Simon on writing

The poet's prayer

noreply@blogger.com (Simon) — Sun, 09 Oct 2011 22:58:00 +0000

Or, felt like being romantic and I was bored, so ... well, there you are.

Oh wind
great gale from the north
with your icy fingers lift
me up and hurl me
into the midst of the winter
whence the spring of inspiration comes.

Raise me through the falling leaves of hopelessness
to the snows of night to sleep

mayhap to dream
of the movement of spring branches
the lark
the kestrel
or apples in an orchard.

Set me down on the frozen ground
your cold searing through my veins
through every bone and muscle
and let me lie there
frozen and lifeless until

the sun
of the morning
of the year brings me
to a new height of clarity

a peak of inspired extasy.

Or failing that
let me have an idea soon
because this
is a load
of ...

Reading matter

noreply@blogger.com (Simon) — Sun, 02 Oct 2011 22:46:00 +0000

I haven't posted anything here for a while, so thought I'd dig something out of my fairly recent efforts. This is a poem that came out of a reading exercise I found on the net. The exercise said to try to make a poem out of some book titles you have on your shelves. This is my attempt.

Reading Matter.
(Found poetry).

You can teach yourself
piano by ear
if you have
the time and materials.

You don't need a spirit level
to balance
new poetry
with jazz sketches.

All it takes is for you
to know the game.

SJC

Contentment

noreply@blogger.com (Simon) — Sun, 14 Aug 2011 19:53:00 +0000

I spotted a small mistake in this poem, in the stanza about the cars, so have amended it. This is the updated version. I've changed 'only half the fun' to 'at least half the fun', the updated version making more sense.

Contentment.

A gentle sun warms the air
so that stepping outside
is like crawling
under the softest woolen blanket
after a late-night shower.

The birds, resting in the trees
tweet what sounds like
the occasional greeting
to one another--
hunting can wait till later.

The cars on the street outside
sound as though getting to their destination
is at least half the fun.

The cat, having finished her lunch
trots into the bedroom
and with a light leap onto the bed
settles down for her afternoon nap.

I could stand a month
of these Sundays.

SJC

Night Time

noreply@blogger.com (Simon) — Fri, 29 Jul 2011 06:01:00 +0000

Out the back door, the birds
are fast asleep in their nests
A car whispers by
on the street out front.
I stand in my kitchen
savouring the last cup of Earl Grey
I'll have, till morning
the aroma of my evening meal tempting me
to open the fridge one more time.

I walk out of the room
looking forward to the time
when morning will grasp the volume control
and turn it back up.

SJC

Impressions

noreply@blogger.com (Simon) — Sun, 03 Jul 2011 12:03:00 +0000

Can't decide what to do with this poem, so thought I'd post it here. I'd love to know what you think of this--is it too private a poem? Does it need more, less? Anything else you'd like to tell me about it. Here it is, anyway.

Impressions.

When I was a child
I sat at the kitchen table
after breakfast
Pressing moulds
into play dough
the moulds
ceramic to the touch
carved
so that they'd leave a raised mark, a portrayal.

I skimmed my fingers
over the raised parts of the dough
were they animals? People?
Buildings? Scenes?
I could feel something
A bunch of raised lines and squiggles
but nothing I recognized...

After we pressed ourselves in to each other
your lips on my lips
your body on my body
your hand in my hand
leaving impressions
I wondered
if you thought you could read
the impressions, too.
Maybe, at first, you were just as in awe of them
as I was
and just as mistaken.

Well the dough has been smoothed out again now
rolled into a ball
flattened
and made ready
for the next pressing down
and peeling off.

Paradox

noreply@blogger.com (Simon) — Tue, 28 Jun 2011 08:46:00 +0000

Like the girl who
not afraid of a dragon
didn't like the needle that would prick
sleeping beauty's finger
My grandmother
was no stranger
to paradox.
'I love oranges,' she would say
'but can't stand marmalade.'

She made the most amazing cheese and plain scones, too
firm on the outside, moist on the inside
perfectly ridged, like an enlarged fifty pence piece
ideal for taking
butter and jam.

Afternoon teas were luxurious
when they were involved
after a tuna or salmon sandwich
and with a cup of tea.

You couldn't tell her you liked something though
for years, I couldn't eat
wine gums.

SJC

Meet my cat

noreply@blogger.com (Simon) — Mon, 06 Jun 2011 06:59:00 +0000

In the header of this blog now, is a picture of my kitty, Jamila. Well, more my boss really--I read some time ago that dogs have owners, and cats have staff. She is, as the caption says, laying prone on a counter in our kitchen. I read, some time ago, that cats can be muses so here's hoping that including her here will make it easier to come up with things to write about--I sure could use a hand with such things. Hopefully too, she wont' be too harsh a critic. :D

I'm Published!

noreply@blogger.com (Simon) — Wed, 01 Jun 2011 00:59:00 +0000

This is a huge deal for me in that I never thought I'd ever get any of my stuff accepted anywhere, but it has been! I've just had a poem of mine, Reverse Psychology, published over at Referential Magazine. I'd like to thank everyone over at Referential for a beautifully accessible website, extremely straightforward and well layed-out guidelines, for a pretty damn cool magazine, and of course for accepting my little piece. I'm so encouraged by this it's amazing.

Does fear lurk in your kitchen of enthusiasm?

noreply@blogger.com (Simon) — Fri, 27 May 2011 06:30:00 +0000

Here's another article from Shery Russ, the creator of WriteSparks, my favourite writing program available from www.writesparks.com. I now have a random number generator which you can use for this activity. Just change the big number to 5 and click the Generate button and you're off.
Here's Shery:

*****
Whether you write fiction or nonfiction, it's important to write with clarity, not with vagueness. By communicating yourself in concrete, specific images,
you help your readers understand you (and your poem/story).

Today's activity has two parts. You may or may not do the second part, if you'd rather concentrate on the first part. Don't skip the first part, though,
because the second activity relies on what you'll be able to concoct in the first.

So crack your knuckles, pull out your keyboard (or sharpen your pencils) and let's begin.

First, pick a number from 1 to 5:

1. cave
2. garden
3. backyard
4. kitchen
5. teacup

Next, you guessed it, pick another number from 1 to 5:

1. joy
2. enthusiasm
3. relief
4. love
5. gratitude

Combine your two choices and you're off! What's your location? In a cave of love? Have you ever found yourself in the kitchen of gratitude? How about finding
relief in a teacup?

Brainstorm and list specific/concrete images for your place. Concrete images can be anything -- fictional, nonfictional, whimsical, philosophical, you
name it. You can come up with a list by asking yourself:

~ What happens in the garden of joy?
~ What's cooking in the kitchen of gratitude?
~ What happens after you drink in a teacup of relief?
~ How is it to be inside the cave of enthusiasm?
~ What things would be happening in the backyard of love?

Brainstorm for at least 5 minutes. Don't worry if the first few images you brainstorm are bland. As your list grows longer, the more interesting your images
will become.

The first part is metaphorical and you'll likely find yourself writing a poem. However, you take your piece where you want to. If at any point in your
brainstorming, you get a story idea, then by all means, pursue it.

Now for the second part. Are you ready? Again, choose any number from 1 to 5:

1. hate
2. guilt
3. pride
4. anxiety
5. fear

Now put the emotion you chose in your location/place. Plop it down, drop it like a bomb, sneak it in, etc. Make this emotion "disrupt" the generally feel-good
ambiance of your place. It's the conflict.

What's pride doing in your backyard of love? Why is fear hanging about in the cave of enthusiasm? What's guilt doing in a teacup of relief? Again, brainstorm
for reasons or for the things this disruptive emotion could cause.

So knock yourself out with this writing activity. If you'll excuse me, I need to make sure there aren't icky wiggling worms of anxiety and fear trying
to make a home in my garden of enthusiasm.

Copyright (c) 2004 Shery Ma Belle Arrieta-Russ

Shery created WriteSparks! - a software that generates over 10
*million* Story Sparkers for Writers. Download WriteSparks! Lite
for fr*e -
http://writesparks.com

Dear book company

noreply@blogger.com (Simon) — Thu, 26 May 2011 06:30:00 +0000

This is kinda sorta based on a real event, but embellished and generally blown out of all proportion for the sake of poetry. Enjoy, anyway.

Dear book company.

I am writing to you
well already have
evident by the presence
of my letter
in your intray
to inform you of some changes
I am making
to my subscription payments.

Firstly, commencing from
my next payment date
I will be paying you half
the price of my subscription.

The month after
there will be a further decrease to a quarter
of the original price.

The month after that
I will increase the payment
but only by 10%
this, of course, is to encourage you
to think, wrongly, that I eventually intend to pay
full price soon after.

The following months' payment
will decrease again
by 40%
and thereafter by 10%
until I am finally paying
nothing at all.

These payment reductions
are in line with the changes you have made
to your website
rendering it completely inaccessible
to anyone who doesn't have 20-20 vision.

Thank you
for your understanding.

SJC

Sudden burst of laughter from a guy on the street outside my door

noreply@blogger.com (Simon) — Fri, 06 May 2011 22:49:00 +0000

This one came about when I heard just that--a guy laughing outside my door on the street. Also ever since I heard a poem by Gwendolyn Brooks the other day I've been wanting to write a poem with a really long title. Here's my rather random attempt.

Sudden burst of laughter from a guy on the street outside my door

What if , instead of a joke
told to him by a friend or loved one
or a sudden attack
of schadenfreude, as someone became
gravity's unlucky victim
he could do nothing but laugh
when he thought of the perfect plan
to start his attempt at world domination
using a hamster wheel
and half a tube of toothpaste?

SJC

Freeze frame

noreply@blogger.com (Simon) — Fri, 29 Apr 2011 06:42:00 +0000

A poem I wrote for the April PAD challenge, day 16--the snapshot poem.

Freeze frame.

We huddle in the kiln-hot living-room
rich smoke
from thin cigars
hanging in the air.

My grandmother, father
mother, sister
niece and nephew
on the sofa, armchairs
and floor.

My brother-in-law finds a space
as far from the open fire
as he can
to sit and start filming.

My father , flicking ash
says the only words we have of him
outside of memory
two words
to sum up why we're all packed
into that one room.

'Four generations'.

SJC

Don't look down, climb

noreply@blogger.com (Simon) — Mon, 18 Apr 2011 06:30:00 +0000

You start at the bottom, on familiar ground.
One hand, one foot, you slowly make progress upwards.
The sun on your back, the solid rock beneath you
the wind barely ruffling the hair on the back of your head.

Then, something makes you stop.
You realise how high you've climbed.
You freeze there, on your mountain
like some statue of a forgotten god

then remember the most invaluable advice you learned
from all who climbed before you and made it.
Don't look down, climb.

SJC

Gentle Protector

noreply@blogger.com (Simon) — Sun, 17 Apr 2011 07:36:00 +0000

This elegy is something I wrote for day 13 of the PAD challenge where we were to write about a relationship of some kind. This is a very fleeting memory of one of our school teacher's who passed away recently. I would like to thank everyone who has helped with the drafting of this poem, offering encouragement and advice on bits I could edit. You're all amazing. Here it is then.

Gentle protector
In memory of Mr Clive Richards.

It’s our lunch break.
Cricket bat hits ball
small voices murmur
through the thick, late spring air
shoes rustle through lazy grass.

He’s laying on our sports field
a steep bank behind him
the heat of the sun
everywhere else.
He’s on duty, watching over us.

One of us, a girl, comes up to him
calls him ‘lord Richards’
perhaps a smile
a grin
even a laugh
but no reprimand.

The school clock chimes
four descending notes
quarter of an hour left
before more spring-loaded lessons
ensnare our afternoon.

Immediately I heard of his passing
this short image came to me.
There are others, a voice here
a ghost of a feeling there
but nothing as strong as this picture
of a time when 30 was ancient
and an hour was a lifetime.

Now, when 30 is still young
and entire lifetime’s seem to go by
in a minute
I wonder at the brain’s ability
to recall such an innocent
everyday detail.

SJC

Too late

noreply@blogger.com (Simon) — Thu, 14 Apr 2011 06:30:00 +0000

Don't read this poem if you haven't read Ruth Rendell' story 'The copper peacock'. I strongly recommend you do read it anyway, and indeed the collection 'The copper peacock and other stories', it's a wonderful collection of short stories.

Here's the poem, anyway.

Too late
(After reading The copper peacock and other stories, by Ruth Rendell).

He couldn't help but notice her face
as she stood in the dining-room
offering him coffee.
Her black-eyed
split-lipped
bruised face.
And he believed her story
about falling against the kitchen door.

She who was one notch up from silent
when she cleaned for him.
Never dropping
never tripping
never even misplacing his books.
Yet she fell
at home
in her own kitchen.

He looked but didn't see.
He heard but didn't listen.
And in the end
when it was too late
he missed her gift.

SJC

Let poetry be your oasis

noreply@blogger.com (Simon) — Mon, 11 Apr 2011 06:30:00 +0000

Slow down
appreciate the space
pay attention to the words
how they sound
what they mean
where they are on the page
in your mouth
in the air...

A poem isn't a roller coaster
hurtling toward the next peak.
It isn't an emergency journey
blue light flashing
sirens blaring.
It's not a race
screaming toward the next metaphor, simile
image or startling statement.

Let poetry be your oasis, haven, sanctuary
your slow-moving, cool stream
in a clearing
in a forest
where you can lay
dip your feet in the water
and just be.

SJC

Two postcard poems

noreply@blogger.com (Simon) — Thu, 07 Apr 2011 06:30:00 +0000

I'm having a go at the Poem A Day Challenge over on Robert Lee Brewer's blog and one of the challenges is to write a postcard poem. A postcard poem is one he describes as brief, communicating what it is like where you are and with a personal message. I've decided on 6 or 7 lines for the main part of the poem and a cuplet or single line at the end for the personal message. Here's a couple I came up with earlier this week.

Postcard from the Big Dipper

I sit between my sister and brother-in-law
holding on tight to a thick, metal bar
that is supposed to stop us flying out
as the ground drops from beneath us
and we plunge to regain it.
We scream in chorus
like a choir of horror movie victims.

Wish you were here
instead of me.

Postcard to an absent loved one.

I sit writing
in a room 10 sizes too big
every keystroke
every breath
echoing as though there's an army
of writers here.

Hurry home.

SJc

Have you always been blind

noreply@blogger.com (Simon) — Wed, 16 Mar 2011 17:17:00 +0000

Here's another poem whose notes I've been sitting on for a while. Nothing came for ages, but now look what's happened. A small word of warning though, put your seat belt on, it ends rather abruptly.

Have you always been blind?

We're entering a residential area now .
There's posher houses here.
(With inside toilets?)

The roads are nice and clear
lots of snow forming a ridge in the middle.
(Better stay to one side, then).

We're passing a building called the DVLA now
looks like a giant Oxo cube.
(mmm, roast beef).

We'll be turning left in a minute
then going up hill.
(Thrilling. I wonder if I'll be able to feel it).

When we go under the motorway
the light will change.
(Hold me, I'm scared).

Can you see shadows?
(No, but I can feel pain and...)

SJC

The dream before the crash

noreply@blogger.com (Simon) — Tue, 15 Mar 2011 09:39:00 +0000

I sensed that I was in some sort of hall
warm, vast, old.
Near a wall.
Hovering...

I heard what sounded like a trapdoor closing
the sound of something heavy
echoing
metal on stone.

The hum of the engine faded back in
then, we were sliding over rain and oil.
'hold tight,' dad said,
'she's not going to stop'.

SJC

Heather

noreply@blogger.com (Simon) — Thu, 10 Mar 2011 01:03:00 +0000

Here's a shortish poem inspired by a memory of when I was a little kid--around 4 or 5 I think.

Update

I would like to thank each of you who have read this poem and commented, either direct to me or on the blog here--you have all been wonderful about it. One person in particular though, Jessie, has offered some great suggestions for it which I have now put to use. Here then, is the newly edited version.

Heather.

We were in the middle of the road.
She with a big, fur coat on
her hands on my shoulders
taller than me by miles
but gentle as a summer stream.
She was down on her haunches
down to my level.
We danced and sang
'You are the dancing queen...'
The only bit we knew.
She told me her name, in a voice so soft and kind
it's shaped my view of the name since,
'Heather.'

SJC

The reader

noreply@blogger.com (Simon) — Sun, 06 Mar 2011 00:18:00 +0000

He reads to find that feeling
of a momentary loss of location.
Like how time travel or teleportation
would make him feel, if he could experience it--
dizzy, disorientated,
not quite in one place or another.
All of those feelings
but better.

SJC

When I'm alone

noreply@blogger.com (Simon) — Fri, 18 Feb 2011 08:58:00 +0000

Here's a short list poem that came from a prompt out of a book on writing poetry I'm reading--'How to write poetry' by PAUL B. JANECZKO

When I'm alone I...

Talk to my cat
talk on the phone
think too much

write poetry
read poetry
doubt myself

watch TV
listen to the radio
wonder what it would be like somewhere else

wish I wasn't.

SJC

Hand-made Monday number 3 and an update

noreply@blogger.com (Simon) — Mon, 14 Feb 2011 16:03:00 +0000

First of all, it's Hand-made Monday number 3 over at 1st Unique Gifts - The Blog. Well worth checking out, for many reasons. First of all for what Wendy has to offer over there. Lovely hand-painted plaques, wall and door hangings, money boxes, clocks and so much more. Incredible products from an incredibel artist. Then there's the Hand-made Monday thing. It's what I call a mutual plug. Link to Wendy's blog, as I have here, and you can put a link to your blog as long as it's in-keeping with the theme--I'm told poems are hand-made, so I fit. :) Pop over there and check out 1st Unique Gifts folks, it's well worth the look.

As for what I've been up to, well quite a lot really. First of all there's the history course I've just started with the Open University. A fascinating course, but damn is it a challenge. This has meant, of course, that I've had to take my foot off the accellerator a bit as far as poetry goes. That doesn't mean I've stopped, by any means--I've got a few drafts I'm working on, including this one I'd like to show you.

The idea for this came from a prompt from Warwick University's Poetry Challenges podcast. A simple prompt of start each line with the words 'I curse you with' as I've done here. Here's how it is so far, anyway.

The curse

I curse you with a collared dove cooing on your TV aerial at 5 A.M.
I curse you with a phone call every time you go to shower.
I curse you with a car that refuses to start when you're late for work.
I curse you with the hiccups in the middle of your hottest date.

I curse you with the memory and attention-span of a fish.
I curse you with a barking dog in your nextdoor neighbour's garden.
I curse you with a news update interupting your favourite TV programme.

I curse you with the sneezes when you go to mow the lawn.
I curse you with a rainstorm when you go to wash the car.

So there!

Well, that last line is a filler, it needs to end differently to that, but as yet, I've no idea how. And, perhaps it ought to be a little shorter? Maybe cutting out the general stuff and leaving it more specific. What do you guys think?

Love poem: for noone in particular

noreply@blogger.com (Simon) — Fri, 11 Feb 2011 19:20:00 +0000

Look.
A young couple
sitting opposite each other.
Leaning as close as they can,
their whispers softer
than kitten fur
meant only for each other.
Their fingers touch
across the table
stay there for as long as they dare
then slowly,
reluctantly,
pull away.

Keep looking,
don't look away,
don't even blink
or you'll miss it.
There.
Too late.
They still sit
but now, as far away from each other as they can.
They reach for the salt at the same time
fingers meet for not even a second
they fly away
to their own spaces--
last year an apology,
this year not even that.

But if you, my love,
if you were here,
if we courted,
such an old-fashioned word,
if we dated,
such a casual word,
if we shared each others' time,
exchanged vows,
I would woo you
for the rest of my days.

SJC

Something funny

noreply@blogger.com (Simon) — Wed, 09 Feb 2011 19:58:00 +0000

This is for anyone who hates not being taken seriously.

Something funny.

Hold on,
wait a minute,
did I just say
something funny?
I've just told you something,
not a laugh, not a giggle,
not even a grin,
just words--
flat, ordinary, everyday words--
and you stand in front of me
and laugh. Why?!
I don't get the joke.

Does the thought of me
even talking about such things
let alone having acted on these words
go so completely against your expectations
that you have to laugh about it?

Are we so different?
Do we use different intonation,
speak different languages,
come from different planets?

Or is it just something you do in certain situations?
Regardless of what's been said,
do you just Laugh
as though you've just heard
the funniest thing imaginable.

Well I tell you one thing
right here
right now.
I hope we never wear
each other's shoes.

SJC