This is a very short post, mainly for the purpose of introducing a very short film I have just made for a poem recently written, called Unauthorised Use.
The poem is short, and fairly straightforward I think, so there is no need for me to speak about it at all, except to tell you when and where it will appear, so I’ll do that in a moment.
Before giving you the publishing information, however, I simply want to recount that I have just spent 100 minutes (no special significance in the number – it just worked out that way) in my back garden. Though I was ostensibly doing some rough weeding and digging, I spent some of the time attempting to commune with nature in the form of one bird initially, then that bird and its mate.
They were a pair of robins as it happens. Each individually, then as a pair, came fairly close to me. Cautious, but apparently confident I meant them no harm. When I whistled, attempting to imitate their song, they cocked heads to one side, listening but unimpressed. Their focus was more upon the earthworms my digging had uncovered but they showed me friendliness at the level of casual acquaintance before leaving.
I was reminded of my dad whistling to starlings when, as children, he took us on long walks. His whistle, as I recall, was much more musical than mine.
Anyway, all of that is relevant only to the extent that Unauthorised Use relates, at its simplest level, to the perception of birdsong by humans. It will appear in a massive poetry anthology called Summer Anywhere due to be launched, appropriately, in the summer. However, it can be pre-ordered now from hybriddreich.co.uk. (Click on ‘LATEST BOOKS HERE’.)
The film poem for Unauthorised Use is available on You Tube at this link:
This strange photograph, which to my eyes has the appearance of two fluffy poodles competing in a race against each other, was taken by my hairdresser following my recent appointment for a lockdown-style haircut. The photo captures the hair gathered up following that event.
It took me over nine months to grow those luxurious lockdown locks. They gave me great comfort during that period. In a school magazine decades ago I had a piece of prose published which described my slightly long hair at that time as ‘nature’s scarf’; my detached locks are now useful only for stuffing a couch (if they still do that kind of thing these days).
I genuinely have felt very much colder during the last eight days, and I’m conscious I’ve been a bit quieter too. There’s many reasons for my reduced volume but the chill has felt like a physical weakness.
Though I have never imagined myself as any kind of Samson (who got his strength from his hair), I have gained a little understanding of the way he must have felt when a treacherous Delilah arranged for a trim so that he could be handed over to his Philistine enemies without offering resistance.
Confidence is a strength and I feel that the removal of my Covid comfort blanket of hair has left me feeling exposed, naked and, as I mentioned before, kinda cold.
Before continuing, I should clarify that there was no devious Delilah involved in my story, that I arranged the appointment myself and the hairdresser followed my instructions.
More than that, I even brought my Irish passport with me to give the hairdresser an idea of the style I was looking for. On looking at the passport photo, my hairdresser remarked that there is no way in the world passport control would have accepted it as an accurate likeness of the way I looked pre-haircut!
You will notice that I have not attached a photograph of my newly-shorn head and so far very few people (some on Zoom) have seen the shock transformation.
Speaking of Zoom, this would be an appropriate time to mention that Dragonflies present…are supporting the launch of my debut chapbook Art of Insomnia at their event on Tuesday 4th May. I have three brilliant support stars, whose names I’ll reveal in a post closer to the date. There are also three other poets publicising new publications on the same evening.
Dragonflies events are very relaxed, friendly and welcoming and that’s why I’m delighted they offered me this opportunity. I know that if you come along you’ll find the evening enjoyable, and comfortable even if you’re not in the habit of attending literary events.
On that page you’ll find a link to register and book a digital ticket. There are also links to individual pages relating to each poet, so if you want to find out more about each of us and our books, and see a sample of what you will find therein, you can.
I hope you can make it and look forward to seeing you there.
Here we are. It’s a sunny Friday, it’s 9th April and it’s National Unicorn Day!
As a Scot I am delighted that King James II endorsed this mythical creature, representing purity and power, as my country’s national animal but I have also learned that it has a lengthy history in other parts of the world.
In Ancient Greece it was spoken of as existing in far-flung India, to them an exotic place about which very little was known at the time. The writers of that time and place characterised it as an animal of power and ferocity.
In mediaeval times it was thought of as one of the creatures spoken of in the Bible, to which was attributed not just strength but the purest kind of love, a suitable pet for the protection of virgin women.
Unicorns have featured in more modern times in the writings of Lewis Carroll, J.K. Rowling and C.S. Lewis.
However, I have discovered that the modern invention of Unicorn Day boasts the objective of celebrating the positivity which can be achieved by allowing magic into our days from time to time, the sort of thing adults forget to do.
In recognition of the day, I have concluded this short post with the only poem I have written featuring a unicorn. As it does have a political message, perhaps at odds with the idea of pure fun and fantasy associated with Unicorn Day, you may be choose to ignore it.
Instead you may wish to grab the spirit of the day – bake and eat colourful cupcakes, for example, watch a fun fantasy movie, or indeed read a fantastical book. The main objective, apparently, should be recalling the magic of our childhoods.
So, in your own personal way, I trust you enjoy Unicorn Day!
[I have a half-formed draft of a poem on the topic of the joy of childhood perspective but it’ll be some time before it is ready for exposure, so in the meantime, if you wish it, here is flight, published last year in A Kist of Thistles ‘An anthology of radical poetry from contemporary Scotland’, (pub. Culture Matters http://www.culturematters.org.uk)].
so fearsomely beautiful
and innocent and pure
he scares the proud lion
according to folklore
it may be dangerous
to unchain the unicorn
but as desire for
will at time of re-birth
be the first priority
let us unleash and bareback ride the beast
making myth reality
while breezes from infinity
refresh us to the core
we shall hurdle every boundary,
healing as we soar
on a flight of the seemingly impossible
our hearts at last will sing of freedom
and Alba Gu Bràth the land of compassion
First of all, welcome one and all to Peter/A/Writer blog post number Forty, the first of the astronomical Spring, 2021.
In the recent warmer dryer weather there has been much to enjoy of nature, though I did not during that balmy time see any hedgehogs or dragonflies.
Now in the windswept and wet days of late March, though I have ventured out less, I have received within my home alternative manifestations of the hedgehog and dragonfly variety. And I have to tell you they have both been very welcome visitors.
I can now release the breath I’ve been holding. I can tell the news I’ve received and perhaps permit myself to experience a little nervous excitement.
This weekend a hedgehog called past to confirm that in April there will be a book – a chapbook of twenty two poems bearing the title Art of Insomnia, a book showing me as the author of all of these little works, a book published by Hedgehog’s very own Poetry Press. It has been in the offing for a wee while but it is actually happening for real within weeks.
As if that wasn’t sufficiently exciting, there have been dragonflies too; dragonflies who flew through my window bearing a kind invitation requesting I join them at a special event on 4th May 2021 to read a number of poems from Art of Insomnia.
The Dragonflies present…Zoom event on 4th May will also feature two other poets, Margaret Royall and David Bleiman, who have work coming out at around the same (April/May) time.
Each featured poet has also been encouraged to select at least two poets to share a ten minute ‘support slot’. I am delighted that the three poets I asked all agreed to come along to be my ‘support stars’. I’m bursting to tell you who they are but have decided to keep it a surprise… just get yourself a ticket (free of charge, praise the Dragonflies!) and come along virtually, with a drink from your free home bar, or a camomile tea, to enjoy what will be a genuinely varieties evening of poetic expression.
I’m so confident you’ll have a great time that I offer you this promise -money back if not totally satisfied!
This is the link to the Dragonflies present page, where you can secure your free ticket.
It also has links to author pages kindly provided by Dragonflies for each of the featured poets, where you can get to know more about the author and his/her new publication and other work. There’s even a short poem sample from each of the new publications to provide a flavour of the book and hopefully whet your appetite.
Though somewhat nervous about all this, I’d be honoured if you decide to come along to join the evening.
It’s St Patrick’s Day but still morning so I positively haven’t allowed any alcohol to pass my lips; yet here I am in tears. (Note: a Scottish meaning of the word ‘greeting’)
And why you may ask – what’s wrong with you man?
Well I’ve just listened to a rendition of Danny Boy by a four-year old child. Yes, I did say four years old. She’s called Emma Sophia Ryan. Currently I don’t have the facility on this site to show video but presume you can get it by searching YouTube.
So, why is this silly old fool weeping while listening to a tiny child singing a sentimental song that he’s heard a thousand times before?
Sure, there’s the fact that it’s a touching thing to hear an immature voice stretching to render the tones and meaning of a love song. Sure, there’s something about the purity and innocence of it all.
However, in my case, there’s another layer to this, which is hearing a song anew and in that sense hearing it properly for the first time. Until listening to little Emma Sophia’s version this morning, I had not fully absorbed the words and meaning of the final verse. And that’s what got the tears flowing.
‘You’ll come and find the place where I am lying
And kneel and say an “Ave” there for me.
But I shall hear, though soft you tread above me,
And all my grave shall warmer, sweeter be.
And you will bend and tell me that you love me;
And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me.‘
Undoubtedly there will be cynics who’ll consider me a fool to say this, but this has renewed my belief that visiting the resting place of the love of your life and telling that person you still love her/him does have a point.
And even if you don’t believe it’s possible to bring comfort to the deceased by this means, I can assure you there is comfort in this action for the one left behind. Time is not linear and any moment is a good moment to tell someone you love them.
Today’s experience also confirms that contained within the constraints of this buttoned-up Scot there can be found the emotions of my Irish heritage.
With that admission it remains only for me to wish all of you reading this, Irish blood or not, cynic or not, a very Happy St Patrick’s Day. (Note: the more generally accepted meaning of the word “greeting’)
When I first check the time, it is 1.00 a.m. on 5th March. Now that’s earlier than I have been going to bed in recent times, so this is my chance. In an attempt to alter my upside-down lifestyle, I must go to bed NOW.
Okay, I’ll do it just as soon as I check Twitter, Facebook and my email inbox. So I do that two or three times and leave a post on Facebook that I won’t be interacting there for a few weeks, for personal reasons – and they are very genuine personal reasons which will keep me quieter than usual until mid-April.
Good. All satisfactory, and it’s still well before 2.00 a.m. So get yourself into the bedroom, Peter. Sure, no problem.
Then I remember a couple of ideas that were spinning around in my head earlier, when I was out walking…just in case I forget, better do something about those.
Right, suddenly it’s nearly 3.00 a.m; I have written one complete poem, started a second and written lyrics for the chorus of a pandemic-related bluesy song which (let’s face it) will never see the light of day. That last item was prompted by an exchange I partly overheard when I was on my walk. A young woman talking to her friend as they passed by me “…not starting a relationship during lockdown”; her pal responding, “I’m the same…”
So there you have it, for what it’s worth; just a brief insight into my disorganised life and creativity, feeling compelled to respond to the prompts of a brain that sparks when you’d prefer it to rest.
On a positive note, by the following day other ideas had inveigled their way into my anti-social hours and suddenly there were four fresh poems ready to send off for an approaching deadline.
Even more positively, one of those was accepted surprisingly quickly (on 10th March).
I really would prefer to have a more regular lifestyle but when things seem to be working as they are, it is difficult to change.
As the date finally approaches for publication of my debut chapbook Art of Insomnia (ironic, I know!), the first quarter of 2021 has started well in the writing sense.
Some things I am not permitted to mention yet. However, I hope to be in a position to tell you a bit more soon.
That Feverfew, the sixth and latest poetry collection from Anna Saunders, is laced with quality – at times luxury – is easily evidenced. What is more difficult to explain, though ironically it may be inherent in its stylish packaging, is the exquisite economy and value to be found in this publication.
In large part this may be attributable to the presence of forty one poems within a physical book-space of proportions which seem incapable of holding such an amount of treasure. Yet there is nothing cramped or cheap about its presentation. I guess the publisher Indigo Dreams must be due credit for the practical side of this, the design and typesetting, as indeed must the poet for composing poems which fit so well to the page.
Of greater importance, however, is the discovery that this collection has a literary and sensory quality which (like the divine accused characterised in one of the collected poems, The Prosecution Builds up a Case Against Jupiter) takes various forms. Some clues may be found in the cold and hot of the striking cover design; the proof is found in the assured crafting of words found within the covers.
Mythical references inhabit a number of the poems. Some of the named characters and creatures from Greek and Roman mythology will be familiar to non-scholarly readers, some not. Where I was unsure about the myths associated with a featured character I found it intriguing to read the poem first of all without research and enjoy it for its sounds and feel and discernible purpose; enjoy it purely as a poem. The nature of the myth would sometimes be revealed in a general way by this exercise, subsequent googling being largely confirmatory. In other cases, discovering the mythological root was an essential key.
In all those referring to myth the poet’s skill and imagination re-works the ancient to make it relevant to the modern reader, and to the contemporary message the poem is meant to convey.
As well as those which reference mythology there are works here which use the characteristics of wild creatures to tell the stories of humans, those which feature the nakedness of humans themselves, and those which feature spirits who have thrown off the flesh which formerly clothed them.
It is important to point out that, while this is a collection with serious intent making full use of grown-up literary techniques and devices, it possesses humanity, occasionally shows vulnerability and employs humour too (often in the guise of satire and/or the entertaining titles of certain poems).
Whether your mood calls out for reflections of love, lust, loss or consideration of abuse of power and animalistic instincts, there is something here for you. I have found the collection pleasing, rewarding, surprising and affecting to read and re-read.
Given the space I permit myself for Blog reviews there is not room to give examples of the many poems in Feverfew that touch or tickle my intellect, anima or shadow. So, as a discipline I have decided to look briefly at just four, hopefully providing a soupçon of the flavours of the collection.
What I Learnt from the Owl, the first poem in Feverfew, has something of Emily Dickinson in it. Its unflinching true depiction of an owl as bird of prey sets the reader up for some of the cold reality-checking which will emerge in subsequent poems and is also the perfect appetiser for the collection’s second poem – the first one I wish to discuss here – Time after Time the Same Bird is Born from the Flame.
In this piece, the phoenix of Greek mythology is transformed for the modern world. No longer is it the positive motif, eagerly adopted over time to represent renewal and in due course Christian resurrection. Anna Saunders’ phoenix is viewed as an unwelcome regeneration. The opening lines tell us that:-
Here it comes, … /a feathered doppelgänger of the last,/ an identical gold-eyed genesis/scattering a surplus of silver plate from his claws.
He is introduced as a privileged creature, a royal bird which feasts on incense, whereas we pick at seeds and stringy meat.
The ‘we’, presumably the ordinary folk, wonder How did he earn the spokes of sun that ascend from his head…?
We ache for change, yet each creature that rules the court/is a rooster’s brother with jaundiced eyes.
Not even death will bring an end to this.
It quickly becomes clear that this poem, which on its surface references the exotic re-generating bird of myth, in its gut speaks of inequality and the apparent impossibility of bringing about necessary change in the cycle, the system.
How wrong we are to think that fire/can cauterise corruption, it continues. That could hardly be more plainly expressed, especially when followed by the line which gives the poem its title, Time after time the same bird is born from the flame.
A number of Ms Saunders’ poems deal with love and relationships, some tinged with eroticism, others with various difficult aspects and issues; each one is worth the reading and imbibing. For my second arbitrary choice I have selected one of the less obvious depictions of a controlling relationship, I come back as a Horse.
Ostensibly, it features a horse (probably a gentle mare) considering how it is treated by its human master and begins with what appears to be a sad acceptance that true freedom is no longer an option: –
My owner leads me in from the cold. /His heating makes my flanks steam, my breath plume and cloud. He shouts/as my skittering hooves crescent mark his shiny floor.
Next, we discover the extent of the horse’s value to the owner: –
He has pictures of the races all over his wall/strained mares taking jumps/ or being brushed down savagely/until their rumps blaze like precious stones. The mares, it seems, are there to win trophies, or be trophies, and the next stanza tells us of further restrictions of liberty –
We have to wear our harnesses all night./It is compulsory and our necks burn.
The narrator horse speaks disparagingly of humans choosing inappropriate names. I am not mine, she says unhappy with her naming, before going on to describe in a similarly sanguine voice the more shocking truth of what happens to horses who do not match expectations: –
A young one never came back. If your legs buckle,/if your back is too weak, there’s a bullet for you.
The implication of controlling threat (and a point where a familiar association may be drawn with hair-pulling abuse and assault) continues in the next two lines –
I love my mane, even when he winds it round his hand/to make a boxing glove.
Finally, following a statement of preference for the freedom of the fresh air, the poem concludes with the subtle but poignant –
Once, a child passed me, said I had kind eyes,/felt pity for me.
The third poem I wish to feature, Floundering, is one of exceptional tenderness, and admirable skill.
In it a poet speaks to her mother, who has recognised the reality that poets do not make money from their art and is offering her poet-daughter money from her purse. But there are other things going on and it is the skill of linking all of these threads and carrying all themes through to the end in a very naturalistic way which shows Ms Saunders’ deftness here.
To explain here the detail of how this is manifest, all its conceits and devices, would in my opinion spoil the pleasure of those I hope will go on to read it hereafter. However, as I must give you something, I’ll give you these two connecting elements as a tease and assure that there is much more taking place in the poet’s mind and in the physical environment surrounding mother and daughter:-
It reminds me of the tulips dad planted/so we’d have colour after he had gone.
This casual observation prompted by the shape of a heron’s head from behind appears early in the poem and is one of the themes echoed in the velvet glove punch of the final stanza, which runs as follows:-
Mum, you have your purse out again,/and that worried frown that dad used to have/when he was looking at the tulip bulbs,/wondering if they would come out in time.
The fourth and final poem I draw to your attention is one which is simultaneous easy and very difficult – So much Blood around my Name. I say easy because it is written in terms which are easy to understand even on first reading, not requiring much interpretation. The subject matter, however – as in many of the collection’s poems – is raw, visceral, uncomfortable, confessional.
There is much blood and guts within Feverfew but what we have here is quite different. This is not the remote blood and guts of mythology or that associated with the regular behaviour of the animal kingdom.
In this poem the first mentions of blood arise in a specific recollection, written in past tense, of a blood commitment symbolised by a fresh tattoo of the narrator’s name on her former lover’s arm (How deeply I’d been etched into your skin,/you bloomed blood.), a commitment which ended (…we needled each other,/until I left). The second reference to blood is in the present tense and comes with consideration of implied guilt which some would wish to place beside her name. It also echoes skilfully the blood which formed around her name at the time of the fresh tattoo :-
‘Years later I hear about your death.
He couldn’t go on without you. I am told.
I imagine your pale limbs under the earth. Those four letters extinguished by the dark.
Can love ever be perfect? Can poetry about love be perfect? Can two people living together for a long time be perfect?
In my humble view, those are time-wasting questions because answers to them are virtually impossible.
It would be more useful I suggest to dip into the approach adopted by Darren J Beaney in his debut pamphlet for Hedgehog Poetry Press, HONEY DEW; in a series of twenty one poems he sets out, in a sometimes self-deprecating way, to find ways (some of them very original) to encapsulate in words the various stages of a continuing love relationship without which he feels his life had been, and would be, pointless. That realisation is hinted at elsewhere but disclosed in plain sight in the eighth poem in the book, 32 to the power of 22.
This debut is infused with sincerity as much as it is with originality and vivid Punk-style colour. It is also very relatable.
The opening poem, though it carries the title LET YOUR HEART DANCE, moves with a deliberate lack of steady rhythm, chucks in an occasional internal rhyme – but don’t expect that to happen in a predictable fashion – and employing these devices captures the awkwardness of unexpected love-at-first-sight during a first dance. The designed chaos only reaches an end in the poem’s sublime conclusion:-
As we gasped/ without resting and kissed without breathing and fell without landing.
This is followed by the title poem HONEY DEW, a short but vivid expression of the sweetness of new love :-
A smile/ … that tempted with low hanging kisses/ ripe and ecstatic
The reason for the poem’s brevity appears to be summed up in the final two words – ‘tongue tied’.
The theme of combined shyness and disbelief at the suddenness of what is happening reappears in the reference to his belly hosting ‘a soulful band of butterflies‘ in the third poem, PLAYING BANJO ON BRIGHTON BEACH.
By poem five, LETS START SOMETHING WE WON’T WANT TO FINISH, there’s an admirable statement of ambition reflected in text which combines unconventional with conventional, even old-fashioned, and a little tongue-in-cheek without destroying the sincerity of its intention. For example, Beaney writes: –
Let’s learn to dance – foxtrot, tango/… I’ll …collect/ your falling blushes. When I have them all we will paint/our town, leaving our mark, creating a legend/ bigger than Terry & June.
Let’s take tea at the Ritz. I’ll get dressed up/to the nines with odd socks and no shoes…../You can slurp from your saucer/while I protect you from those uptight stares.
Where Shakespeare would write ‘If music be the food of love…’, Beaney writes and concludes the poem ‘We’ll wake each morning to … an eternal love powered by the energy of three chord guitar riffs’.
In a sometimes uptight world it is good to remember that romance can be fun and rebellious, and Darren Beaney’s writing conveys that in abundance in some of his work.
He is also capable of expressing unabashed praise of continuing love in more lyrical terms while maintaining his personal style, as in YOU AND ME, US TWO:-
Our love is driven by neat engines of persistence/shuddering to the twitch of our touch, firing the luscious/laughter and locomotion of a lifespan together.
I’d happily quote every stanza of this poem in full but will confine myself to the following further few lines as a taster:-
…Our relationship simple/as a new Puritan. Sustained without effort, lazy,/ as wonderfulas bunches of late May daffodils.
Our passion is as exciting as Caxton’s/very first page, printed with a love song for Cupid. Each day/is Valentine’s Day stuffed into our Christmas stocking.
As I now feel I’m in danger of giving too much of the book away for free, I shall curtail my notes and end this review with a brief reference to the last poem in the pamphlet THE MISSING BIT which, amongst other things, touches on the point I made at the start of the review. (A similar point is made by Beaney in the short poem THIS IS A LOVE SONG which appears a little earlier in the pamphlet.) In THE MISSING BIT, he is again concerned that he cannot sufficiently express all elements of the love he feels in order to be convincing. He writes,
And that is the bit/that is missing
And I want our love to mean/as much as Dr King’s dream/with as much passion/as a catalogue of first kisses
because we are so much more/ than love bites and candlelight
If you are looking for an original but relatable, generally schmaltz-free, story of a love relationship in 21 poems, HONEY DEW is available in various formats from Hedgehog Poetry Press http://hedgehog press.co.uk or from Darren’s own site http://djbeaney.wordpress.com . Prices direct from Darren are: UK £7.00 (inc. postage), Overseas £11.00 (inc. postage) and e-book £3.00.
I am now nearing the end of this ludicrous task of 24 days of Blogs in the form of an out-of-time Advent Calendar. With this calendar, when you open the box you don’t get a chocolate, but in its place a random thought or two, this time on the subject of luck, good and bad.
Typical of my random approach, the opening of boxes has moved from the outwards in so that, including today’s there remain just four Blog Day Numbers: 16, 15, 14 and, if you’re superstitious, the unmentionable one.
Now I don’t regard myself as superstitious, but you may conclude that I have proved cowardly in the numbering of this Blog. Though genuinely not triskaidekaphobic, I ask myself what is the point of tempting fate? Not only is the dreaded number due to be applied to today’s blog but I am writing it on the eleventh day of the second month (11 + 2 = ??).
So, no chances will be taken
Like a hotel which avoids having room Thirteen
We won’t say which Advent Blog it is today
And instead of using that cursed number
We’re going to call it Blog Day 12A
On a more serious note, the issue of luck is on my mind.
Currently I am working on a longer poem than the ones I usually write. The initial inspiration arose from a tourist attraction visited during the last few days of holiday I enjoyed, in October 2019 on the island of Ireland.
At the quayside in New Ross, County Wexford there are contrasting but related exhibits side by side, the one relating to the ships which carried those forced to escape famine in mid-19th century Ireland, the other celebrating the visit of John Fitzgerald Kennedy, President of the United States of America, in 1963. JFK’s great grandfather had made the journey from Wexford to Boston and Kennedy was marking that with his visit.
But this starting point has set me on a journey of research which will take me to many destinations before it is over and it will finally come ashore in modern Britain and America. Although it’ll be a human story, it cannot avoid the impact of British and ultimately American Imperialism and Capitalism, and how certain aspects of good fortune are not down to luck at all but depend on wealth, power, property, access to education and belonging to the acceptable family, race or colour.
On a more positive note, the poem will attempt to balance the cruelty of the negative impacts with a contrasting narrative demonstrating the kind of good fortune we all like to witness. Love, happiness, overcoming obstacles and the other kinds of ‘luck’ which come from hard work, community and kindness.
It is truly amazing how, from viewing a tourist attraction, one’s mind can travel thousands of miles and begin to consider the respective situations of the many very different human characters involved.
Perhaps more to the point, I have set myself a difficult task which will require getting the tone and pace of the poem just right. It must not veer towards the overly didactic, must hold attention, yet have historical accuracy as well as drama. It will have to convey emotion at points but not become sentimental.
Though getting it right may be difficult and I may fail, I shall learn much in the process. They say you learn more from analyses of your failures than your successes.
I consider myself lucky to have had the inspiration and to be alive to do some work on it.
That kind of luck is sometimes where you choose to find it.
‘Still self-isolating as much as possible as we move towards what I believe will be the most dangerous time in mid-January, I decide to make a short trip through snow and ice to a nearby shop to buy groceries. It is mainly for the exercise I have promised myself that I leave my car on the driveway and walk my hiking boots to what would usually be a very busy street. The vehicular traffic is minimal, pedestrians rare.
In the below-zero temperature, apart from the deserted clarity of the streetscape, the first thing that strikes me is the aroma of ‘weed’. I could not see any smokers in my line of vision, a line of vision which stretched far and wide, but the smell was unmistakably hanging in the pure chill suspended around me. Captured in the air there was an eerie wintry stillness which it seemed almost wrong to penetrate and there was an illegal aroma which made me want to giggle about its unexpectedness and unlikely presence in this residential neighbourhood’.
Better stop there. Just realised that that is the second reference I have made to a certain illegal substance in as many days. I contemplated applying imagination to my note, turning the above factual account into a bit of magic realism but that will have to wait for another occasion.
I am concerned that if I do my references to snow will be interpreted as slang for another illegal substance. Placing magic realism or other mixed fact and fantasy on top of that would undoubtedly lead to the entirely misleading impression that such substances assist me in my creative tasks.
I am aware that many artists, including poets, visual artists and musicians I greatly admire, have found recreational drugs valuable in their explorations and credit some of their artistic innovation and personal discovery to such use.
I am not sufficiently knowledgeable to debate their claims. It may be that I shall never find my true potential. I accept that I may never reach the level of nirvana they seek, even with my irregular practice of meditation. But that is the choice I have made.
So expect to bump into me a few stages lower than nirvana, at whatever boring level you reach following a glass or three of red wine.