The piazza is empty, the evening
constitutional cancelled.
No grandmothers in widows’ weeds
taking the air, no beautiful,
dutiful daughters on the arms of
watchful mothers, no men in
tweed caps and jackets swapping
stories and cigarettes.
And the boys on their mopeds,
the black-haired, black-eyed boys,
have all ridden off into what’s left
of the sunset under a sky as violet,
as violent as a bruise.
Something very exciting happened about two weeks ago……I met up with a proper poet who went through some of my work and told me that she thought I should be trying to get published. I was gobsmacked as we say over here, but really, really pleased. When I started writing poems about nine months ago, that wasn’t my goal but the more I’ve written and read, the more passionate I’ve become about poetry and I want to try and push myself to the next level…….and I might fall off the rockface but at least I’ll have tried.
So if it looks like I’ve not been writing I have, just keeping some stuff back to send off (me and a blogging friend have teamed up and are working at getting our poems out there together). I’m trying to step up my game — and it’s interesting how much more focused you are when rejection’s on the line — I’m pretty happy with some of what I’m producing, spending about four or more hours a day writing, revising and as much time again reading — that’s pretty much a full-time job, done when the boys are at school and asleep and sometimes when they’re very wide awake and creating havoc *grin*.
I have been trying to think of a way round posting what I’m writing but unless I password protect everything, it’s impossible (and why oh why do magazines care about work having been seen in blogs? I don’t get it, really I don’t….I understand in the case of online journals but not print mags). I don’t know, I might go that way yet, for now I will probably only post two or three times a week.
When the boys break up, I have no idea what I’m going to do because my writing time will be drastically cut, plus we are going away for a while. Who knows? I just know I’m happy for the first time in years, I feel like I’m working towards a goal and I’ve needed that for the longest time — I was floundering now I’m afloat. And it only took someone to believe in me….well aside from my family but I work on the principle that they’re biased (ps all the support here has helped hugely, so big, big thanks).
From Christine Swint’s beautiful prose poem, Barefoot boy, inspired by Rick’s painting
c
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topsyturvy words
is he reading or dreaming
barefoot boy
nobody listening but cheetah
and tall tall tulip tree
fanning her heartshaped leaves
slowly she curls a root round his waist
scatters silver petals
intent as sweet as a kiss and
the topsyturvy words swirl into alphabet soup
conjure a dragon with butterscotch scales
outstretched wings to hide the sun
listen to the hiss of the long grass
listen to the rise and fall of dragon’s breath
thinks Cheetah meditating
his observation keeping barefoot boy reading
dragon breathing
tulip tree rooted and
drifting in the tale
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The amazing Christine (mariacristina) and I collaborated for this week’s readwritepoem prompt, which was to revise and recycle a poem…..we decided to work from each other’s prose poems and I chose this one as I loved the magical story she’d woven and I loved the painting too (of course I did *grin*)………and I’ve got to say this was an incredibly tricky exercise as I wanted to be true to Christine’s mystical voice and the spirit of her story and it took a lot longer than I’d anticipated but it was fun. Thanks so much for collaborating, Christine, and thanks for being such a fantastic writing partner too.
Lugubrious, her demeanour, like some
Dickensian character, top hat, stooped back.
She promises us he’ll look just fine and she should know,
she’s the one whose job it is to wash, shave –
leaving four or five cuts which upset me
though they can’t have hurt –
rouge the hollows of his cheeks to give the impression of
flesh and blood not a starched linen stretch.
I look at her hands, fingers nice and plump, no wedding ring,
hands that dress the dead, artful artifice.
I wonder if she wears gloves?
Perhaps it’s like preparing a chicken,
the first touch is cold, unpleasant but you adjust.
She reaches up, tucks a stray curl behind an ear.
If I were her I’d knit at night, take a
lover with voracious appetites,
learn to play the piano or dance the flamenco,
keep those hands busy.
For the past few months an ever-growing group of us has been using Rick’s amazing paintings as prompts to write poems, prose pieces. He is a very gifted artist and a truly generous man who has set up a thriving community. And he is something else: an incredible writer, incredible. I’ve read poems of his in the past that have blown me away………..yesterday I read back to the beginning of his blog (actually I was looking for a painting but ended up being so distracted by the words, I forgot to look, only read) and I found more and more beautiful writing. Go read him, he’s brilliant.
Replenish me then, and when I’m ancient, take me home. When the skin of my heart no longer holds the things I’ve said and done collect me, carry me in your arms back into the changing room, lay me out among friends and empty me of witness and experience. (In Memory of Ann Bunting-Mock)
And he’s a great guy too *big smile*. To you, so many, many thankyous and good luck with the upcoming arrival (Rick’s wife Naomi is about to have baby number two).
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.
Is there something on your mind,
I asked,
the tilt of her head so coquettish,
the food a feast, shyly,
a glass raised to her lips, she said
she wanted to model for me.
I married for money, did not speak
of work beyond the occasional tally of
a sitting for this, a sale for that but
two jugs of wine for god’s sake, cassoulet.
Fed, pissed, I agreed.
So here she is my canvas,
her body veridian darkened with ash,
highlights of burnt sienna, skin stippled
with my softest horsehair brush and
she lies back as if she were born to it,
legs akimbo, hand tenderly cupping a breast,
sex on display like an open clam
and her rising from it,
Botticelli’s Venus.
s
This painting is by the wonderful, fantabulous, miraculous Mr Mobbs. His painting prompts are inspirational; swing by, join in. Thanks again, my friend.
when I watch you breathe
I see that you are not dead
but you are not living
are some place inbetween
your body working by reflex
a chrysalis
a husk shucking
shucking
when I watch you breathe
your chest inflates like
bellows then the rattle
the rasp of release
I am riding on your shoulders
touching sky birds trees
safe
when I watch you breathe
your mouth hangs open
unable to speak
I can hear you reading
in a hole in the ground there lived
when I watch you breathe
I don’t
I stop
out of respect for your struggle
my heart slows
my heart whispers
beat
c
This is for the readwritepoem prompt to open a poem with the first line of Lucille Clifton’s Miss Rosie — when I watch you.
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