New chords of thought.

I am getting showered with links and quotes now. This one seems worth passing on, even for those of us who aren't trying to write it's encouraging. (It wasn't written as a poem. I put it into this form)

“It’s ALL Collaboration. Anyone who ever fed you, loved you, 

anyone who ever made you feel unworthy, stupid, ugly,

 anyone who made you express doubt or assuredness, 

every one of these helped make you.

And we  each fit together uniquely as a result, 

there are no misshapen forms as all are misshapen forms 

from tyrants to wallflowers.

We are here relying on one another whether or not we wish it. 

There are no poets writing in quiet caves because every poet is a human being 

as misshapen as any other human being,

We are not alone in our particular stew of molecules

 and the sooner we admit, even admire the influence of this world,

 the freer we will be to construct new chords of thought 

without fear.” 

CA Conrad

If delicate avoid.

I've been a bit introverted lately, not an unusual state for me but I'm just explaining the lack of entries here. At the age I'm reaching there is always the danger I have died.

Which reminds me of an irritation. Whereas I'm quite proud of almost being 69 I find no-one else is impressed. People only express congratulations when you've passed 90 these days. The goal posts have raised (I'm thinking of rugby aren't I?).

Sunday last we watched Red Sorghum, a Chinese film directed by Zhang Yimou and based on a novel by the nobel laureate Mo Yan. Afterwards I reeled back to my car in shock and that night I couldn't get to sleep. It started so well. Gentle humour. Life struggles overcome, the onset of prosperity and happiness. Then the Japanese invasion. If I had had any warning I might have braced myself but so often Japanese and Chinese films are gentle, beautiful, very full of images I want to retain. My host and film DJ confessed he didn't remember the violence. How could he forget. Anyway, either ignore this film or stop when the bad stuff starts if you are of a delicate dispsosition.

Stimuli.

The writer's group meets in the British Legion. I don't know much about the Legion not having come from a military family or having any military friends. We meet in the Board Room which is small, airless, no window or ventilation of any sort. Heaven help us if it ever gets warm outside. A large table takes up almost the whole of the room, just space for chairs around it and a glass fronted cabinet with dusty plastic flower arrangements ready for celebrations. Last week there were ten of us and that's by no means the full membership. 

To be matey I went for a drink at the bar afterwards. I think that might be part of the deal; we get the room at a tiny rent then spend money at the bar. I was amazed at the price of a single malt. So cheap! 

The two hours round the table upstairs had been pleasant and full of laughter. A couple of the women have a keen sense of humour and once the laughing started it was impossible to stop. The exercise was to write an obituary of one of the people featured in a series of artistic photographs. Occasionally the subject was nude. Much hilarity. Plenty of  creative thinking.  

Mostly it was the men who went for a drink, just me and one other woman represented the other half and she turned out to work for the MoD. I suppose it was inevitable that the men were also ex-forces; probably how we got the room. For the hour or so we stayed there were lots of reminiscences. About bases in foreign lands, the food, eccentric characters and camaraderie. The good life.

I went home and wrote five quick, angry poems about war and the military. Shan't read them out next week!

A bit of a nudge.

That woke me up! I finally got myself along to the local writer’s group and this morning began the first poem I’ve written for years. It doesn’t have much to do with the exercise someone had prepared for us, but that isn’t important. 

I read a poem that I’ve worked and reworked for ten years and it was received with approval (well, they’d have to wouldn’t they) but also with useful comment, which reassured me. There’s a large membership which ebbs and flows, the people present last night are all very agreeable; one I know quite well. Their work is worthy of my attention. (No point in being mealy mouthed about it. If they had all written in rhyme and were modern day McGonegalls* then I wouldn’t have wasted time I could be spending sleeping in front of the TV.)

My style isn’t going to win me any prizes; I know that. I like words but, more than words, I like ideas, and these days I think poetry that comes into the light is ‘accessible.’ Immediate. Coming from current events or from well-trodden emotional paths expressed in imagery that surprises, giving a freshness to common experience. Something everyone can empathise with.

What matters more to me is the therapeutic value of refining the shorthand of language in pursuit of an idea.

The poem I’ve started began with one of the elements we were given to weave into a story: An event to take place on the doorstep. Since I’ve lived on this estate I’ve been doorstepped too often and that will get worse over the next 18 months as the Independence referendum gathers heat. That’s the sort of reality I generally ignore. I’m not sure I can ignore this one but for the moment I am, and the poem is NOTHING WHATSOEVER to do with politics.  

I might call it ‘Don’t Look at the Sun.’  May I?

                                      ********

* Wikki on McGonagall: Of the 200 or so poems that he wrote, the most famous is probably "The Tay Bridge Disaster", which recounts the events of the evening of 28 December 1879, when, during a severe gale, the Tay Rail Bridge near Dundee collapsed as a train was passing over it.

Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay!

Alas! I am very sorry to say

That ninety lives have been taken away

On the last Sabbath day of 1879,

Which will be remember'd for a very long time.

(Me again. This poem went on, and on, and on, and got no better as it went, turning a tragedy into - something else. You really wouldn’t want him writing about the Boston bombing.)

Blow!

Now it's finally warm, and sunny, and dry, and perfect in every way, so we have high winds causing sandstorms with not a camel in sight to shelter behind. (Dizzy is useless.)

I sat in the sun with my coffee this morning to find myself crunching down on grit from some poor farmer's field. The roads are filling up with sizeable dunes and the gusts were strong enough to shove the car from one carriage-way to the next on a supply run to the supermarket. I went home by the back roads. Opening a window in the house is not an option.

It is worse in the Fens where the soil is black.

Farfaraway

I saw a house called ‘Farfaraway’ today. Not much better than ‘Dunroamin’ but it made me think.

People over millenia have used all sorts of objects for divination. Wikki has an A-Z of them scrolling over several screens. The best known are probably crystal balls, tea leaves and coffee grounds (tasseomancy); lines in the hand; the  entrails of various animals; turtle shells. Not so well known: Clamancy (random shouts and cries heard in a crowd; perfect for the High Street here on a Friday). Enthusiasm (the speech of a person possessed by a demon. Just switch on the radio.). Turifumy (shapes in smoke). And so on, and so on... 

I started this to write about the thoughts that a house name stimulated for me but the demon internet* distracted me and half and hour later I have almost forgotten what I was about to say. 

Housenameomancy. There’s probably an elegant Latin form just waiting to be used.

All I wanted to say was that Farfarway was how I’ve been feeling of late. Rather as though I’d got stuck, like Spring has this year, buds still not trusting the weather. I’d like to be able to report I’m out of it but that would be premature. Only benefit from my revelationary moment was that I have woken up a little. It’s sunny, I’ve planted a few wallflowers, made more birthday cakes, am fretting about where I want to go on holiday and if I can afford to go anywhere at all. After a spirited talk about Egyptian Tomb Art last week I want to rush off to Egypt but for several reasons that’s not practical. A trip to Shetland or Orkney is more likely.

Curling up in front of the TV or listening to music is an honourable way to spend the day in the winter, but sunshine disturbs that feeling of cosy smugness, the ‘I’m lucky to be here whilst the rest of the world has to work’ thought, replacing it with ‘I should be out there doing something with all this sunlight.’ 

It’s a complete drag.

*I do know someone who thinks the internet is the root of all evil. Sadly that person had reason, long after forming this opinion, to experience the consequences of its demonic properties. So many temptations within easy reach.  

More Dizzy.

I will get over this phase, but at the moment my heart belongs to Dizzy. 

She will eventually be about 12" at the withers. Smaller than Chloe had thought! Taller than my friends' dachshund or a toy poodle of our acquaintance but still very small. I've always been snooty about tiny dogs - shall have to get over that! She looks so fragile she worries me. Our Jack Russell was small but all muscle, bustle, and ego, so much, much bigger in presence! Dizzy is, true to her breed it seems, very needy of humans. She cried heartbreakingly when left on her own in Chloe's kitchen and didn't stop, like most dogs do, when Chloe reappeared. She clung to Chloe and sobbed into her neck! Really sobbed - no other word for it I'm told.  I will therefore be seeing a lot of her when Chloe is working once Sandy goes back to school or whilst he is sailing. There goes freedom.

She's very photogenic though and Danielle, (who likes to take photos of Nature) seems like her, so perhaps the other grandparents will babysit too. She behaved beautifully when invited for afternoon tea on Easter Monday, using her puppy pad rather than their floor which won them over completely! 

Sailing has replaced ponies in Sandy's life. His pony was happily re-homed some time back and he is now getting the benefit from the nearby bay that his uncle got 16 years ago - it seems like yesterday to me!