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.