The muffled loud sounds of the Reading festival fill the chill, damp, garden air. My stomach cramps, cramps, and cramps. I think I’m hungry but the slight nausea makes the thought of eating unappealing. The house devoid of cat fluff, balls, toy mice, freshly soiled cat litter, footsteps. It’s too near clinical. I’ll stop sulking when I’ve stopped bleeding.
scribbles tagged ‘poetry’
My parents genes
Drop in guests
Long cotton vests
Cats on the internets
Men wearing kilts
Children on stilts
A car that can go
Being able to sew
Spare case of merlot
Raindrops on roses
Whiskers on kittens
Warm woollen mittens
Something nice to study
phoning up a buddy
Being in my nuddy
- When your order a meal and he tells you, again, to be careful about your weight.
- Walk in the rain towards a warm friendly bar and he says he wants to go home
- The phone call to say he’s working late
A moment of a relief because of the freedom it implies. A deep seated pain because love is too wonderful a treasure to lose lightly. The desire to hold on, to try to rediscover that love is so strong that the temptation to disbelieve the moment is too often overwhelming. To hold on after love has died in the hope it will reappear in the magical way it first arrived. It can’t be gone for good, surely this is just doubt, just a moment of hurt. Surely love is still there, just hidden beneath the mundanities of everyday life, it’s head will rise again with all the joys that implies. But it doesn’t happen.
Don’t wait too long. Let go. Change direction.
The lamp is besieged by agile tumbling moths
Neither can escape
The graveyard at Cemetery junction in Reading town is a ‘Garden Cemetery’, designed and planted to enable visitors to promenade.
Most weekends I’ll take a stroll around the cemetery, enjoying the natural peace and beauty and the wonderful sculptural art placed there as remembrances to people….
passed and past
A perfectly formed wing, depaired from it’s partner.
Did the wearer ‘fall’ or were they pushed?
washing and drying
sin ickle stains lifted
away in awarm steam
clearing a pathway to
How did Tiger get that particular online psuedonym?
From a ‘pet’ name I gave him at high school and this William Blake poem which sings of his mysterious, creative and beautiful being
To laugh often and love much;
To win the respect of intelligent persons
And the affection of children;
To earn the approbation of honest critics
And to endure the betrayal of false friends;
To appreciate beauty;
To find the best in others;
To give of one’s self;
To leave the world a little better,
Whether by a healthy child,
A garden patch
Or a redeemed social condition;
To have played and laughed with enthusiasm
And sung with exultation;
To know that even one life has breathed easier
Because you have lived -
This is to have succeeded.
Polite English society or people too busy partying to notice?
I’ll never know.
* you are imagining the title, the footnote and anything approximating a series of 5 previous none-entries. Please do not comment on or refer to the absence of this post in any public arenas, its existence will be denied.
my SIM card is toast
my toast taste like plastic
I’m tethered to a landline while the
support agents’ holdin on, and holdin on, and holdin….
his accent is no form of English that I can understand
pass the whiskey mac…
The first in a weekly series – Five-word Flash Fiction Fridays (5F)
We roast on the beach, submerged in glowing inactivity
Counting the waves while I listen to your mood swell and recede
Riding the tide into the evening we reassure ourselves that
what counts most, cannot be counted
feeling compelled to share my experience I’ll ask
- have you tried this…
- do you know about that…
Asking before I’ve heard all the story. Not finding out all the twists and turns in the story as the teller may find it. Not giving full space for the storyteller to explore and reflect at their own pace, in thier own perspective, which is so much more full of more relevant feeling and being.
The story may be about a problem, but the telling of the story may be all that is needed. No solution sought, just the time and empathy of the listener.
Sometimes it’s difficult to remember that even pragmatic advice may not be of real benefit, it may even detract from the real value of talking around the problem.
ending in need
On the barrel of each padlock is a message of love, some in black pen, some in red varnish.
Beautiful art emerging in one place, bought by so many lovers.
It’s visual, community poetry, in action. Sculpture. Very moving
they will be terminated,
only long trains from now on.
Those French are both assertive and sizist.
me: your glass and my glass together make a full glass!
you: And an empty one
me: I can go to the bar with the empty glass and get a fresh pint in it
you: so you get a fresh pint and I get left with the warm mixed up 2 half pints
me: hmmmm.. probably best that you keep your current half empty glass. I’ll drink my half then we can go our own ways
i suffer from mental health
is there something wrong with me
I’m a one girl phobia
I’m a hidden soldier
when writing blog posts I sometimes find it difficult to percieve where the sentence ends and the paragraph starts
the difference between a sentence and a paragraph
its a para normal experience
Home can be anywhere, anytime,
It can be in more than one place and time.
Home is always there and never there.
Unlike Rome my home doesnt need time to be built.
Like a shadow it follows me around.
Always welcoming, its presence waxes and wanes through my days.
Morcheeba sang rome wasn’t built in a day
In May one of my most-favourite poets, if I am allowed more than one favourite, Brian Patten, will be the guest. That’s as exciting as the delivery of dry chopped wood to a house heated by a wood-burner during a cold-snap when the current supply of wood has run-out.
There appears to be an ongoing controversey about the labelling and meaning of the sections. These sections, bits, stages, modes, are referred to as ‘halves’ by the young bearded Mr. Harrold. This controversey is revisited at the begining of each cafe meeting to ensure the audience is not suprised by the unexpected onset of an interval or ‘half’.
Many locals take part in open Mic’ sections. That’s not open micky-taking it’s open-microphone in trendy shorthand. I’m beginning to recognise some of the open mic regulars, especially those who’s work I like.
“Most of the open mic poets we have are pretty good, I think they must put something in the water in Reading as we always have a decent quality, compared with other open mics elsewhere in the country, which is heartening and inexplicable.”
I dreampt a poem, it didn’t rhyme or have rythm, it wasnt a love poem, a funny poem or an action adventure poem. It was a short story:
A person experiencing trouble writing poetry phoned the poetry support line.
we offer a non judgemental listening service for poets suffering from extreme distress Through tears the poet described his pain, all the rhymes had been used before by other, better, poets. People that heard his poetry, smirked or even laughed at his serious poems, looked baffled by his funny poems and fell asleep during his epic adventure poems. For months now he had been unable to show anyone his poems. Nothing worked, he had failed as a poet. He’d even tried Haiku. There was no point, he was going to give up.
We are here to listen. After a short silence the poet read the last poem he had written then described all it’s shortcomings while he shed a few tears, then thanked the listener for not criticing his poem and for not pretending that the poem was better than it actually was. He felt better now, thankyou, goodnight.
Poets for Oxfam
John Hegley delivering St. Georges day
Once again Reading’s December Poet’s cafe offered the treat of the engaging Mr. Hegley.
Mr. Hegley manages varied and entertaining audience participation during his perfomance.
For one poem he found a member of the audience that was prepared to nominate another member of the audience to translate a poem from French. John would read each line and the audience member translated. For each line John would comment on the quality of the translation. Some of the French phrasing lent itself you English people making translational errors. The mistakes lead to some smile and laughter inducing imagery.
I giggled myself off the chair on several occassions,
Another form of participation involved the audience being given a line to sing on cue from John. For example, when he said ‘blah’ we had to say ‘mange’. I do like being able to take part.
During the evening’s events I learned many things including
- there are many, published, poets in Reading that regularly attended the poets cafe
- John’s head moves with agility through all sorts of angles, often quite dramatic.
- AFH’s fingers are prone to splaying and twirling
I wonder what bodily movement I should develop to enhance my (to-be-developed) poem delivery talents?