Followers

I'm feeling a bit miffed that the followers tabs were altered the other day.

I have LOVED having those little square shots there in the sidebar of my blog. I've moved the block down the page, so they are still there, but I'm hoping that none of you have felt offended at being moved down! 

I'm afraid I just don't like the look of the new format and hope that once the try outs are over, I might be able to chose a different look and restore you all to a more dignified spot with layout to match!! 

Fingers crossed.

Melting pot 9

It's been a while since I last posted a Melting Pot. Here's some of what I'm up to at the moment.

• On my coffee table - Woodpecker Point - Carmel Bird, The Price of Water in Finistere - Bodil Malmsten, The Wild Places - Robert Macfarlane
• On my music stand - Bach Partita in d minor for solo violin
• On my iPod - La Juderia - Yasmin Levy
• From the allotment - leeks, parsnips

Lush

They kick it from the rooftops, drag it from in between the tiles, peck and pull and gather in beaks intent on the richest pickings. Seagulls who elbow like jumble sale regulars, hurl the discards onto the street below.

They are reupholstering their chimney stack turret with vivid clumps of moss. At it since dawn, creaking and chunnering together like shushing conspirators who don't want the neighbours to hear the latest trends, they arrange and rearrange their new nest. Above the hiss of rush hour, above the crashing pouring drifts of glass from the recycling trucks, they are plumping up their green velvet cushions.

***

I couldn't resist. I picked one up and brought it home. On the table in front of me, it's a pillow of an atoll that fits into my hand. Close packed with lush forest where no light would reach the ground, it holds the damp like precious treasure, waits for the next drink of rain. And I am thinking that if I lived on the windblast of a chimney stack, it would make for a luxurious bed.

Flit

Ahead of me on the track

Wagtails flit.

They show me the interesting way home.

***

I am thrilled that Gordon Mason has been inspired to write some poetry in response to some of my music that he heard on my myspace page. One of these poems - Lark Lane, is posted here with a link for you click on if you would like to hear the music as well. Gordon will be posting another piece like this soon, and we are hoping to do another piece along these lines as well, so watch this space!

Lacquer black

The first time we were close, I was gazing out of a window. Lost in the poetry of your words, I was drifting over bare red bricks and the black mirror stillness of a canal going nowhere and old mill chimneys long before the developers snapped them up. 

The damp rooftops watched you stroll around the corner ahead of me, along the ankle breakers of cobble stones on a street that so rarely saw the sun. Raincoated, humming softly, you shouldered the low hunch of the cloud blanket. 

I was still running after you as the greying town gave in to the violent lush rush of greens and snaking climbing walls along valleys that flooded at every turn. And I knew there were places you wanted to show me, but I was held captive, still listening, caught on the brambles of one image in the orange-lit room, to someone reading your river run, in the pooled reflections on the lacquer black grand piano as day drew in.

Battered bright yellow

In the Rosemary bush near the shed, I tied the bundle into branches that are about to burst into purple grey flowers. Shadows of those branches came into sharp focus on the blue paper and I felt the dry grit of ground up ends of pastels on my fingers, remembered that grains of yellow, orange and dark blue went inside the wrappings the other day. I tied tight knots in the white string as the Crow fidgeted and faked falling within the dark silhouette of ivy clad trees.

On the corrugated fence we inherited from unknown people who tended this piece of land before, shadows against the battered bright yellow make me stop and gaze. Around the claw of a bent hook, a left over string from tying up the towering Sunflowers that last Summer insisted on turning their backs on us and looking out across the neighbour's plot instead, casts a beautiful image. On the machine-made wavelets of the fence, the shadow of the string is like a captured moment of an arabesque danced barefoot on a darkened stage to a silent audience. It's unravelling twists are ringlets in the kind of hair I used to dream of having. 

Beneath it, on the edging sleeper, new moss ventures out along the grain, like a tiny hint of parallel bright rivers that might one day run to a delta beneath that yellow wall.

I picked three leeks for the soup I have been waiting for, knocked wet soil from their pristine whiskery roots, could smell them all the way home.

Trip

From across the room, I catch sight of my gear beside the door, all packed up for my rehearsal. Instrument, equipment, amp. Ready to go. It looks like I'm about to go on a trip. And I guess I am.

Word tag

I have been tagged!! I have to list at least 5 things I do to support and spread a love of the written word, then tag 5 people.

• I write every day, with a pen and paper, no matter where I am or what I am up to.
• After many years of nagging from me, my Mum has finally started to write the stories she has told of her long and interesting life. Now she has 2 volumes of work and wonders why she didn't start it sooner.
• I am a library addict. Always have been. It's one of the great pleasures in life.
• I set up this blog last Summer and it has become far more than I ever imagined. It has been a great way to explore my own writing, to find readers and to connect with other creative folks. I have been lucky to find a supportive sense of community here and I wouldn't ever want to be without it.
• I still write real letters with a pen and paper to people nearest and dearest to me. Sometimes, I get a reply that isn't an e mail.
• In my music work with youngsters, I encourage them to talk about the books and writing that interests them. This has given me a whole new list of books to read and writers to try out, although I have to say that I am keener to try out their tips than they are of mine. I have a current interest in picture books. This seems to make eight year olds go very quiet. A couple of them have told me in serious and hushed tones that this is bonkers given that I can obviously read.
• I am starting to write letters to some of the writers I am inspired by. Their work has taken on a whole new importance now that I am attempting to take my own writing further.
  

I would like to tag Crafty Green Poet, Sarah Salway, Fiona Robyn, Gordon Mason and Jem.

Dis in teg ra tion

I have wrapped up this bundle to take part in Disintegration manifestation. It's a project of Seth's which you can read about at The Altered Page. 

Of course - and I knew this would happen - I got so carried away in the whole thing that now I've wrapped everything up, I can't quite remember what I did include! 

Anyway, there is a piece of rusty metal from the beach which I hope might make pleasant bleeds onto some of the other materials which include watercolour paper with gesso daubed about on it, red tissue paper which I expect to weep suitably along with a tea bag and a rosehip tea bag, poetic lines of mine written in soluble ink - one written on a card luggage label, white silk waste, a strange papery bark-like material that came in a bag of off cuts from the artshop clearout, ragged handmade paper, a flattened square of copper, copper wire.......And it all comes wrapped inside blue rag paper, secured with rafia ties and a web of wires.

It will be going to my allotment next time I venture there, where I will tie it to the Rosemary bush just in case a raging storm tries to sweep it away on a journey before May 1st.

Question is, will those bored and curious Crows find it? Should I bury it just in case? Will be thinking on these things as I have a cup of tea.

Boost

Robyn form Art Propelled has presented me with the Dardos Award this week and I am delighted and honoured to receive such an acknowledgment.

Regular readers of this blog will know that I have found the dark and gloomy cold of this English Winter particularly restrictive on my inspirational activities of being out and about on hills, beaches, or my allotment. Some days, my writing has been very thin on the ground and having this blog has helped me see some small projects through when the rain was beating down for the sixth day in a row. So, this is award is a huge boost for me. Thanks again, Robyn.

The Dardos Award is given for recognition of cultural, ethical, literary and personal values transmitted in the form of creative and original writing. These stamps were created with the intention of promoting fraternization between bloggers, a way of showing affection and gratitude for work that adds value to the Web.

The rules -

1) Accept the award by posting it on your blog along with the name of the person that has granted the award and a link to his/her blog. (Note: Don't forget to copy and paste the award jpeg itself to include on your own blog!)

2) Pass the award to another 5 blogs that are worthy of this acknowledgement, remembering to contact each of them to let them know they have been selected for this award.

Here are the blogs I have chosen, including one that is a new find for me, which is a visual blog rather than a literary one.

• Gordon Mason
• Cynthia
• Leslie Avon Miller
  
• New find - Black and White

I know some people are not into such things as tags etc. It's not compulsory! However, I have loved reading these blogs over the last months and hope that others might enjoy the recommendation of an interesting and inspiring new read.

Go on then. Click!!

Morning star

Brilliant, behind the curtains, I open up the day to see the morning star that seems to pierce the blue. I can still see it when I look away.

The light seems to have suddenly changed, like we have peeped round a corner to look towards the sun again after too long facing into the earth's shadow. 

in between

in between the other stuff

and the tax office call 

while thinking about something or other 

between work sessions

after that strange conversation

that left me confused

while wondering what's for dinner

before the sharp focus of those tricky pieces

and the final goodbye of the working day

in this chaos 

in between all this other stuff

the words came 

pouring out of my pen

as if to mock the free time I had yesterday

when few words emerged 

and I went and walked in the miserable rain 

and came home to tidy out a drawer 

to take my mind off it

Leeks

It felt like the right thing to do. 

In between curtains of rain that fell sudden, like dark curtains unable to wait for the end of the act, I went and sat beside my Leeks. They held silver beads of rain in bowls between the leaves.

And for half an hour, on the wet and clagging earth, the sun warmed away that awful death chill of damp that has brought my plot visits to the absolute minimum over the last 6 weeks or so.

I came away empty handed, left the Leeks to enjoy this gift of sun some more in the hope that next time they will be taller, thicker and greener, and that the soup will be even more fragrant.

Courage

He's heavy in my pocket. Where it reaches his frown, that rusted metal comes to a harsh point that catches against the lining of my coat, takes me by surprise and scratches my hand.

His cold grey face that never seems to warm up, is almost heart-shaped. He looks ancient from the sea's battering and from the restless and ruthless tumbling among thousands of other stones being dragged by the tides. 

Like some strange artifact, like he has tales to tell about sadness and courage, I think I should look at him more often.

Scree screen

The gull circles again, to tilt and glide above the blast of  grey green sea. Behind the high wall, on the scree screen of shifting stones, a dark beached star lies in the brittle white of sudden sun. 

Black coat and jeans. Hat and gloves. A dark orange scarf whose fringes brush against cheeks. Two pairs of socks beneath the favourite old walking boots that can't be worn in the rain anymore. Enough heat to lie still for half an hour. Wishing the grill was a little hotter.

Moss

Against a sky of newly hewn slate, small forests of moss glint with tiny ice flecks. They are populating the top of the wall, venturing closer to the door when they think no-one is looking, staying motionless at the violent crack of a footfall on an icy puddle across the street.

Restless hedge

Too long in the dark restless hedge of Winter, I am taking pleasure in small things. 

Forgotten in the freezer, I found a portion of spicy sweet potato soup that I savoured at lunch time like rare gold nectar. As I write, pink red chunks of rhubarb are falling in on themselves, cheering the house with the warm company of an added clove. And for tomorrow, there are blueberries to stain the pale rims of pancakes.

I had a decent walk today, without feeling chilled through to my bones, without snow falling on me, without the wind nearly blowing my ears off, without getting soaked to the skin.

And best of all, the daylight hung around later, like a friend who didn't want to go home.

Anvil

Behind the copse

a purple anvil cloud

bleeds orange 

into the slow evolve 

of a stained glass scene.

Branches like leads

frame windows of 

a vast cathedral sky.

Hammered out pastels

spill the colours

of bargain rail shirts.

 

Erratics

Captive in the slow snow melt, shrinking headless snowmen stand like lonely erratics on the greening plains of the park.

Seven swans sleeping

Away from the shallows 

like marker buoys

moored above the black waves of night

seven swans sleeping

heads tucked into the down 

of shielding wings.

Snow rush

Just home from a weekend away, the snow still runs towards me in the image rush of stillness after too many hours on the road. 

Breathtakingly beautiful Elms and Oaks make majestic lines across immaculate fields, with each branch caressed by white. In the pristine of whiteout, whooping ribboning black tracks of sleds animate the slopes of the North Downs. 

Smiling wobbly-headed snow people stand guard beside us in the traffic jams on the M25. Enchanted forests straight out of a fairy tale, beckon and I want to stroll there and follow my own footprints home.

***

One of my poems, Treasure, appears here today.

Thank you to Gordon at Catapult to Mars for choosing my piece.