; I look completely demented in the morning, with it squashed into weird shapes on the top of my head; and it makes me all hot and sweaty in the summer. However, I do still like it, and intend to keep growing it until some significant milestone is reached (probably my decree absolute...). I didn't come up with the title till the next day, and am quite pleased with it, as it refers nicely back to "Rapunzel", and is gently amusing (well, I think so!). I am still not quite sure if it wldn't be better as:

I never foresaw
the tangled webs, shrouding the
plughole each morning.

Kitten

She pats my eyelids.
I trust the claws, tucked in her
soft, blackberry paws.

29 July 2008


I had been wanting to write something about this for quite a while. It's about various aspects of my "relationship" with Muntu, the kitten I got in June. I find it interesting that she and I have a very gentle relationship, whereas she and William are much more "rough and tumble", and he is covered with scratches!

Night and Day

We return to last
night's space, emptied of busy-
ness: crowdless-quiet.

In praise-be-to-God,
dappled sunlight, I write two
poems: Then, and Now.

Drinking sunrise wine,
under wind-rustled leaves, I
act out the cliché.

20-28 July 2008


I wrote this the day after this year's Music in the Park event in Wanstead Park (see previous entry, and last year's "Salsa in the Park", 21 July 2007), when William begged me to take him back to the Park, so he cld explore the woods. We packed a picnic, and invited his friend, Ben, to come along. I sat under a tree, with a glass of rosé, while the boys rampaged about. I felt frightfully romantic, while I wrote the two poems, the previous one, and this one (or rather, started them, as it took me a week to decide on final(ish) drafts...). I had a debate with myself about the title: other options: "Revisited", "Paradise Revisited", and "Returning". If I had used "Night, and Day" in the last line of the second haiku/verse, I wld have used one of the other titles. I also originally had "Gerard's" or "Hopkins' ", instead of "praise-be-to-God", but I prefer this, though maybe it's a bit too clever, clever (or maybe the whole idea is a bit too self-consciously referential?).

Déjà Re-vued

The annual event
has come again: the glowing
children still flit by;

The lovers kiss; my
securely coupled friends still
drink their beer; and I

Am alone, but the
moon is on fire; the music
has changed from salsa

To jazz, and though I
share the children's rainbows, I
do not dance this year.


20- 27 July 2008



This is the "sequel" to last year's "Salsa in the Park", and shares its structure of four haiku. I wasn't able to make each haiku a complete verse, even though I tried really hard, but maybe that's part of the point of the poem, that some things have changed and some things have remained the same. It's really about how it's now over a year since everything happened in April 2007, and so some annual events are now coming round for the second time. Other possible titles are: "Second Time Round", "Presque Déjà" Vu", and "Jazz in the Park".

Elderflowers: Drinking

I read my cordial
poems, while the poets sip
the flowers' clear gift.


16 July 2008


The 3rd in the "trilogy" of elderflower poems. I had the 3rd meeting of the East London Stanza at my house on the 13th, and served the attendees my home-made, elderflower cordial, while I read the 2nd poem. Because one of the guys had not heard the first one, and (as usual) there were only three of us (though always one new person each time!), I also read the first one. It just struck me as rather sweet and amusing that the two things were happening at once! Not sure about the title...

Quick Update

You may be thinking that I've not been writing any poems of late! Not true at all! The truth is that I was given three beautiful notebooks for writing poems in, for my birthday, and this has dramatically altered the way I write for the moment... Instead of writing straight on to the computer, and being able to cut, paste and delete etc, I've been filling pages with messy crossings out and numbered syllables. It's very interesting to have an "archaeological record" of the thought processes, but it's also depressing to see how bad my poems look in my apalling handwriting!

I'm not at home at the moment, so am hardly accessing any computers, so probably won't have time to type up all the recent stuff today, but will start with the oldest, which I wrote on the 16th. I'm also aware that at least 3 of my recent poems refer back to earlier poems, and (as a friend said!) I'm rather arrogantly assuming readers are familar with my oeuvre!

30 July 2008

Proverb: Reversed

I was too busy pre-
and too drunk, post-party,
to put clean sheets
on the bed,
stripped for off-chance guests.
I crawl under
the naked duvet,
to sleep on the torn
and stained mattress cover.

I did not make my bed,
so/but now I must lie in it.

8 July 2008

I still cannot decide between "so" and "but" in the last line. "So" just keeps it purely factual, light and slightly jokey, whereas the "but" makes it a reference to my situation with Peter. It was the relevance of the proverb turned round, to my life, which made me write it, but maybe it's all a bit over the top and tenuous?

Breathless at 50

I squeeze the deepest
air from soft lungs to deflame
the final candle.
The true-coming – this year – of
wishes, feels worth fainting for.

8 July 2008

Other possible titles were: "50^th Birthday Cake" or "Birthday Cake at 50". I wld have liked "50 Flames" or "50 Candles", but I didn't have that many! Perhaps I'd be allowed it under poetic license?

I spent ages fiddling with various adjectives for the lungs, and verbs for the extinguishing etc, but in order to fit it into a tanka, this is what I ended up with. There were words I preferred in earlier versions.

Here's all possible versions combined in one (so not a tanka, obviously!):

I squeeze the deepest
air from flabby/empty/emptied lungs to deflame/unflame/blow out/snuff/douse
the final/last candle/light/flame.
The true-coming of wishes –
this year – feels worth fainting for.

Troy

It was I who brought
in the wooden statue, which
hid the poisoned gift;
charmed/lulled Laocoon before
he even dreamt his nightmare.

29 June 2008

I wrote this in the middle of the night. I haven't written about the divorce situation for a very long time, but it has been a bad week in many ways. I have heard depressing news about the fall-out of last year's events, which I suppose have triggered these feelings of guilt by association. I originally called it "By Association", but "Troy" is starker, and totally clarifies the image for those who may not be aware of some of the story...

The Mouths of Babes?

Two weeks before
my 50^th birthday,
my son and I discuss
“10 Years Younger” –
a make-over programme.
I say I’d love to have all that beautification.
He says excitedly:
“You could tell them you’re 17!”
I am overwhelmed
by the agenda-less/agenda-free/unthinking/innocent compliment.

24 June 2008

The conversation actually took place last Thursday on the bus, on the way to the music Academy, but I turned it into something today, when Paula and I met for one of our "creative writing workshops". We decided on the topic of aging and "big" birthdays, as she is going to be 40 in August. OK, so it's totally self-congratulatory, but I think I'm allowed to be vain every now and then! As you can see, I am completely undecided about the final adjective. I wanted to convey the fact that what affected me wasn't so much the compliment, but the fact that I knew it was totally sincere, because it seemed so spontaneous, and he wasn't angling for anything. Not too sure about "overwhelmed" either. I did consider "bowled over" and "knocked over", but Paula felt "overwhelmed" was best...

Funeral Procession

The sobbing sound of slow drums
would call us through the bamboo forest.
And shuddering,
we would leave the playground to watch
the red coffin,
carved from a single tree-trunk,
pass,
carried by men
draped in robes
as white as bones.

20 June 2008

This is based on memories of my childhood in Taiwan, when I was at Chinese school. A small forest of trees (not bamboo, but I needed to suggest the oriental setting!) separated the school from the main road that led to the cemetery up the hill. Funeral processions (no idea which religion: Buddhist, Taoist, Confucian?) used to pass fairly regularly, and even though they terrified us, we cld not resist going to watch. For those of you who don't know, white is the colour of death and mourning in the Far East, not black. I've no idea why I thought about it at about 3am! Maybe the Chinese poetry reading I went to a few weeks ago has stirred something up! I'm not too keen on the title, but it'll have to do for now. The second sentence is too long, but I haven't thought of a good way to break it up yet... I also originally had "aching" instead of "sobbing", but I used that in "Calligraphy" (17 February 2008) a while ago, and the alliteration is probably more effective?

Living in the Past

I sew hairbands from
silk ribbons, bought by the yard
on the market stall.
My son plays the piano.
All that’s missing is gaslight.

11 June 2008

I managed to squeeze this one into a tanka too (see previous poem). I seem to be churning stuff out at the moment: it probably means I'm sacrificing quality for quantity, but I can't stop myself! I originally just called it "Hairbands", but didn't like that, and wanted something that reflected the "olden days". I rejected "Victoriana" and "Harking Back" and "Time Travel", but I don't really like the current title either. Any ideas?

Contrast

We speak of memory
and photography. She is
calling me from a
laughter-deafened winebar. I
am sitting on the toilet.

11 June 2008

I managed to cut this down to a tanka, by saying that "memory" is two syllables. Pat and I had been texting back and forth about a new Chinese restaurant she'd just tried, and I was just stepping into the loo, when William came rushing up with my mobile, saying "Do you want to speak to my mum?" to the person at the other end. It became obvious after a while, that it was Pat, trying to engage him in some polite conversation, before speaking to me. I said I cldn't chat for long, as I was desperate for the loo, she said she didn't mind if I talked to her on the loo, as other friends did so all the time. She said she'd got bored texting, and wanted to talk to me. From the background noise, I guessed she was at Grape Street, and was bellowing at her to try to be heard over the ruckus, but she told me she cld hear me better if I spoke normally, which felt very strange. I have no idea how we got on to the esoteric subject of photography: we covered whether a good photographer can still take good photos with a bad camera (yes, certainly good compositions, but exposure and lighting might still be a problem...); how important post-production is; whether one shld actually take photos to capture memories at all (she mentioned a short story by Calvino (?) about taking photos on a beach, which she felt was relevant here); is sight the most important sense in memories (smell was important to both of us); the link between my poetry and photography (see my profile!), etc etc. I was, of course, struck by the ludicrous contrast between our respective locations (mine in particular!) and the elevated subject matter...

I don't really like the title, but that's the best I can come up with right now.

Picnic in Knole Park: the pictures 2...

The picnic from another angle. You can see the ham in this one! Unfortunately, this was the best that I cld do with my point-and-shoot camera, and the tablecloth and food are over-exposed in both the photos!

Picnic in Knole Park: the pictures...

Gilly and Lynny holding the Prosecco mentioned in the poem I posted on 6 June. I think you can see the asparagus, and the strawberries, but it doesn't look like the ham had been put out yet!

BTW, the labelled bottle in the middle is in fact, my home-made, elderflower cordial, mentioned in poems of 23 April and 1 June!

No More Heroes

A Spiderman soft
Toy lies discarded by a
Garden wall – useless.

8 June 2008

A few days ago, when I was walking to the shops, I saw a virtually life-sized doll or soft toy of Spiderman, lying in a tangled heap on the pavement. I found it unbearably sad. I wrote two slightly different versions, as I wasn't sure if the one below made it clear enough it is a toy, but at the same time, it feels more poignant?

Spiderman’s soft and
Twisted limbs, lie discarded
By a garden wall.

Found in Translation

The Chinese poets recite in Mandarin,
Before their words are translated into English.
Through the forty-year fog
Hazing my bilingual childhood,
I clearly glimpse
“Grandma”, “I like”, “500”, “the sun and moon”, “now”, “children”.
The rising-falling voices
Peel away the layers of growing up
To uncover the little girl
Who did not dream in her mother tongue.

7 June 2008

I won free tickets via The Poetry Society to a reading at the South Bank Centre of Chinese poetry in translation. It did not say in the publicity, whether the poems wld be read in Chinese first, and the man at the desk had no idea either. I was really pleased that they were, because how a poem sounds is also very important to me. I was struck by the fact that I was actually much more affected by the poems in Mandarin, even though I cld only understand the odd word here and there, than the English translations. I get the same feeling when I watch Chinese films with subtitles. It's something about the combination of familiarity and distance, I think... I don't really expect this poem to mean anything to most people (a bit like the Knole Park one I've also just posted), but it was an important moment for me... I was very unsure about a lot of the word choices, my first draft was:

The Chinese poets read in Mandarin,
Before their words are translated into English.
Through the forty-year fog
Clouding/hiding/hazing/veiling/wrapping my bilingual childhood,
I clearly glimpse
“Grandma”, “I like”, “500”, “the sun and moon”, “now”, “children”.
The rising-falling voices
Peel back/away the layers/skin of adulthood/growing up
To reveal/uncover the/a little girl
Who did not dream in her mother tongue.

So any comments wld be welcome!

Picnic in Knole Park

The white damask was spread over the tree-stump;
The orange and gold china plates contrasted with the asparagus;
The home-cooked, clove-spiked ham was finely sliced.
We toasted two birthdays
With Prosecco,
Then it rained.

We scooped up the food,
And swooped beneath
The most densely canopied linden tree.
Wrapped for warmth
In checked table-cloths,
We fed strawberries to the deer.

6 June 2008

Four of us: Lynny, Pat, Clare and myself, (who had all been to boarding school together in Sevenoaks, where Knole Park is situated), plus Lynny's partner, Gilly, celebrated Gilly's 44th, and Lynny's 50th birthdays, by having a picnic in the park. Clare had organised the whole thing, and drove us all there. We all had to provide different parts of the meal, and Clare had also brought along all the plates etc. I'd had no idea it was going to be so posh! It was already looking a bit threatening weather-wise, when we arrived, and we had barely laid everything out, before the first drops of rain fell. Luckily, we were able to find shelter under some nearby trees, as it quickly became torrential, and continued to pour for the rest of the picnic. We did of course, get soaked taking everything back to the car, but we all agreed that it was a much more memorable occasion than if it had just been a lovely, sunny day... This isn't really a poem of relevance to anyone who wasn't there, but I'm putting it up anyway!

Prey

Behind my sunglass
Mirrors, I watch the wolf men
Watch me as I pass.

5 June 2008

Maybe it's because I'm wearing summer dresses or something, but I've suddenly become aware that I'm being "ogled" rather a lot. The title has a double meaning, I suppose, as I am also catching them at it!

Unrepeated

In the doctors’ surgery,
I hook my finger in the door handle.
It bends back to almost-breaking point.
I remember my mother’s story
Of her twig-snap, childhood moment
In a Cambridge department store –
And slow down time:
History does not repeat
Itself.

4 June 2008

Tried to fit this into a tanka, but the concept was too long! Not sure about either possible title... My mother often used to tell us about various gruesome accidents she had as a child, and their weird (mad?) doctor. Apparently, after my mum had fallen off her bike, and her arm had loads of gravel embedded in it, the doctor just bandaged my mum's arm up really tightly, with out cleaning it or picking out the gravel! My grandparents apparently finally realised something was wrong, when the smell of rotting flesh became over-whelming!

Elderflowers: The Gathering Thereof

Batch 1: 17 May 2008

The wide-eyed children
clustering around the ladder
In the playground:
“Why are you picking
them flowers, miss?”
“Has Mrs Stevenson said
you could pick them flowers, miss?”
The patient explanation to each one:
“I’m making elderflower cordial.
It’s like squash.
You add water to it,
and it tastes like the flowers.”
“Yes, of course!
I would never pick them without
Her permission.”

Batch 2: 27 May 2008

The school is closed
For half-term,
So I try the alley
near my son’s new school.
He’s seen white flowers there,
but isn’t sure if they’re
elderflowers or hawthorn.
In fact, they’re both.
An old lady with a hearing aid:
“Are you making wine or cordial?”
“I’m just making cordial.
I looked at the recipe for wine,
but I was frightened
by the mention of exploding bottles.”

The Nigerian street-sweeper
bellows into his mobile phone.
Then, when the conversation is over,
Silently uses his litter-picker
to pull down
the best-blossomed branches
within my reach.
He keeps going
till my bag is full.
“Thank you so much.
You’ve been really helpful!”
Smile. Nod.

[On the way home,
I buy a kitten.]

1 June 2008

Obviously a sort of "sequel" to "Elderflower Cordial: The Making Thereof" (23 April 2008). Again, very different from anything I've written for ages, both because it is a sort of narrative, but also because I use dialogue. I think the last time I did either, was when I was about 18! The dialogue probably sounds a bit stilted, but is actually as close as I can remember to what was actually said... The 2nd, day in particular, was a very strange, but good day: I had a dentist's appointment, because my temporary crown had fallen out on the way home from a Eurovision Song Contest Party; and because it was a bank holiday weekend, I'd had to wait 3 days to see the dentist. The hole in my tooth felt as big and as knobbly as the ceiling of King's College Chapel... I'd already got an appointment to put in the permanent crown on 2 June, and to my joy, the dentist checked to see if it had come in yet, and it had, so not only did I not have to go round with another temporary crown for a week, but I cld cancel the 2 June appointment! I then went to pick my elderflowers, and had the two nice experiences with the old lady and the street sweeper. I was struck by how doing something unusual makes people talk to you. On the way home, I passed the pet shop, which had a sign up saying "kittens", and just cldn't resist having a look. I think I succumbed to taking one of them home, because we'd stayed the night after the Eurovision party at my friend, Lynny's, house, and they had a litter of Siamese kittens that very evening, which had made both William and I feel horribly "kitten broody"; and I was feeling "full of love" for the world, after my happy experiences, and wanted to have something to pour it onto... I'm not sure if it wld be better if I dropped the kitten bit, as it probably makes it less focused, but my feelings about all the events are tied together...

A Worried Mother

Without pause, my son
Watches vampire DVDs
In a lightless room/with the curtains drawn.

25 May 2008

We spent the night at Lynny's, so we cld go to a Eurovision party nearby. Besides a new litter of Siamese kittens, and an aquarium of (captive-bred) sea-horses, they also own the complete "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" on DVD. Since William has already been exposed to it at friends' houses, I rather weakly caved in, and let him watch it while I was still in bed... I was struck by his pale face glowing in the darkened room... Still not sure which is the better ending.

Not a poem for a change...

...but I just thought you'd like to know that the year's first batch of elderflower cordial is now in bottles, awaiting labelling! (See "Elderflower Cordial: The Making Thereof", 23 April 2008.)


18 May 2008

Fear

The octopus makes itself
Comfortable in
My chest.
He stretches two tentacles
Down, to wind round
My bowels.
He wraps four around
My heart,
To crush its squirming attempts to escape.
He sends the last two up
My oesophagus,
So they can curl out of
My mouth,
And coil around
My throat.
He has to allow me a thin stream of air though,
As he realises a little too late
That he can't throttle
Himself.

2 May 2008

I seem to be writing some pretty gruesome stuff at the moment! This was inspired by my feelings of panic the previous week, (not entirely dissipated...). I originally had a totally negative ending, but realised, when thinking the metaphor through, that there was a technical problem with him strangling his own tentacles; and anyway, the situation isn't totally hopeless, so this is a truer reflection of how I feel. I am not sure if you can use the word "throttle" in this context (where is an octopus' "throat" anyway, and can you strangle anything that doesn't actually breathe air?) Maybe it's just a rubbish image... I am also concerned about the line breaks: shld I be emphasising the body parts so much, by splitting the line before them each time? And shld I repeat "round/around" so much? As you can tell, I'm not very secure about this one!

3:15am

No sirens, no cars.
I can only hear/All I can hear is birdsong.
So sparkling, so loud.

25 April 2008

More in my "comfort zone"! Needless to say, written in my head when I cldn't sleep cos I was so stressed, and the birdsong was deafening. I spent ages searching for the 2-syllable adjective in the last line. It needed to suggest something beautiful, that didn't imply keeping me awake, so I rejected "piercing", and I finally dozed off, having decided on "soaring", (slight hints of "The Lark Ascending"), but wasn't entirely happy with that, as I wanted something jewel-like. I awoke later, and immediately came up with "sparkling", which is much more what I'm aiming for! I'm also not sure which of the two options to put for the 2nd line, but lean towards the first, as the "only" assonates with the "no"s and the "so"s.

Poetry Group/The First Meeting of the Poetry Group

I take the knife
and slice open my abdomen.
I pull my entrails/intestines
out of the slit,
and arrange them –
still attached,
still throbbing –
in coiled piles,
on two side-plates
and four expresso cup saucers.

The others poke them
and stroke them,
gently
loosening tangles
and lifting steaming tubes,
to see what lies beneath.

I stuff my intestines/entrails
back inside me,
and pass the knife on
with sticky fingers.

[The next person
fans out his guts
on one large, silver tray.]

24 April 2008

We had the first meeting of the East London Stanza on Sunday, and I was aware how much more vulnerable I felt showing my poems to total strangers, as compared to Paula, who I've known for years. Despite the graphic imagery, I actually really enjoyed the meeting, and found it really helpful! Still not sure about a title, and the choice of "entrails" or "intestines": which is better in the first verse, and which better towards the end? Also, do I need that last verse at all, or shld I expand it? Is the poem just about me, or about all of us?

Elderflower Cordial: The Making Thereof

The visit to the garden of my son’s old school.
The borrowing of the janitor’s ladder.
The secateuring of the thirty fattest, whitest blossom heads.
The vigorous shaking to remove any insects
(never wash, but why not?).
The pouring of two kilos of caster sugar
into the huge, stainless-steel pan borrowed
(and never returned)
from my tolerant friend.
The dissolving of the sugar in one litre of boiling water.
The glutinous clearing of the liquid.
The drowning of each pale hemisphere.
The stirring in of the rind of two lemons
(must be unwaxed)
and seventy-five grams of citric acid powder,
especially ordered in by my obliging chemist
(not normally stocked, as drug dealers use it to cut cocaine).
The placing of derinded lemon slices
in an orderly and attractive pattern
on the pondy surface.
The covering of the pan
With a damp tea-towel.

The twenty-four hours living in an air-freshener advert.

The sieving of the scented mush
through the afore-mentioned tea-towel.
The decanting into boot-sale-bought bottles.
The sticking of pseudo-handwritten labels
(green ink, of course).
The presenting to friends.
The freezing in small containers.
The wishing I’d kept more for myself.

The thawing out in winter.
The sudden, swirling, time-travelling
back to early summer.

23 April 2008

Inspired by the fact that I am really looking forward to elderflowers blossoming again, as last May, I made elderflower cordial for the first time, and absolutely loved everything about it! This is SO not my usual style, that I'm astonished I wrote it! I think it may be something to do with the fact that I had my first East London Stanza meeting on Sunday? (When I joined The Poetry Society in January, I was disappointed to find there was no local group in my area, so volunteered to set it up...) Talking to other poets, and seeing what they'd written, might have opened me up to a different way of working.

They Said it would Snow

I slept at my friend's house
After a movie,
Too haunting,
Too haunted,
For me to be
Old-house-alone.

With my pillow against
The window wall,
I lie and look up
Through the two-inch, curtain crack,
To see black flecks
Falling from the white sky.

I do not lift my head
To peer at the garden,
For fear
It will be perfectly preserved,
Under archaeological layers
Of ash.

6 April 2008

Another poem that's not in my usual style! I wrote the first draft of this yesterday, whilst staying at Bridget's, having seen "The Orphanage" the night before. I originally called it "April Snow", and had the current title as the first line. I'm still wondering whether the last few lines shld be changed, so the "ash" is "archaeological" rather than the "layers" (and, of course, the "perfectly preserved" is a deliberate cliché.) I am also not sure if, in my attempts to avoid actually mentioning Pompeii directly, I've made it such a subtle reference, that it can be missed altogether?

Anniversary: 1

We did not know then,
That this was the last day of
Another life.

7 April 2008

I can't pretend that anything I write over the next few days is going to be any good, but you don't always write poetry to create a work of art...

British Summer Time

The gift of this slipped
Hour to me: The homeward walk
In drunken daylight.

30 March 2008


This is all linked to the Summer and Winter Solstice poems, I suppose, in that I cheer up on 21 December, and get depressed on 21 June, but putting the clocks forward is actually a tangible change...

Chiffon Knickers

I own just one pair
Of sexy knickers.
I wear them under
A clinging dress,
To avoid the rolling of fat
Over elastic waist bands,
Because they rest on my flesh,
And don't dig in.

But I also know
All day, that they are there,
And await their discovery
By the ambulance men,
After the bus accident of legend,
Our mothers always warned us about.

3 March 2008

I forgot to say earlier, that this was one I wrote"on the spot" during one of my creative writing workshops with Paula. We chose the theme of clothes. Not my usual style at all! I'm still debating whether I shld have "skin" at the end of the 7th line. It rhymes with the "in" in the next line, but "flesh" assonnates (is that the verb?!) with "rest". Strangely, Paula's poem was much more in my usual style!

Victor/Conqueror/Might is Right [work in progress]

The roof is decorated/fringed
With pigeons - evenly spaced like gargoyles
On a Gothic cathedral.

The white pigeon
Works his way [sidles/shuffles] along the ridge pole,
Forcing/skittling his grey companions [out of his way]
Onto the lower slopes/tiles,
Until he is at the far end,
Alone.


2 March 2008

This obviously still needs a lot of work, but I thought it might be interesting for people (if anyone reads this!) to see how I work... I did consider "Apartheid" as a title, but thought it was too unsubtle?

Corrida

The pigeon flock takes flight:
The snapping swirl
Of the toreador's cloak,
In a grainy, black-and-white,
Spanish documentary.

1 March 2008


Yet another of my pigeon poems! When will this obsession end?! Don't really like the title, but am yet to think of a better one.

Voodoo

You are far away,
Yet you still stick pins in a
Doll who looks like me.

28 May 2007

And this was written the day after"Jenga". It obviously knocked me back a bit... I like this one, cos it seems simple, but uses a lot of alliteration and assonance.

Jenga

You keep pulling the
Blocks out from under me. I
Sway, but do not fall.

27 May 2007

I wrote this the day I made some even more shocking discoveries about my husband.

In case you don't know (and a few people didn't), Jenga is a game where you build a tower of layers of 3 wooden blocks. You then take turns to pull out blocks in the lower levels, and put them on top. The tower obviously gets more and more wobbly, and the winner is the person who had the last successful go, before the tower collapses.

Terra Incognita

I still cling to the
Coast of our bed, and fear to
Explore its dark heart.

14 May 2007

In case you don't know, the title is the Latin for “unknown country”, and old maps often had it written where people didn't know what was there, esp. in Africa. Hence the allusion to “Heart of Darkness”: bit too clever perhaps?

One in the Bed

I still sleep on my
Side of the bed. When will I
Move to the middle?

1 May 2007

This is the first of several poems where I write a “simple” one, and then develop it a few weeks later. This one has had a lot of resonance for a lot of people.

Children’s Ward

Her son is having
Chemo, yet she weeps when I
Tell her my story.

26 April 2007

A totally true event. Occasionally, when I feel a bit sorry for myself, I remember this...

Changing the Sheets

Now that the last thing
Which smelled of you has gone, for
Ever has begun.

15 April 2007

This cld actually apply to a bereavement too, where the writer misses the other person.

Into the Light

In the dark, a seed,
Watered by its own tears, I
Become a flower.

13 April 2007

Looking back, it seems that I got to this stage awfully quickly.

SEPARATE WAYS: A DIVORCE IN HAIKU

Without a Parachute

You pushed me from the
Plane. I long to hit the ground,
So the fear will end.

9 April 2007

Written the first night, when everything exploded.

Earlier "general" poems, with notes

Pedicure My orange toenails Hide inside my sandals, like Fruit-gums in their box. 8 August 2007
My sister treated me to a pedicure! I wanted to have “waiting in their box”, and cldn't see what else to cut to keep it a haiku. Does that matter?
The next five poems, are ones I have written for my creative writing ”workshops” with my friend, Paula. Sometimes, they're “homework”, and sometimes, they're done “on the spot”.
Pizza Oven The flaming tongue licks Each round mouthful, till it melts, And is spat out – hot. 17 September 2007
This one was just “observational”, in a wine bar which serves pizza. We actually gave our efforts to the manager, who seemed stunned, but appreciative!
Dim Sum Crispy-soft; dry-wet; Savoury-sweet. Parcels of Contrast: Yin and Yang. 30 September 2007
This was homework, and we'd chosen the theme of Food. I had been to the terracotta army exhibition, followed by dim sum, earlier that day.
Braille Fingers become eyes, When the blind man reads a love Poem to his wife. 1 October 2007 This was “on the spot”, and we'd chosen the theme of Touch, as it sort of followed on from Food (5 senses).
ACROSTICS Jenny Jenny is lonely Every day, but Never regrets saying: “No more” to You. Again, on the spot. We decided to do something totally technical. It is interesting, how, like the Proverbial poem earlier, they end up surprisingly poignant. This shld strictly be in the Divorce poems, but it's not a Haiku or a tanka! Paula Paula floats Along her life Under an eternal sun. She does not merely Live – she is Alive. 1 October 2007 The 3rd line is a bit long, but who cares?

The Postman Passes

I follow the trail
Of red rubber bands,
That he has dropped.

They have fallen
In every possible, looped shape:
Circles,
Eggs,
Bananas,
Hearts,
Figures-of-eight,
Male genitalia.

I worry about the birds
Choking,
As they destroy
His way home.

22 February 2008

I seem to be obsessed with things I see on pavements at the moment... Obviously, hints of Hansel and Gretel, and (in the title) "Pippa Passes" by Browning...

Later Divorce Poems, without notes (so far...)

Dark Day Facial

My flailing heartbeat
Slows under the beautician's
Fluttering fingers.

Les Mains Sales

My flesh rots, where your
Hands touched me; and the gangrene
Spreads beyond my skin.

12 October 2007

Imitating Art

Upstairs, the police
Seize evidence, while I watch
“CSI” downstairs.

17 October 2007

First Christmas

The cards are coming
In – some still addressed to you
And me. I put the
Goats on the piano, and
The sheep on the mantelpiece.

12 December 2007

False Economy

The Christmas cards,
Bought cheap in the January sales,
Sit unwritten in the hall:
Unsendable.

When I opened
Their box, loft-stored for eleven months,
I found you had pre-signed them,
Before carrying them up:
To avoid my Advent nagging.

Final draft: 20 January 2008

Not By Bread Alone

My son stops eating,
To read a poem on the
Wall of the wine bar.

16 October 2007