I've just had my latest set of poems back from friend and mentor Helen Mort, addorned with her comments, suggestions, flattery etc.
I continue to get a very good response from her which is really encouraging, and my Mum phoned to tell me she thought I was "actually a poet now" after reading some of my scribblings that were sent back after I used an incorrect size envelope: god damn postal service just don't get it man, you can't stop poetry! lol. Still, good old Mum :)
I'm now waiting to hear back from the Route 57 chaps about the short story I sent them, although as I said before I think it'll probably be included just to fill up the space, if nothing else. Hopefully they won't make me edit it too much, and if they do it will all be constructive etc etc blablabla.
Need to get down to redrafting 'Sherriff Woods', so far my brother Nick's comments have been the most critical / productive, so I'll sit down with (at least) them in mind one day and redraft it like a mother's trucker.
I also need to decide what poem I want to send off to the Poetry London poetry competition (first prize £1000, second £500, third £200 and four "commendations" of £75 - big news!) in time to get them in by the 31st of may (oh dear that's this month).
For now, here are two (quite short) poems from the ones I sent to Helen, having edited them. This isn't necessarily the way they'll stay, of course, and comments are welcome.
Carry on . . .
First, hold it gently. Close your eyes, take a deep breath.
Next, a sip and swallow it for that first rush,
then a larger mouthful. Let it stay on your tongue,
roll it to the back and taste again.
Breathe through it, the air will loosen the composition
on your pallet and bring the flavours out.
Don’t speak or try to describe; just take it in.
Then listen to me say it again.
When you look up from your drink,
leading with your eyebrows then your lids,
I see the sunrise on an autumn day,
crisp and hung with dew, which slowly
splashes the drowsy trees
shaking the tiredness from their leaves.
In my mouth the words taste like medicine,
as I try to explain, inarticulate and fumbling,
that I have to go away. I drain my cup,
Stand and look at this beautiful breaking day.
Oh, fuck it all. Perhaps I’ll stay.
I hope you enjoyed them :)
p.s. sorry for swearing.
p.p.s. well, I'm not really sorry. In fact, I quite enjoyed it.