Thursday, 23 September 2010


I would just like to take a second to recommend the poetry collection, 'Rain' by Don Paterson.
I bought this book recently for a friend of mine as a birthday present, which led me to reread it (in part) myself, and I have since remembered just how much I like it, which is a lot.
I honestly could not suggest you buy this collection strongly enough, here is the title poem, posted on The New Yorker's website, give it a read, I hope you enjoy it.

J xx

Sunday, 5 September 2010

Did a bit of writing.

So, I went to Bristol to see my friend Louise, who I met on a poetry course and who has always kindly edited my work, and one night there we played some writing games, having both realised we had written anything for ages.
And, although what we came up with may or may not have had much genuine poetic merit, we had fun, and so I thought I'd post on here with everything I wrote, so here it is.

From the '10 steps' poem form, where you write a poem by following instructions, such as, 'open the poem with a simile', 'use a phrase in a foreign language', 'make a synesthetic statement,' etc:

The curtains hung like his head as listened to the judge.
Jury to his time, they felt it too, the slow and creeping dread.
He felt he saw the cadence of their swish in the judge's gavel,
swinging down and blinding him with its almighty sound.
He sank like the boat in the frame above the open fireplace,
His weathered hands shamefully clutching his face.
Entschuldigung, es tut mir leid, Oh lord, take back all I did that night.
No! My pride and I admit, Oh God! I'm proud of it.
The well of rage was driven deep, his mother's voice began to repeat
The moral codes she tried to keep, designed to still his fidgeting feet.
But the doors were left unlocked that night,
The pills they fed him were bloody shite and he ran looking for a fight.
He pleads guilty, everyone knows, on a darkened couthouse the curtains close.

Then we did one which is designed to pair up abstracts like passion and trust, or emotions, with things you wouldn't normally associate with them, and I came out with these:

Passion is like a naked mole rat,
wriggling backwards in hole:
It really wants the thing at its back,
but the other mole rats just don't know
why it won't go forwards to its goal,
Perhaps the passion's taken control,
And he's lost all sight of the simple fact
if hed only turn round he'd surely know
exactly how he should attack
His search to posses this pot of gold.
Nonetheless, he'll wriggle and roll
His wrinkled, wierdo, naked back,
Because his passion tells him so.

Freedom is like a roar shaking the darkness:
At least, you'd wish it would be.
you'd want to stand stop some proud rock
and wither the plants and frighten the grass
with the defeaning roar you feel in your heart.
So even though your sheltered office space
confines you to speak from a certain place,
at least inside you dream a savannah,
and how much you want to nail susannah.

Freedom is like the leaves that are just too high
for a giraffe.
the other leaves may laugh,
They may do what the like,
At the end of the night,
They'll be eaten by giraffes
Who may be hungover, and keen for a treat,
Some tasty, within-reach leaves to eat.
But you'll be free,
amongst the upper branches,
While the bullies are turned into
Dung-beetles' lunches.
so even if they make you cry,
Don't worry, its you that's just too high.

That's all, folks.