First half of December going already.

I haven't done much writing recently. Mainly reading. I have been much toying with the idea of writing a crossover novel for young teen women and as such have been devouring any Siobhan Dowd or Meg Rosoff I can get my hands on. I have a long list of others, there are so many after all, and it's just as well they are quick reads. I haven't yet decided on my story, I just know it's an idea I have been thinking about for a long time. Long before I started writing, before poetry, before evening classes, before MA.

I did however start a poem last week at a conference. It started after a few drinks in the company of strangers, and grew on my phone as I had no paper to hand. When I looked at it the next day (sober) I wasn't sure if it would work but I may revisit and see if there is anything salvageable.

It's the end of the MA term now and I need to start writing again for next year, it's all about time really, of which I seem to have none. I also need to write about 500 words on a winter theme for a gathering on wednesday. Isn't christmas hard to write about without being cliched or like Scrooge? I have an idea but no idea how to execute it.

I read The Road last week by Cormac McCarthy (very dark and stark and compelling) and have just started A prayer for Own Meany by John Irving after being inspired by Radio 4's Bookclub.

I feel bereft as the loss of Borders Deepdale in Preston. It was my constant source of poetry journals and books you can't get from Waterstones. Because as much as I like Amazon I like to feel a book first. It also had a paperchase. I will miss it terribly. Just please don't shut down Foyles. It's the reason I still go to London.

Cost-Benefit Analysis on poetry?

(Copywrite R. Allen 09)

Throwing the obscure and redrafted poem into the bear pit this morning was pretty useful. I had been convinced everyone would prefer the latter as it went a lot further in addressing the narrative problem of the first attempt. But in the end, there were those who preferred the more obscure version. It was decided that by redrafting, the new poem has lost some of its lyricism and flow, despite having more clarity in the meaning. I had also taken out some imagery and they wanted this back in, the answer to this being I'll save it for another poem. It seems that in trying to meet the reader half-way I had sacrificed some of what makes my writing appealing, yet in return I'd delivered accessibility and gained readers that struggled with the original. In truth, the first version was more 'me' but it was refreshing to see people openly understand my writing for a change and I think I prefer that feeling than the feeling that I've successfully scratched my own head.

I will redraft (version 12) at some point, to try and get it to flow again like the original and to perhaps take out the words that were hang-overs from trying to tie up the narrative. Maybe I'll write every poem with a CBA in mind - what am I losing but what am I gaining? Is something lost, lost forever. If I hadn't redrafted I wouldn't have seen the possibility of getting a second poem out of it - pouring all of my arsenal in to one was perhaps a waste of resources.

This was a new method of writing and drafting that I have not tried before. I usually try and be a bit more organic (hate that word) but for those of us who tend to the obscure then I think it's a good idea to find a method for making sure the story is there and not clogged with ideas.

All sorts of busy

This week I have been focusing on writing more accessibly. This is because it has been levelled at me that I sometimes disappear off into obscurity and risk losing the reader. This made me quite sad for a while. I took it really personally and at the same time thought sod-off I'll write how I damn well please! But then once I had simmered down I realised that the critics were probably right, at least part-right, and that some of my writing would benefit from being less puzzling. I worked on one particular poem, writing out in long-hand next to the poem what the story was I was trying to tell. I then compared it to my poem and did realise that a lot of the images/lines I had used were surplus to requirement, and more importantly muddying the water. So I took it all out and rewrote the poem in a very dry obvious accessible way. At this point it was too dry and so i tried to take it back to where there is a little mystery. I have no idea how it will be viewed now. perhaps too obscure still? Perhaps I went to far and now it's just dull? This time I will remember that there will be people who like things that require a bit of work as well as those that don't. I'll find out tomorrow.

I have also been trying, with unknown success to juggle writing for pleasure (see above) with writing for work. I have two academic papers to write and three presentations. These are all required by mid-December. I don't mind the volume, but I'm finding it increasingly difficult to separate my two brains and write for these totally different purposes, in totally different styles. it's quite a challenge. In my academic work, prose wouldn't be too appropriate and in poetry the word-hoard I have developed from my work has led to the obscurity issue. Finding a balance between the two at the moment is the challenge. As is generally finding the time to write and work and read and critique and be original and be inspired and all that! I can't remember the last time I had a thought to myself. Don't get me wrong, I love writing and I love work but the two are too far apart at the moment, yet I can't really see a way it could be any different.

I do now however have my beloved desk back at home. No longer in the garage. It's now in the living room with printer, tablet, scanner, laptop books etc. The problem will be the TV directly behind me. We also have new shelves for the books that are breeding like rabbits. This has to be it though - in a small flat, 3 bookcases and 4 shelves is plenty and I may need to have a clearout next time. Although how do you grow a library when getting rid of books. Is it like the idea of having your hair trimmed regularly if you want to grow it long? Hmm.

Another new week starts soon

A dubious 48 hours this weekend. But I have been busy critiquing work for the online conference. Since I started writing poetry, I find it hard to string together full sentences. This is exacerbated by the frantic emailing I tend to engage in: broken thoughts, quick sends. Anyhow, the intention to improve is always there. Everything I have to say tends towards niceness, and I don't think this is approved of - I get the feeling that what staff want is a bit of blood sport. Curious, how they forget that we still have to see eachother when the conference is over. The fact it's online is really just to make the dept. feel like they're doing something innovative. In all likelihood we'll get together in the pub and talk about it, as we've already done before it started. I doubt it'll get vitriolic and argumentative, requiring us to 'take it to the (online) cafe'! But what do I know? I just think I like these people. I like their writing. I like my own fragile sense of self esteem, please don't crush me - there's always hare coursing if you really must.

From Ty Newydd to the bay

Retreat! Retreat!

So, the writing retreat is over. I didn't write as much as I'd hoped I would. Mainly thought about writing. I also seem to have sold myself on the idea that I could write a novel after all. Well, I was unconvinced but one of the tutors liked the idea and thought it had legs. This was the fatal bellow of gas into the idea. It's now buoyant and tied to me like a helium balloon at the wrist. I am determined not to run with it. Maybe just little bits now and then amongst the poetry and flash. Something to tinker with..... or maybe it'll take over my life. Like new ideas always do.

All in, the week was enjoyable and helpful. Getting to know people better is always good, and time out to indulge yourself in writing is a treat worth accepting. I would like to go again.

I learnt a few interesting things not specific to writing. If you have a scientific background and cannot answer a simple question like 'What's a box?', it may reflect badly on you. Just don't even attempt it. Also, knowing a bit about geology is not the same as knowing a bit about particle physics or the statistical likelihood of a royal flush. Then there is writing with Cabin Fever which is like writing with the Flu. I have reviewed my scraps of paper and firstly they don't amount to much and secondly they don't seem to have been written by me! But this could be a good thing...

Don't go to the seaside if you don't want to write about the seaside again. Simples.

Learn when to socialise and when to write. Trying to do both simultaneously may result in you coming across cold, withdrawn, arrogant and maybe borderline autistic. Never engage in a rocking chair competition before bed or within 12 hours of eating. Likewise, introducing a theory of biscuit ratios should be saved until you've been drunk with these people.

Don't be the only poet in the village. Go write a novel or something. And while you're there be someone else for a change -I find it quite difficult to separate the self from poetry but branching out in to prose allowed for a whole new town of people to emerge from my head. Quite a lot last week, I was a man. How nice.

Rejection - oh, how I will lament

uuurgh rejection again. I know this is the way things go, but really someone needs to write a book on creative writing rejection. In fact I might. It will be structured like this:

The Deflation Period, where you just want to print everything you've written and burn it. If you could be bothered that is. But as it is, you just want to pretend that you never liked writing anyway, it was just killing time and you really have more pressing things to get on with anyway. Like work.

The Post-Denial-Denial Period, convincing yourself that maybe switching writing genres will help. "Maybe I should start writing horror..."

The Alternative Pastime Period, deciding that actually you spend too much time writing anyway and that you've always fancied something a bit different, just not had reason to get round to it, see clay-pigeon shooting or long-distance swimming.

The Rehab Period, it should come sooner but always arrives late in the day when you're on the cusp of lighting the fire, or buying gym membership (the previous stages may come in quick succession).

The Melancholic Poet Period (protracted). Everything is dire. Several denial stages later you concede that it was all a defence and you do like poetry, you like it too much. It's a cruel lover. It's beating you but you want more! So you write-about how melancholy you are. About how life is just one tiresome Lancastrian winter. About the sorrow of the blackbird and your cold black heart. Aside from these crass examples, you may actually find you have written something half decent. Or at least you think so.

The False-Confidence Period. You have re-entered the atmosphere. Breathing poetry again. Someone says you're OK, so you write again, write beyond melancholy. Convincing the cruel lover that you can change, you will be better. Everything is a found poem. Every half-conversation is a story kernel. It's wonderful, it's magic, it's falling in love again....

Then you make the fateful mistake of submitting something. They tell you 'best of luck placing them elsewhere' and like a soggy balloon, seconds after the pinched end is freed and the air has rushed out, you find yourself deflated again, completing the circle, face down on the carpet, drawing in the Hessian!

Flasher

I've decided to take a brief reprieve from poetry and focus instead on flash fiction. At least for a week or two. I've been anxious to get back into prose for a while but keep wriggling out of it and doing a bad job when I sit down to exert myself. But now seems like a good time with the MA residential coming up when we'll be encouraged to write outside our comfort zone. I have this horrible feeling though that if I abandon poetry even temporarily then I might lose the knack - or the poetry muse may abandon me for deserting her first! I wonder whether having a break will be useful - get me thinking differently. I was certainly running out of topics I was interested in writing about in poems. Somehow, flash fiction allows for more tangents and weird connections across ideas. I could be wrong, but I haven't mastered that in a poem yet. I also like conversational style in flash, but not in poems (where I prefer something a bit....tighter...)

The problem I am having is a rush of too many characters all at once. Too many scenarios. Too many half-heard conversations and moments to document. This would never usually be a problem, but with so much work on, I barely have time to get to know any of these characters before my confidence in them deserts me and I put them aside while I get on with something pressing like the mountain of reading for class, or cooking dinner, washing, sleeping!

Litfest Bookcase

I forgot to mention a couple of things yesterday. Firstly, Litfest Bookcase - a lovely new bookcase-shop, selling poetry and local fiction that is harder to find elsewhere. It's wonderful, such a great idea! I went for the launch on Sunday 25th, closing day of Litfest, and I frantically grabbed up things that I was keen to get hold of but have not got round to searching for.

I bought:
1) Annie Clarkson's Winter Hands
2) Chris Killen's The Bird Room
3) The North - recent issue 43, because it was easier than Preston Borders or sending off for it! 4) Ian Seed's Anonymous Intruder

Looking forward to sitting down and reading, as well as finding time to write.

Also reading:
1) Robert Lowell's Collected Poems
2) Robert Frost's essays
3) The White Road and Other Stories by Tania Herschman

Learning a lot. Making lots of notes. Wishing some of those notes were my own work.

Apologies, Considerations, Submissions and Cake

OK, so I haven't been true to my word to blog after every class. I have however, been writing in the journal. Which is something, right? But I should try harder. I have had an up-and-down week, wondering whether to continue with the MA. Mainly because I am the only poet in the group and I have been worried that I will be a bit isolated. I have mulled this over a lot, spoken to people - asking if it's usual for there to be such an imbalance, seeked reassurance that my learning won't suffer. Everyone has said the 'right' things. For now I am reassured. The group is clearly committed to poetry as well as their own prose and I am sure I have a lot to learn from prose writers. Maybe it will make my own prose better. So I will persevere for now.

Went to the Cake launch today, the new literary mag published by students of creative writing at Lancaster Uni. Shame they couldn't turn off the musical plants and the distracting video streaming on the monitor while people were reading. Also, the kids running around screaming. But all in, it was a nice launch and I am really impressed by the quality of the magazine and of the writing. It's well put together and presents a diversity of work from a variety of students and alumni etc. I'll certainly think about submitting to Cake in the future, and I would like to get involved with reviews.

What else, I have submitted some poems today. Back in the saddle after making tweaks and adjustments to some older poems. Scouring for cliches.

An actual poem

Let down

It wasn’t enough that you thought of me
someone who would be your unreachable star,
as if I burned phosphorescent in the front
seat of a car that you don’t drive.
Not right that you should bevel at the edges,
drawn as a person to the ledge, remembering
tea undrunk, bags floating like bodies on a lake,
while you uncoupled your life from reality.
Neither is it true that when the finding happened
the galaxy shattered into porcelain shards
embedding in you a hellish luminescence, as now.
There were elements, periodic moments
But nothing like the quiet miracle of a standing wave.
To want a beautiful person to light up a room
transforming dead space into a trophy box,
you wouldn’t accept the nights without mornings
mourning’s without recoveries.
No understanding life of those in the wilderness;
uncoloured paint in a tin, hued on opening.

Copywrite R. Allen 2009

Five things I really must do.

1. Start submitting work again. I haven't submitted anything since Flax, tell a lie, I got a lovely rejection from Magma, great feedback and encouragment to try again soon- but other than that I wound down. I've been in a reading phase rather than a writing phase. This is only useful for so long. I think to be a writer then 50% should be about writing. Not 5%. But I could be wrong.

2. Stop writing down good lines and losing them in the wash. literally. Back of a tissue in my jeans pocket is not a good place for storage. Neither is on my phone in the drafts folder. or on the pen drive that keeps crashing. I bought a journal for a reason (See above - new journal and note book as well as pen that was a lovely gift. Writing with a fountain pen is very 1993 Old Skool for me. I love it. Slows me down in a good way).

3. Start learning something from the authors I like. Be more dissecting. Start being influenced. To be able to say 'it just made me feel nice' isn't good enough.

4. Go to Litfest and not sit at home being closeted.

5. Get some exposure on my blog. And do this by writing something interesting that shows some sign of progress. Feeds back to No. 1 Thing I Must Do

In honour of national poetry day...

...I am going to throw myself out there and choose my favourite poets of the last year. I haven't been writing for all that long, so the authors I have read have all been making a real impact on my learning curve.

1) Carol Ann Duffy - a predictable choice I suppose, but when I saw her read in the summer just after she had become the Laureate I felt really inspired to keep writing, and her poems just came alive as she read them out. She didn't read them with bells on and a huge fanfare, just read them fairly dryly - and this reassured me that it doesn't always have to be a theatre production. She also signed my poetry notebook which I thought was fab. Oh and my first poem was published on her daughter's birthday apparently. Who knew.

2) C K Williams - one stanza of one poem really made an impact on me (see earlier blog post). He was recommended as a poet that uses the long line and reading him made me feel more at home.

3) Paul Farley - he writes about geology. Enough said.

4) Laura Webb - a poet who just popped up for me in the last week or two. I have only read two of her poems (one in The Rialto and the other online from a competition win) but they have made me want to quit writing, as I feel it's unlikely I'll ever write as well! She seems to have acheived what I set out wanting to write just over a year ago. Now my mission is to track her down and find out more.

Week One Campus MA

Today was the first seminar for the campus MA. I've decided to blog after each session and I am part-time so this will be every tuesday. This could become overkill because I am already writing it into a journal, and various notebooks. Perhaps by writing about it in a variety of places, something new will come out each time. Nice thought.

Paul F. started us off by reading and discussing prose poems. What are they? what makes them both prose and a poem? Do they work?

The main conclusion was that they were all on a sliding scale and some of the group favoured those at the prose end, while others favoured those at the poem end. I like the lyrical and surreal poem end of the spectrum. As it moves towards prose, I start to see it morph quickly into flash fiction. I am more comfortable with the notions of poems, prose that is poetic and flash fiction. I haven't got a well honed ability to decipher poems that are pretty much prose. I wouldn't say I am black and white, but I like transparency. Sometimes i think I have written a prose poem based only on the fact that it was clearly nothing else. But then I read someone really good at it, and I can see where the form came from. After having a bit of a discussion about what worked and what didn't, we moved on to a discussion about the huge amount of work written from photos. This was an interesting exercise. Nothing radical and unthought of, but nevertheless it prepared us for writing our own prose poem based on a randomly assigned photo.

Most of us received Victorian sepia photos of ladies and gents, while a couple of us had more modern photos: a herding family with reindeer, and a man with a fish and a lemon. I found it really hard to be inspired by my photo of a blank looking woman (I wish I had taken a photo of it for uploading here) just looking into the distance. No expression. No background. No date. I actually would have preferred the man with the salmon. But alas, we were given half an hour to write a prose poem and then read it out to the class. Herein lies the point of this blog. It was a bit scary. We had barely learnt each others names (no cheesy ice-breakers or sticky badges) but just had to reveal our inability straight out! We all gave the obligatory intro statement about how 'mine is crap, really!' and 'i never do this sort of thing' but eventually got down to the business of sharing. This was my offering.

The blur is not from the capturing, the blur was there in you, softening your edges as a chalk over the years, till you were merely a soft-focus of heart and hair and eyes in an empty chair. You weren't the prettiest, but the last light of us reflected in the cubes of your eye - as you watched the leylandii inch away to the sky, over my shoulder, silently through the back. Those pinched needles straining to overshadow it all. The roots creeping easy round your ankles. Mary, your sepia hair was gold to me, my evergreen.

I was worrying about exposing myself as a vulnerable and pathetic writer, fearing the silent judgement of others, but really I think everyone was way too busy thinking the same thing of themselves to be worried about my nervously read botch job. It's not easy to write on demand, let alone share it on demand a few minutes later, but we all did it and I couldn't really tell you now about anyone's, other than they were all fine. There were no howlers. I can only say that it was a lesson in growing a thick skin quick, if not to protect you from others, but to protect you from yourself.

A little video showing the songwriting skills of others

Here is a wee song by the esteemed Karl Percival that's a bit sad, like everything he writes. This was recorded at a recent social and therefore is a bit 'unprocessed' i.e. excuse the interference, passing bodies, half-hearted band accompaniment. The lyrics of Karl's songs are awesome. Rich, lyrical and thought provoking. He writes them, composes the music and performs them. Watch this space for more.

Do you need to have lived it to write it?

This is the premise of the most recent post on the Magma blog. I was pleased to read the comments coming in on this topic because I have been wondering myself whether you can achieve true authenticity in writing if you haven't had the experience yourself. I left this comment:

Increasingly I find myself writing about things beyond my experience. I was suspicious of trying but found that actually, it is possible when you embed yourself in imagination. I think if you can conjure a strong empathy for people and situation then you are capable of writing authentically. I also research details to add to the authenticity. A little bit of real detail goes a long way. I can read anything if the voice is authentic. Sometimes the story/experience may well be true but I disengage because the voice lacks a humanity and therefore falls short of real authenticity. But of course this is just personal taste.

You can also draw on similar experience or emotion to write about something you haven’t experienced. e.g. death of a parent to write about death of a friend. Experience is often on a sliding scale and no one is surely so fully removed from anything in this day and age of embedded journalism and an invasive media, that they can’t find a way to the truth of a subject without having been at the very crux of the experience.

When it came to it, I realised I had made up my mind, and you can write what you haven't lived. I was interested to read the other comments posted so far, including one about attracting criticism. I think this is an inevitable part of the writing process, and can only help improve the writing. If you're not accurate with your detail then it's only right it should be pointed out. Hopefully from that point you can improve. Criticism will come either way. Besides would writing not eventually become stale if you don't strive to reach beyond the limits of your own imagination?

Tarn

I wanted to take the opportunity of a long walk in the Lake District last weekend to get some inspiration for new writing, that I can use for the first MA workshop. I have been mulling over what my strengths and weaknesses are in writing, and it's scared me off of using old work in front of a group of strangers who don't know me or anything about my interests. But then I don't want to play it safe either.

So I wanted to aim for something that was representative of my writing style and of my academic background. Poetry about geology can get a bit tired, but I thought I would give it a punt, perhaps thinking that I may have a right to this topic after spending years studying it. What I ended up with was not a geology poem at all, just a poem about a body of water in transition. I may well use this for the first seminar.

C G Jelly Friskers: One Year On

We first met at a creative writing evening class one year ago. All of us beginners. Now, one year on we've formed our own group (out-growing the evening class), had work published, produced lots of poems, 2 and a half novels (approximately) and most importantly, had our first big social!

We have changed our venues a couple of times (Carnforth High School, RSPB Leighton Moss) but now seem to be settled on The Silverdale Hotel. We meet every two weeks and take it in turns to lead the group with different writing exercises, assignment of 'homework' and generally keeping order.

One year on we decided it would be nice to celebrate our year together - agreeing that the chances of meeting a group where everyone gets on so well and has such different styles with lots to offer, was too good to just go unmarked! On the day we had lots of food and read a selection of our favourite writing (things we were proudest of or showed the most progress) and we also listened to Karl's excellent songwriting/playing/singing skills! We also wrote ghost stories for the evening.

All in all it was a brilliant day and a really good opportunity to think back, and forward about where writing will take us next. We're now thinking of putting together our own anthology and thinking more seriously about getting our writing out there in its various forms.

Copyright 2009 Ruth Allen

I like lilies. I oft find them on my camera. This one was from a garden in Jo'burg. Nothing more to say about it really.

Bookworming and return to the blogosphere

It's been about 6 weeks since I've posted anything. I feel rather bad for this. But I've been out and about the world which has been lovely and I'm hoping that in due course all the new sights and sounds will seep out into something a bit creative. I start the MA in a month. I can't believe it and starting to panic as I haven't written anything for ages. The last things were two melancholy poems about fleeting moments and old age. But I have some ideas from trips to Gozo, South Africa and maybe even Bruges.

Whilst I haven't been writing I have been doing a lot of reading on my travels. I thought I would put a sentence of two about each book here. All fiction. So these are them:

Blackmoor by Edward Hogan - really original, bleak book about life in a northern mining town and an Albino woman! The authors voice is very original and sparse and I loved it! Nothing else like it. I imagined the whole story in the colours of the front cover.

What I Was by Meg Rosoff - I always love these transition books because they're poignant for adults and teens. Simply written. Evocative. Authentic voice of a teenage boy and first love. Quick read but Rosoff always leaves you with something resonant.

The Road Home by Rose Tremain - Much celebrated author but I feel her language is a bit decorative for me. A little too much unnecessary detail. But nevertheless, I persevered and was not disappointed. Lost sympathy with the protagonist about 3/4's through but it needed to have an edge to avoid cliche. Worth a read for an interesting view on economic migrant life in the UK.

The Northern Clemency by Philip Hensher - Really long family saga about two families in the north. Lots of characters appear, disappear and reappear but it's not confusing. It's a bit plodding and could be 200 pages shorter but I got quite involved with the twists and turns of the characters lives. I disliked most of them by the end, but some I grew to love. Another tale of families in the north from the 70's onwards. Buy it in paperback.

The Behaviour of Moths by Poppy Adams - I liked the idea of this but the writing felt a bit amateur. But it is a debut novel so understandable. Some bits were awkwardly written and cliched and the false narrator was somewhat reminiscent of Notes on a Scandal but not quite as tight. The moth story underpinning it got a bit tedious in places. But on the whole a fairly quick read and not bad. But not the best of the bunch either.

One Day by David Nicholls - This book is very Tony Parsons. And I just loved it from the first page. About two people, one day, every year for twenty years. By the end I was crying my eyes out. For 5 chapters (equating to 5 years) . I rarely cry at books or films (usually only Secret Millionaire on C4) but I was just so absorbed in this book. I read it in about 9 hours solidly. Couldn't put it down. Lost a day's holiday but it was amazing. Happy, sad, poignant and well observed. I was vying for both characters. read it now!

Now I am having a break from fiction and reading a spot of non-f. On the go are: The State of Africa by Martin Meredith (a potted history of the 50 years since countries on the mega continent got their independence), Mugabe by Martin Meredith (a look at Robert Mugabe's rise to power) and Barack Obama's The Audacity of Hope. Light.

Manchester Books

I originally had other plans for this weekend, but I decided to go to Manchester and check out the book market at St Ann's Square. This was the 3rd year of it's running and I expected big things given the excited write-up on Lit Northwest and the Manchester Libraries website.

I was disappointed. In turned out that of the 16-ish stalls, about 8 were to do with books. The others were mainly food stalls and a tent selling prints. This was a bit of an anti climax. I had expected more. But this would have been ok, had I not been totally overwhelmed by one particular lady on one particular stall. I am not going to name names, but I was really given the hard sell by the editor of a journal who insisted on not letting me have what I wanted, but selling me her own personal volume of work and reading to me. This made me feel awkward for several reasons. Firstly, I had to give it/her my full attention and I wasn't that keen on the poem but then felt the need to gush to her about it for the following long minutes. Secondly, she was openly saying that if I wanted to submit to her journal I should feel obliged to buy her work. Ok, this was said with a smile on her face but she was thrusting the book in one hand and pulling the tenner out of my other. I walked away feeling slightly cheated and I am sure her book will sit on my shelf unread for a long while.

This being said, Interzone were interesting to speak to even though I don't read sci-fi or fantasy, and I did get one of the library's book bags. So not all was lost.

Sealord

Copyright 2009 Ruth Allen

I saw this unfortunate creature in Robin Hood's Bay - North Yorkshire. Retrieved from the water's edge by a zealous basset hound. Then abandoned.

Writing has been hard these last couple of weeks since Flax. I have had a rejection from one publication but they gave me really great feedback and said the poems just felt a bit 'prose-like' for that particular issue. The editor also said that they had over 2000 submissions and so I am grateful that I got such a helpful and positive email wishing me luck for future submissions.

What I am working on getting now is a shot of inspiration. Going back to the coast helped and I have a few ideas. I was particularly taken by a boat named 'Sealord'. In the mean time I am reading Paul Farley's The Boy From The Chemist is Here To See You.

Freewriting on the train: curing a fear of public transport

The green green green and curved roofs under the rain.
Tree spectators huddle like commuters on a platform.
Endless corrugation, divided land, foxgloves near girders.
Red bricks keep the land, patched and strangled.
Cow parsley slip through railings and the smell through air vents in tunnels.
Yarrow Mill, a redundant burner and Wedgewood blue silos -
bolts as large as babies heads, a caravan of Fleetwood's, an infirmary.
The wall hurls insults, like displaying peacocks, but I'm unconvinced.
Browning trees close to the line, pushing large daisies and ferns.
Enclaves of buttercups and rape, and still the foxgloves.
Billboard my life, resurrect it for all to see.
Swans abandoned in thought, haphazard on the stilled canal.
Green Zone, Blue Zone, Purple Zone, Pink Zone.
Always pink, the modern pinstripe and ties. That bind.
Windows with dream catchers and toys stacked up.
trees leaning away and haystacks precariously balance.
Bridges cross the motorway into fields - hard cored rainbows that end no where.
Weight Limit 32 Tonnes, chasing cars and ever the foxgloves in pink flashes.
Sheep camouflage in the dirty cream summer grass.
Cars in their crematorium, and truck heads nod in paddocks.
Plastic forcing tunnels, corrugated ends, the flat that returns to ridges.

Photosynthesise and grow

Now that the rush of Flax is subsiding; the night has been and gone, the anthology released, I need to continue some sort of growth. I need to keep writing and not lose momentum. Not get caught up in the usual feelings of 'everyone else was excellent, should I quit while I'm ahead'. The answer is of course no (I presume) and so I should write some new things and get them out.

I suppose I need to continue in the vein I was in before. Writing in my style in my way. Although after the reading (my first listening as well as reading) I felt that I'd learned something from the other poets. There was something grown-up and developed about the other writing. Something sophisticated. Mine feels a little like naive art. I need to move it on, grow it up and still retain my style. This feels like a daunting process.

Last night, I went out to a beer festival. Two great lines came in to my head, but they were quickly washed away by the cider before I could reach for my notebook (that is never more than a metre from me). I need to retrace the steps through my memory this morning. I think I lost them somewhere between the overcrowded bar and the gale-blown awning....

The Crowd Without Launch

So, the Flax018 launch came and went. Just like that. It was a great night. Download the anthology on the Flax page, and you can follow links to audio recordings and other content.

The other 5 poets were awesome and I was fully in awe of the confidence and the sheer performance. I just got up, read and sat down. This was however, my first time. In fact a lot of firsts: first time I'd ever submitted anything for publication, therefore first time I have been accepted, and first time to air it to the general public. I've only been writing for about a year, a bit less in fact, so all told it wasn't a bad job, but I still felt very conspicuous. I realised quite soon after the event, that it is not my destiny to be a performance poet. I write to be read but I would happily just read it and then leave. I'm not good at the drama, and the body language. I also feel happier letting the audience read their own meaning. I don't like explaining things outside the safe boundaries of the poem itself. I wonder if this is okay?

So what actually happened: well, I was third in line (of 6) and read four poems. Three from the anthology and one short one from no where in particular. It was exciting to see the promo postcards and I took some away for posterity. I also put my fourth poem on to travel tags and left them on tables for people to take away (see photo). These were fun to make but I didn't hang around until the end to see if they all got left on the table. I just ran for the pub.

As soon as I stepped down, I thought 'never again'. It was as painful as science presentations which I am well used to now, but that used to terrify me. When all you can hope for is a poker face. But this morning, I am more philosophical and I think I would embrace the opportunity to read some newer work. I have already begun to detatch from the anthology poems, mainly because they are older, or should I say earlier, and therefore are not typical of what I am writing now. It is a brilliant learning curve and while sat in the pub after I had the beginnings of a new idea, so inspiring were the friends that came to support me, and the other poets reading last night.

No More Sleeps

Just a quick note to self: think of the words, think of the words, think of the words.

I perhaps should have thought twice about printing poems on brown paper but they looked nice in my very bright office. Now I wonder if I'll be able to read them come this evening. They are, however, on some very pretty postcards. I'm really looking forward to seeing the publicity postcards. Hopefully get to bring a few away for family, posterity etc.

The butterflies have taken residence again. But only little ones. No atlas moths here.

I can just see everyone with their books for sale, and their long list of publications, exciting poems and dynamic reading...at some point I will then be invited to take the mic. Hmmm.

Anyway, T minus one hour. Should really be getting ready and having a drink.

One Sleep

It's one day now until the Flax launch of 'The Crowd Without'. I'm going to remember Carol Ann's advice and just think of the words. But while I think about them, I would also like them to look nice. How does one type out their poems for a reading? Do people mainly type or do they write them by hand? Is this an excuse to buy a new pencil or some new paper? I have a tendency to laminate things whenever I get the chance, so this could be an option. I just don't know. It strikes me that I have not done my research. I don't have any collections yet so I can't read from my own book as I am sure the others will do. Maybe I should put them inside a poetry notebook or a nice card? So that I am not stood with a floppy bit of paper looking inadequate. There seems to be no guidance on this, anywhere. However, this is a really good opportunity to take a trip to Borders Deepdale and look around for some inspiration, part with some cash and pass the time before the one sleep that will bring tomorrow round. How exciting.

C. K. Williams

I wanted to post an extract from Elergy For An Artist by C. K. Williams. The poem, taken from his 2003 collection 'The Singing', is broken into 4 parts. It's a poem about grief and so invariably there are lines about love that are as poignant for the living to say out loud, as they are for the dead. I want to put my favourite lines below. They are taken for the second part of the poem Wept (The Day After)

'so much affectionate
accord there was with you,
that to imagine
being without you
is impossibly
diminishing; I relied
on you to ratify
me, to reflect
and sanction with your life
who I might be in mine.'

It's a lovely piece of writing that is all at once tragic, quiet and uplifting. It's powerful. I particularly like the use of the words 'ratify' and 'sanction' as they give the poem edge and save it from being cloying or too much like a wedding vow. Although, actually, it would make a nice wedding vow.

Carol Ann Duffy @ Grasmere

Yes this is me with my poetry notebook signed by Carol Ann Duffy. I managed to stagger some sycophantic words out to the new poet laureate despite being completely in awe! I told her the usual about thinking her poems are wonderful and how she reads so well, then I asked her for advice as I have my first reading coming up. She said, and I quote;

"Just focus on the words"

I was hoping for some secret Duffy magic but this was her gem, and treasure it I will. I then told her that my first three poems are being published on June 17th and she told me what an auspicious date that is as it's her daughter's birthday. I left notebook in hand, having a hot flush and totally blown away.

She read so beautifully and with so much humour. The first half of the evening was given over to poems from The World's Wife and a new poem about girls giggling at school, parts of which interspersed the longer poems. She then had a break and after returned to read from Rapture as well as new poems about her Mother and daughter, and finished the first part of the giggling girls poem. There is apparently a lot more to follow. I was amazed at how she paced every poem just right as she read, she had the comedy timing of a practiced comedian yet her love poems made me want to cry. Wonderful. She really brought the poems to life and hearing them out loud helped me better recognise her amazing use of language. What I liked about Rapture was the wonderful metaphors and the narrative through the book. The ebb and flow of a love affair. I connected with it immediately and found the meanings easy to grasp. But hearing the other poems I was more enchanted by the variety of words and subtle rhymes that really come through when she reads.

There was also another bonus to the evening. When I arrived I only required one seat so was ushered to the front row. Not only was this a perfect vantage point but I also met two women from Cumbria who took a very keen interest in my writing progress and invited me to their writing group in Ulverston, gave me their email addresses and promised to look out for Flax. They then introduced me to the lady behind. Jenny Copley who will also be in Flax 018. Outside we giggled about being tongue tied and having nothing novel to say. It was very silly, but a brilliantly fortuitous meeting on an unforgettable evening and six quid for two new friends and the wisdom of the laureate is not a bad deal at all!

Mother spider

This little spider has been travelling with me for over a week now. I feel a duty of care for him/her. I try to stick to 30mph as any faster and I worry his web will blow apart. I have deliberately avoided washing the car despite it being covered in tree juice. He has an unnerving knack of rushing in behind the wing mirror when I am forced onto a faster road. There he sits - two feet sticking round the mirror, waiting for me to stop, then he quickly reappears. Perhaps this is like those who insist they are preserving a natural meadow instead of owning up to an overgrown garden. When I leave work I am glad to see he's still around, and drive him carefully home. I know he'll leave/die soon. I just hope he doesn't go to another car. I would feel quite offended.

For now he's carved out a niche on my Leon. Who am I to send him back into the Wilderness.

Things I am learning

Today I am paying careful consideration to my old poems. Going through each one and taking out gratuitous 'ands'. Tightening. It's remarkable the difference this makes. Concentrates the meaning to the right words.

I am also changing the font as I edit. When I change from Calibri to something like Berlin I look at them differently and sometimes think they could be someone else's. It's a useful way of looking at your work objectively. I was skeptical of the idea at first but then tried it and really, it's an excellent tip (not of my own, so I am allowed to boast). Berlin 10.5 also happens to be the typeface of choice for The Rialto. And who doesn't want to appear in The Rialto! I see it as practice for the future when i eventually write something good enough. Interestingly, Berlin doesn't seem to be available on any of my computers (and I have 5!) but it still let's you change. I don't understand this. It's a wondorous magic.

I am also taking some old poems that didn't work and converting them to prose poems. This is proving to be successful and they are better in this form. They now read better and the meaning comes forward. I had a theme I wanted to cover. As a poem it seemed drab and lifeless yet in a prose poem form it just seems to work so much better. Always worth experiementing.

Read around the Fear

If you go to the Litfest website, you can follow some links to information on the new Poetry Anthology (The Crowd Without) by Flax, being launched in June. This will be the new home for three of my poems: Reclamation, Bay Rock and Square Metres for Acreage. They will be very happy there.

Here is a little blurb from the web by editor Sarah Hymas;

"The Crowd Without is the latest of our poetry anthologies. It contains poems that twist through relationships, the sky and memory. While these topics are well populated, the narrators of the poems are outsiders, or at the least, objective witnesses to what unfolds around them.

Sensual, political and, at times, wry, these poems herald some of the strongest voices in the North West, from both new and established poets"

I not sure if I am terrified or excited. Actually I do know. Terrified. Due in most part to the great line up of other poets that, by rights, I should really not be a part of.

Little moments from today

I watched the sugar caramelize at the bottom of the mug, drying out crud of the morning. I watched the tree outside my window move in the wind and considered where on the beaufort scale it was going. I pondered the shine on other people's windscreens. The skip outside reminds me constantly, think pink! But I don't know what it means. The return key is worn from trying to get back too many times and the 'A' is rubbed off but I don't know why. I listened to the burr in the room, chased the sound around to no avail. It won't quieten beyond this hum. I repeatedly read the address where Silver Spoon is refined. Oundle Road. Peterborough. I watched the shadows chase eachother round the cars until it rained. Then they went.

(Atlas Moth. Photo copyright R. Allen 09)

There is something sad about this.

Maybe the dirty, ripped gauze. The small companionable butterfly. The resigned wings of the moth.

I don't know.

But I like this photo.

Musee des Beaux Arts by W. H. Auden

Landscape with the Fall of Icarus by Pieter Breughel c. 1558

About suffering they were never wrong,
The Old Masters; how well, they understood
Its human position; how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.
In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

I have always loved this poem. On one level because of the link to the painting. A way of writing I feel very at home with. But also, because I remember it from school; discussing at length what Auden is telling us about the nature of suffering in the world. It seems obvious now I am older, but it was a revelation at the time. In the years since I have often thought about how suffering happens quietly elsewhere while other's lives go on. Thinking miserably that while I am writing this, someone else's house could be burning down. I may see the fire engine and flinch but ultimately I will go back to my emails. I try not to dwell on it often, but I think this is a fine example of how poetry can masterfully articulate truths about life, that while we may already know them somewhere in the back of our minds, we never really spend time imagining the implications of that truth. Auden did that for me and it has stuck with me ever since, profoundly affecting the way I view the world. I can't think of any other poem that has had quite the same effect.

Then a friend got me thinking. About those moments when you find quiet bliss whilst everyone is suffering around you. In some ways this is the opposite of what Auden is describing. And almost awkward to talk about. Yet, still true. Not at all schadenfreude but just finding a quiet hole in the fabric where you can slip through and find solitude amongst the rush.

I wonder what writing has made a profound impact on the lives of others. Transformed a way of thinking or broadened their philosophy. I'd be interested to find out.

Do you ever write something and not have a clue what to do with it?

I think I have finished a new poem. Although, I am not sure what finishing means as I usually go back and think they could be improved/changed weeks or months after first drafting. But for this one, I can't see where to make the changes without it becoming something else altogether. I think this is a good sign.

It's shorter than usual and has an adventurous (for me!) format on the page. Not entirely sure what to do with it now. I could submit it, but I am not sure of where it would go! It's obscure and specific at the same time. It's called Not Rothko and was inspired by a visit to the Seagram Murals back in February 09, but it's not so much about the art but about the location and a relationship within it. I quite like it and hope to find a home for it in the future - push it out of the nest.

Finchley

So, these little guys aren't lost in the Wilderness which is nice. But they were in quite a small aviary. I wasn't convinced at first (not a fan of bird enclosures) but they are so weeny and cheerful that selfishly I enjoyed seeing them and I hope they don't begrudge visitors too much.

Birds and butterflies are oft used motifs in writing. I know this. But still I'm drawn to them.

What He Tells His Friends

Scary Little Silver Box

Well, after much anxiety it really wasn't that bad at all. In fact it wasn't bad, it was really quite exciting. And done in two takes. The first take I tended to trail off at the end of the lines giving the poem too much melancholia and leaving the end result sounding a little unconfident. On the second take I tried to sound more commited to the poem. As I got into my stride I started to race through, so I had to be slowed down, but by the end I was pretty happy. Now, if only they could make my voice sound like Tilda Swinton or something. That would have been great.

Afterwards I had a little peak at the Auditorium where we will be reading in June and I was shocked to see a stage and microphone. The last launch I went to was in Carnforth Station (Flax 17) where the readers were at ground level, but hey, i'm sure it'll all be fine. I'm looking forward to it all now and can't wait to see the postcards. I even know the title for the Anthology, which incidently sounds great, but that can all wait to be announced by Litfest/Flax. Exciting times for a brand new writer.

Clammy Hands

Tomorrow I have to go and record a podcast of one of my poems. I am scared about this. I have no shame in admitting it. Firstly, I hate the sound of my voice. Secondly, once it has been recorded it's out there and netted for all time. Like a butterfly, or something less cliched like a Belemnite. But both of these things are lovely and my poem probably isn't lovely, so maybe it'll be trapped like a 7 legged spider or a cockroach. Podcasting it is like pinning it into a windowed box in a museum. Oh, the things that can be seen close up.

The only time I have read them out loud has been in the bedroom while I write them and even then I whisper in case they offend my own ears. I think I need to work on confidence at this juncture, especially as I will have to do it in person fairly soon.

I wonder if other people have this problem?

79 Anagrams

Of my name. Here are some I like.

Lethal Run, Earth Null, Lethal Urn, All Hunter, A Hell Runt, A Lent Hurl, All en thru, and my particular favourite, A Hell Turn.

156 Anagrams for Wilderness including Lewder Sins, Dense Swirl, Idlers News, Weld Resins, Red Less Win and Lends Wires

Great book shops

OK, so i have been a little late in discovering Hay-on-Wye but this is not surprising given my late arrival to all things writerly. Up until now I have been a die-hard Foyle's fan (on the Tottenham Court Road) but there is something to be said for a good rummage of an afternoon in Wales. Besides Foyle's isn't cheap and is all a bit 'new'. But in terms of sheer front-cover enjoyment it's still to be beaten, and when you compare it to the rush of the city outside then for an honorary northern bumpkin like me, it's a delight. Similar to the feeling one gets at Borders in Preston Deepdale getting all the latest quarterlies.

However, I would suggest going on a Monday to Friday or a Saturday if pushed, as on Sundays the opening times are odd and largely undocumented. I was pretty much inconsolable to find the poetry bookshop closed when i got there, despite apparently being the largest dedicated retailer in the UK and saying on their website that they are open on Sundays. Do folk still not realise that if you work every other day of the week then Sunday is your only retail therapy day? The excitement was at fever pitch as I rocked up only to find that nasty 6-letter word hanging in the window. You can't bottle that type of disappointment and just as well. Internet is good but not the same as picking up the book and looking at it from all angles. Getting the feel. Smelling the pages.

The Bookshop (and several welshcakes) turned out to be the cure; a real gem with lots of otherwise expensive editions at prices more reasonable than Amazon. However, no where had a decent modern anthology of Polish poetry. I can only assume I may have found this in the Poetry Bookshop. If anyone knows where I can get one then please let me know...I was hoping Bloodaxe would publish? They've certainly nailed Young Romanian and Bosnian so there is hope.

Hay is also home to the 'world's first honesty bookshop'. I love the idea of this but really it's only useful if you have a particular interest in such obscurities as Fridge Mechanics 1973-1975 or A Guide To Cooking With Rare Marrow Species. There was actually a large compendium of reports from the early days of the Deep Sea Drilling Project...once upon a time in a far away life where Geologists used to find jobs....I may have gone for it, but alas it was getting mildewy and in need of a wipe-down and the weight was burdensome. I won't spell out the metaphor.

Also note, bikers seemed to be viewed with a degree of suspicion. Especially bikers clutching C. K. Williams (A great recommendation from Sarah @ Flax, thanks for that. An immediate affinity.) Or maybe I am paranoid. I don't know.

Pleased to hear the CAD is now poet laureate. I hope she gets all her sherry on time. A nice idea too to give the attached 'salary' to the poetry society as an annual prize.

I have been brewing over an idea to post what I would call phone poetry. I'm frequently caught short without notebook and end up tapping ideas into my phone when out and about. And actually, i think it's quite an interesting way of recording ideas. You have that choice; save to drafts or send to someone. Obviously, I never send them to anyone and even if they were fully formed I wouldn't. but it's an idea! A mass-dissemination device. It's also interesting the way when you hurriedly type in the ideas, predictive text will come up with it's own interpretation and the word you wanted will get replaced if you're not concentrating. Sometimes this works! Sometimes Mr Nokia has a better word than me. Sometimes it's just humorous to see the meaning change. Maybe CAD should use it as a way to get young people back into poetry. Humorous excerpts? OK, so it's a rough idea but it's not altogether awful...it could catch on. I wonder if she tweets...

I may post one. Get it out there. Anyway, you heard it here first.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2009/apr/30/poet-laureate-carol-ann-duffy

Not long now. Although Simon Armitage would have been a good choice too. Seeing both read their work in June and July. Winning all round.

The Sun Writing Group

Today marks the birth of a new writing group in Lancaster; The Sun Writing Group, meeting @ The Sun Hotel, first Monday of every month at 6pm.

The new group will be a forum for discussing ideas for new writing, getting feedback on ideas and work, an opportunity to ponder writing and it's academic roots and branches... All sorts of things.

The group will be informal and social with no pressure to meet deadlines or produce work-on-demand.

Laura will be creating online space for members to dump interesting writing, links, info for others to see and read at anytime and prior to each new meeting. In the meantime, I have to create a logo...

Something a little film noir

I took this photo and played about a bit. Now i want to use it as a writing prompt. A bit of poetry noir perhaps. Something to mull over tonight in Carnforth.

Some people are doing this to nice effect. See for example this Noir poem, called Noir by George Szirtes. Like me he is fond of the story-telling form of terza rima. The questions at the end are a really intriguing way to end and add to the mystery of true noir.

To add to book list:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2009/apr/27/kazuo-ishiguro-interview-books

Looking forward to this collection

What I wish I had known

I like to write urgent lists on my phone. I might text 'remember to get muffins', 'chuck socks' and 'take meter reading again' and then save it to Drafts.

I have been wondering what personal item to take for a photo next week. I pondered. I stared out the window. I considered a matchbox car. A photo of the ventilation system in Engineering. The wheels of my swivel chair. Then epiphany, I wrote this urgent note in my phone and saved to Drafts;

'Dig out ammonite'

As if it were that easy.

Those gem-like people

Despite being aware of the deadline for the last three months, I have just rushed a competition entry to the post office 30 mins before deadline. The knice lady at the magazine said the envelope just had to have today's date stamped on it and they would accept my entry. Then the lovely man in the PO sorted out my envelope while I breathlessly counted out the pennies for postage. Due to my oversized envelope I didn't have enough cash but he kindly sent it for me anyway and wished me luck with my entry.

Three months I have anxiously twitched and twittered over whether to send an entry. Bouncing from one crisis of confidence to the next. Pointless. Don't mind how I do now, just nice to get some exercise and bump into some good spirit.

Indicator is on and I am being let in

First three poems accepted for publication by Flax: Reclamation, Bay Rock and Square Metres for Acreage. These will all appear in Flax 018 which launches on 17th June 2009. Please visit again to read these at a later date. I will provide the link to the as yet unnamed publication.

About growing up at different times of your life, sometimes when you should have grown up already, sometimes when you are growing up for the second or third time.