If there had been magic

A poem of mine, inspired by Cath Barton's photo of Patrishow church (full colour version in her gallery at the Camel Saloon; I don't have a clue as to why this is reproducing in b/w) is now up at the Camel Saloon:   http://thecamelsaloon.blogspot.com/2011/04/if-there-had-been-magic.html

Friends of friends

Jenny’s friends
five couples.
all who’d heard
of the other four
and knew by name.

All trying to remember
what they’d heard
and which particular
traits and foibles
appertained to each.

Us the latest on the scene.
(colleagues since 1989),
others neighbours,
or met when children born,
and earlier ones since Uni.

And I could see
that some of these
could be friends with me
but others – no,
not ever!

Motorway count

1 silhouetted cyclist on a bridge

2 Greek originating trucks

3 knee-cramped head-down arse-up bikers

4 bicycles on top of silver car,

we followed from the A46 to Halford

5 white lit signs above the road

each indicating ‘End’

(though goodness only know of what)

and in the service station

6 fat snackers eating crisps

Awoken to Passion

Her grandparents had called it ‘The Temple’, their son-in-law (her father), mischievously, ‘The Pretension’ but Virginia’s innocent and happy memories, of picnics, summer charades and pre-teen cigarettes within its marble walls had been overlaid with last night’s hard, grasping hands, hot panting breath and a forcing, an invasion, a rape ... except that she hadn’t exactly fought him off.

And instead of horror, her abiding memory is of overwhelming sensation and a transportation of herself into a realm of pleasure of which she had been previously ignorant ...

But who brought her to this state?   Which of her parents’ weekend houseguests found her asleep there, and awoke her to more than the cool night air?   She does not know, but eager to repeat the experience she devises a series of questions designed to eliminate five of the six candidates and identify the perpetrator within the next twenty-four hours.

[148]

This is week #8’s response to Lisa Ricard Claro’s Book Blurb Friday challenge and Sioux Roslawski’s photograph.   Each week Lisa posts a photograph which represents a book cover.   Participants are challenged to “Write a book jacket blurb (150 words or less) so enticing that potential readers would feel compelled to buy the book”   

http://www.writinginthebuff.net/p/book-blurb-friday.html

not quitting, but at least ahead

Today's poem is done for Jo Prescott,
and Thursday plot-changing T10

The Blurb book of Orcadian neolithic
is well on the way to all done

A failed competition submission
has been sent to the Camel Saloon

And I've sorted insubordinate lovers
so they're singing a different tune.

Tomorrow to a wedding in Somerset
re-stocking my notebook again.

Muse takes over

A chapter of a novel

writes itself.

I did not know

that she would want,

again,

to sleep with him,

that she would risk

her marriage

and perhaps her life ...

But currently they

are by the bed,

and he’s undressing her.

Today

The seventeenth of April

One of those coincidental days

which sets up false connections,

statistics say don’t mean a thing.

But because the seventeenth of April

Was the day of my Dad’s birthday

I noticed and remembered it,

twice incised on a memorial stone

Effie born in eighteen ninety-one in Timaru

Died in childbirth, buried in Ymir

exactly twenty three years later,

The seventeenth of April

[this has been submitted to Jo Prescott, but is also relevant to today so I am including it here]

A couple of blackbird poems

Acknowledgement

Solitary blackbird

soon becomes dawn chorus.

No likelihood of that

in my bed

so I arise and write one for myself.

Joke dawns

That 5 a.m. blackbird is telling frog jokes again

(he’s male so keeps repeating it)

I don't follow the preamble

but get the ‘ribbit, ribbit’ punchline every time.

[both written in response to Jo Prescott's National Poetry Month challenge]

Calling on the seven gods of luck

 A motor-caravan had been fun for a honeymoon but to celebrate the seventh anniversary of a marriage which felt as arid as the river they were camped beside, it was fast becoming a recipe for disaster.

Disaster, however, came from a different direction, providing far bigger challenges than believing that Dan had selected his pretty fitness coach purely for her professional skills, that Leonora really did have to go on all those business trips, and that her suspected pregnancy might make, not break, their marriage.  

Already alarmed by a lone woman fellow-camper claiming to know something from Dan’s past and  concerned about Leonora’s stomach cramps - indigestion or something worse? - the realisation that the overnight storm has created a flash flood which will engulf them unless they learn to trust and co-operate ratchets tensions to a level where failure to adapt will reduce their chances of survival.

This is week #7’s response to Lisa Ricard Claro’s Book Blurb Friday challenge and Lyn Obermoeller’s photpgraph.   Each week Lisa posts a photograph which represents a book cover.   Participants are challenged to “Write a book jacket blurb (150 words or less) so enticing that potential readers would feel compelled to buy the book”   

http://www.writinginthebuff.net/p/book-blurb-friday.html

'Occasional cloud' at Pygmy Giant

For those that would like to know, 'Occasional cloud', a follow-up to 'Occasional sunshine', is now on Pygmy Giant http://ning.it/gLcAZs

Presence not presents

Every birthday of a child

holds a memory of that first day.

for it’s mother

Today an echo of Matthew’s birth,

began early, at dawn.

His serious gaze

meeting mine, reassuring

before we were parted,

temporarily.

[This was finished too late to be included in Jo Prescott's challenge yesterday, when it would have been more appropriate]

Searching for a T shirt for a wedding

I’ve got the trousers – black and long and just size twelve

(the website said to get a size too small because they stretched on wearing)

and the jacket is a beauty – one I bought in New Orleans

(and doesn’t that sound good: “Oh! one I bought in New Orleans”)

It’s silk and black and silver, long-line and fits a treat.

I bought a long-sleeved silk-look grey T shirt last week

But that looked dreary (grey often does on me)

So I thought a vivid pink, or even emerald green ...

But nothing in the shops today

And I resisted buying “it’ll do” for once,

not entirely ‘cause I’m at long last learning,

but I know I’ve got my trusty sleeveless black.

This has already appeared on Jo Prescott's site and the brand new Lit Fire begun by Jared Handley - check it out for some absolutely top quality writing.

Important disclaimer:  I do NOT like shopping

Yesterday's offer for National Poetry week on Jo Prescott's site

Anyone can make a mistake

Four has always been my lucky number

fourth of the fourth doubly so

forty-four plus four years ago

I reluctantly returned

from a weekend with a school friend

for a youth club visit.

Fifty-nine club,

Ton-up vicar,

Lambeth

Open-mouthed at Mods

Spotted dresses

Shoulder-twitching

Head down circling

Bags on floor.

Not us!

We laughed together

Danced and smiled and talked.

Snogged on the coach all the way home

Fell into a rosebush

And he asked me out.

My Dad said ‘Prospects?, ‘A’ levels?’

And ‘not on his motorbike!’

And I replied

‘just the pictures, that’s all!

I’m not going to marry the man!’

Poem a day for Jo Prescott

I'm not sure I'll manage this every day in April but my struggles with Script Frenzy have inspired the first three for Jo Prescott's Dare which celebrates National Poetry Month:

Frenzy begins before Script
MuDJob celebration
Request for information
Practice nurse to tell me not to drink

Lisa’s Friday Book Blurb
and Lily Child’s ‘Prediction
Amy’s ‘Rightful Place’ has just arrived


Silent movie?
Cast assembled
Stage set
Software loaded
Me struck dumb


Script failure
I can’t make Shenanigans talk
like Sean can talk
Can’t break their silence
as Bridie does
Can’t put words in their mouths
Can’t bring them to life
And can’t even care ...