We’re going to France (Brittany) for ten days. Friends from Holland are housesitting so I hope it’s all still standing when we return *grin*. I’ll miss you all. Hopefully I’ll get chance to do some writing when I’m away, at the very least I’ll gain a few pounds and chill out, which after this last year is much needed. I’ll get caught up on my googleyreader when I get home. Ta ta.
Submissions are open for the second issue of Asphalt Sky, a literary journal set up by Jessica Fox Wilson (I’m on the editorial board too). The deadline is 1st September, so please send in your poetry, prose, artwork. Here are the submission guidelines. The last issue was wonderful, join us!
I’ve decided to password protect occasional posts, like the one below, for reasons I mentioned a week or so ago. I trawled back through all my comment pages, and if you’re a regular reader or even an irregular one *grin*, I should have mailed you the password to the a/c you comment under. If you didn’t get the password and you’d like it, please mail me at johemmant @ gmail dot com. Hope this doesn’t make life too complicated and thanks again for reading. Have a fab weekend. J
I’ve been putting the finishing touches to a project, deadline fast approaching, and have had sports days and various other events this week. I’ll be back soon.
winter is charcoal
greyblack staining white skies
winter is gooseskin and squalls
waves that smash
silted light
is the fear that the boat that
took out four men may
not come back
she is sitting on the edge of a bed
having slept alone again
about to slip on a pair of stockings
leg lifted when
the thought of him gone
is like the intake of breath
before screaming
paralysing almost
releasing
and she cannot continue with
the many repetitions
that make a day
must get out run
down to the sea
where wind and tide
are a circus act
she stands on the shore waiting
her heart an offering as bloodwet
as the fish she guts when
the catch spills silver
from their nets
when
This poem came out of something I am working on with Rick, it wasn’t right for what I wanted there so now it’s here. Now in Read Write Poem.
The first issue of Asphalt Sky is up — an online literary journal conceived by Jessica Fox-Wilson (9 to 5 poet). I’m one of the editors and am very proud of it as there’s some fantastic poetry and prose and some wonderful art. A big thank you and well done to all the contributors. And take note that the next deadline for submissions is 1 September, so get writing/painting/clicking 
!
Mariacristina had this meme up and as I love music, I wanted to play along.
Think of THE song that most inspires you to write, whether it gives you an idea for a story, script or just puts you into a better frame of mind AND/OR peek into the lyrics and find a verse that sums up the theme of whatever project it is you’re working on. If possible, post a video of the song to convey to readers the full context of the song and the mood it puts you into. Finally, send the assignment to five other writers to do as well.
Like her, I can’t do it to the letter, but I will put up the three tracks which I listen to when I’m writing, and when inspiration is low, they usually work.
The Doors: Touch Me……there will never be another band to touch them. And the lyrics, perfect poetry, I’m gonna love you, till the heavens stop the rain, I’m gonna love you till the stars fall from the sky for you and I.
The Stone Roses: I am the Resurrection, sorry no decent movie for this, but it is the best song ever made in my ever so humble opinion. It needs to be full blast.
Razorlight: Somewhere Else
There’s lots of other stuff I listen to, most all of it indie, though I do love opera, classical, but these three are my motivators. If you want to play along, go for it.
For Mr Mobbs, who doesn’t know them (I love them). The Killers’ Mr Brightside from the album Hot Fuss.
I won’t be around much for the next couple of days as I’m going on a cookery course…….scandalously housewifish behaviour, my friends are very proud of me, ‘it’ll do you good to get away from writing’ delivered with much sucking of teeth and eye rolling and always followed with a sly ‘anything published yet’? Anyways, I’m a wee bit nervous about this course as most of the people who are taking it already cook at a fairly high level, ugh, so I’ve a feeling there’ll be a lot of winging it from me.
I love to cook, no scratch that, I love to eat and as I haven’t got the time or money to dine out every night, I have to feed my own greed. Actually cooking is one of the few practical things I do do (probably the only one if I think about it, no wait, that’s doing myself down, I play a mean game of pool and spent many a night in my youff hustling unsuspecting men who assumed that if a female stepped up to the baize she just wanted to flash her arse), I figured I give it a go.
I’m not a recipe follower, in fact I have some bizarre brain malfunction which means I find reading recipes or instruction manuals almost impossible, which I could never understand — can decode fairly complicated philosophical texts: cannot programme VCR — but I read an article somewhere which said that it is a trait common to highly emotional brains (that’d be mine)…….but back to cooking, for me it’s instinct, a pinch of this, a soupcon of that…….that wonderful moment where you lift a lid and get hit by the pure poetry of ten smells amingling, mmmm but like I say, it’s mostly about the eating. Back to poetry soon.
You have been ill, a virus, fever, aches and neither of us have slept properly for nights, drifting between waking and sleeping, tidal, confused, dreaming disquieting fragments, coming too soon to days that seemed drugged, edges planed, smoothed, sounds raised by semitones, cloudlight fluorescing. And your birthday lost to fever, clown-cheeked, eyes glittering, unnatural, wanting only to be held, a hot, restless weight, arms and legs tendrils winding, your body fusing to mine again. I had so much to do but I sat with you conjuring the oldest magic from the simplest truth that mothers make you well. Finally yesterday afternoon you began to move around, laughing, asking for food, smiles starting slow ending halfmoon. After you’d gone to bed, I put on a black dress to go to a party where exhausted I drank wine, talked, laughed, constantly checking my phone for messages, feeling relieved and strangely lost.
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