Collage Poetry #2

You’ve sat down at your desk, the pencil (Lamy propelling) and rubber positioned just so, the light is perfect and there are no distractions to stop you starting the new poem. Except one thing. That blank sheet of white A4 paper.

An hour later you are still staring at that blank sheet of paper.

I expect that most of us have been in that situation. Searching for an idea that just won’t come. But there are ways to kick start the process. Not guaranteed but let’s have a look at a few.

As the theme of this blog is Collage Poetry that’s as good a place to start as any. If you have a particular interest in, for instance, nature, science, railways, politics or whatever then you probably have a magazine lying around on the subject. The poet and artist Kate Eggleston-Wirtz (of this Parish) has explained how she took her Nature mag and cut out headlines which she then arranged to form poems based on the same subject i.e. nature. She says that by using this method she was able to generate a range of ideas that would never had occurred to her otherwise.

If you look at sites like the Poetry Library you will see lists of upcoming competitions. Some of them will have themes. There is one posted at the moment for poems on ‘A Whole New World’. I’m not suggesting you have to enter the competition as some of them are mind-bogglingly expensive and many have entries counted in the thousands, but it is an idea you could work with.

Family and friends’ birthdays are spread over the months of the year. And they are an incentive to get something done. Not only is there the pleasure of being able to send an original piece of work but you will have some tales or info on the person ready to hand and if written carefully it is possible to open up the poem to a general audience. If you’re lucky and get the poem published in a magazine then it’s a lovely feeling to experience the reactions of the family member or friend when they read it. I’m talking a positive reaction here.

For the past ten years or so I have been swapping poems with my friend Julie Maclean in Australia. We call them ‘reply poems’ and the idea is that she sends me a poem. I have to send her a new poem back that has been triggered by a word, phrase or line in her poem. And then vice versa. There is a time scale of roughly a month to respond. I still can’t believe the places this process has taken me. The Ice Age, Morse Code, Detection, Geometry... Here’s an example: the last line of her poem entitled ‘Caseus Magnus – Big Cheese’ was ‘of not being there’. So I took that and used it as my poem ‘On not being there’ about a trip to the cinema in Preston. I’d never written about this particular type of visit to a cinema before.

I always carry a notebook around with me (small enough to slip into my pocket and crucially with a space in it for my pen). And it’s for moments like staring at that flipping blank piece of paper. It’s surprising how much one forgets about wandering around places or being on journeys. A few words scribbled in the said notebook can bring back why one made the note in the first instance. And that can get you going.

I’ve never used the following but I have heard that some people get ideas from opening a book or in one case a dictionary and placing their fingertip on a random word. Which could work unless the tip lands on ‘crocodile’ as I have just found out by trying the method.

And then, of course, there are themes set by a person who runs a blog.

Years ago I was walking along a coastal path and this poem came about:

Dorset View

Putting down bread and jam is one thing,
picking up a telescope is several others
some of which are not as easy
as letting our lenses meet
neither of us blinking as we compromise
on the movement of the sea
where I’m hooked by the passage
of a fishing boat heading west
both of us dodging spray
anxious to clear rocks

just as I’m about to shout
the man in a brown jumper
moves the tiller, spits and looks up

I head south quickly into the sun
which causes several effects,
confusion, pain, temporary blindness,
a reflex action to less stressful views
such as Downs destroyed by craters
and a Bay used for target practice.

Trying to get back sight
and avoid the laughter of friends
a horizon is useful
blue above and blue below,
which may not seem useful
but the difference is there

and so is the shimmering ship shape,
New York bound for sure,
so I enter through my porthole
into the romance of it all,
the wind swirls my scarf to a bowtie
my boots are polished and light
and I step to the sound of a foxtrot
played by a twenty piece band

until stopped by a tap on my shoulder
a request but not for a dance
the nod that I make sufficient
to confuse things even more

for there on the ship I was someone
but I’m here on the cliff as well
and I know the Laws of Physics,
I know about focal lengths,
but being in two separate places
still seems a mystery

and I know that one’s an illusion,
my brain’s been tricked by light,
but somewhere in a nowhere
is where a universe begins
or strands of DNA combine
or the colour of a quark attracts
the other halves of a half formed image

a line of poetry exists
or light itself is squared
and the mystery expands
past gods or other certain truths
and as my eyes take back the day
I pass the telescope on
thanking my friend
while reaching for a flask of tea.

Thanks for reading, Terry Q

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Olive - Peace Offering

The olive plant, a small, attractive tree cultivated in Mediterranean countries for the fruit and the manufacture of olive oil which is a core ingredient of Mediterranean cuisine. Species of the plant are also grown in South Africa, South America and southern states of USA, Australia and New Zealand. Olives are a popular food and the versatile properties of olive oil make it useful medically and essential in cooking.

I can’t remember the exact circumstances in which I first tried an olive, but I know I was no more than thirteen. The taste was unbearable and I couldn’t remove it from my mouth quick enough. Many years later, I thought they might be more appealing to my mature palate. Nothing had changed.

My husband likes olives. I nearly poisoned him once. I bought one of those prepared chicken and chopped vegetable packs designed for busy people or lazy ones like me. They are ready to drop into a slow cooker with some water and a stock cube and hours later, dinner is ready, voila. This one included olives which I took out straight away before cooking. I didn’t want my chicken casserole tainted. My husband enjoyed the snack. For someone, me, who is meticulous about food safety and food hygiene, this was a really stupid thing to do which went right over my head until it was too late. The olives were with raw chicken. I was horrified at my own carelessness, though, to be fair, he didn’t bat an eyelid either at the time. Fortunately, he was fine, perfectly alright and after a few days I stopped revising symptoms of salmonella et al and beating myself up. I should have offered him an olive branch.

In the Bible, an olive branch, symbol of reconciliation and peace offering was carried to Noah by a dove to show that the flood was over.

A sign of peace it might be, but I don’t have to like the taste of its fruit. Even if the nutrition value was full of everything I need, it would be a no.

With acknowledgement and apologies to Theodor Seuss Geisel, Dr Seuss, for inspiration and whose books and rhymes I have enjoyed to share with lots of children,

I am Pam, Pam I am.
I think I’d like green eggs and ham.
I will not eat an olive.

I will not take it from the jar
I will not taste it from afar,
I will not eat an olive.

Not even on a cocktail stick
I will not try a tiny lick,
I will not eat an olive.

Do not hide it on my pizza
Or tuck it in my fajita,
I will not eat an olive.

I will not choose one from a dish,
I will not have it in a quiche,
I will not eat an olive.

I am Pam, Pam I am,
I would like some salad and spam.
Do not bring me an olive.


PMW 2021

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Pantoum - For My Paternal Grandfather

The Pantoum - I don’t think I’ve encountered this poetry form before. I’ve played about with it during the last few days, but didn’t write anything worth sharing, and I had something in my head that I thought might work but I’m saving it for another time. Instead, my inspiration, for what it’s worth, came from my paternal grandfather’s Bible and the handwritten inscription inside, penned exactly a hundred years ago yesterday.

  

 I wonder, was it hot like today?

And was he eager, and was he keen

To get to Belgium, where he would stay

In the summer of nineteen-eighteen. 

And was he eager, and was he keen

Joining his comrades to go to war?

In the summer of nineteen-eighteen,

Manchester boys, not travelled before. 

Joining his comrades to go to war,

Weighed down with stuff and Army khaki.

Manchester boys, not travelled before

Building up some camaraderie. 

Weighed down with stuff and Army khaki,

Merriment from the back of the truck,

Building up some camaraderie.

Take care now boys, and the best of luck. 

Merriment from the back of the truck,

George Hales was with that Manchester lot.

Take care now boys, and the best of luck.

And I’m still wondering, was it hot? 

Pamela Winning 2018

 I don’t know much about his time in the First World War, only that he saw action in July and August, 1918 and returned safely home.

In 1922, he married Miss Henrietta Brearey, otherwise known as my lovely Nanna Hetty.

The Bible was given to him by Mrs Hyde, Nanna Hetty’s adoptive mother.

 

Thanks for reading, keep cool, Pam x

 

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Lost - Something Dark

It was tough watching ‘Philomena’. I’d seen the trailers on TV and it looked like a good film. Judi Dench always gives a first class performance and I like Steve Coogan’s straight acting style.  With the exception of his cringe-worthy character Alan Partridge, I like Steve Coogan in anything.  Life must have passed me by for a while, or maybe I’d been under a large stone, but I was completely ignorant of Martin Sixsmith’s book ‘The Lost Child of Philomena Lee’, a true story of an unmarried pregnant girl forced into the care of nuns in an Irish convent and her baby taken away and adopted in America.  I sat in the cinema stifling sobs as one horrid deception followed another and I felt sickened by the behaviour of supposedly caring, Christian people.  It’s a well-written and superbly acted film.  The content disturbed me immensely and still does.  I can’t bring myself to read the book. Philomena Lee is one of many to suffer for bringing ‘shame’ on her intolerant family.  Where is the love? Where is the support?  So many lives broken, family connections lost because a daughter ‘sinned’ and was denied her child.  No forgiveness, either, then?

 

The TV programme ‘Long Lost Families’ shares many similar stories.  Babies born to single women who are influenced or pressured by their family to give up their child for adoption, then spend decades grieving for their ‘lost’ child.  And the child, now an adult, searching for the birth mother, the missing piece of life’s jigsaw.  I watch the happy reconciliations and new beginnings take shape on ‘Long Lost Families’, often through a veil of tears and I hope that adoptive parents, if still alive, are supportive and included.  There’s a feel-good factor in the positive result of a happy ending which is what ‘Long Lost Families’ concentrates on.  I feel for those who are waiting to be found, those whose searches for answers reach a dead end and those who struggle with authorities as they try to find information about who they are.

 

Imagine spending the first eighteen years of your life in the care system.  Everything about you is contained in your files and documents compiled by Social Services, or other responsible authority.  Then, at age eighteen, when you leave the care system and you are legally entitled to take possession of your files, they are lost.

 

This is what happened to Lemn Sissay.  His files were eventually found and given to him only two years ago. He turned fifty this year. Lost files for thirty-odd years?

 

Last Wednesday I went to see Lemn reading his autobiographical play, ‘Something Dark’ at the Brewery Arts Centre in Kendal.  I’m familiar with his poetry and his life story so I wasn’t in for the shock that ‘Philomena’ gave me.  However, I wasn’t sure what to expect but I anticipated feeling sorrow and kept tissues to hand.  I’m smiling at the thought of it now. Generally speaking, people go to the theatre to experience an entertaining evening and have a nice time.  There was I, prepared for heart-break, but no, this was Lemn Sissay, full of positive vibes, humour, a massive smile and I just listened intently to the wit and intelligence he pours into his story.  There was lots of direct interaction with his audience and at the end he spent time doing Q & A.

 

Lemn Sissay, MBE, an inspiration to all.  Lost hopes, lost dreams, never.

 

And not a single tear from me.

 

 

 

She Read As She Cradled

You part of me

Every day your history
Every tomorrow your destiny
Every growth your mystery
Every mother wants a baby
Like you

Every laugh your personality
Every look your clarity
Every word your stability
Every mother wants a baby
Like you

Every hiccup a comedy
Every fall a catastrophe
Every worry my worry
Every step you’re beside me
Every sight you’re pure beauty
Every mother wants a baby
Like you

Every tear wiped carefully
Every word spoke lovingly
Every meal fed silently
every cloth washed caringly
Every song sung sweetly

Every day I whisper quietly
Every mother wants a baby
Like you

© Lemn Sissay

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

 

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Inspiration: Inhalation > Instillation > Expiration > Exhilaration...

Inspiration, a drawing of breath, a divine influence - necessary precursor to many artistic endeavours: for instance, reciting a poem, playing a wind-instrument, blowing glass.....

My poem today is inspired by the work of a very talented Finn, Oiva Toikka, a consummate artist in glass. He was appointed in1963 as lead designer at the Nuutajarvi Glassworks [Finland's oldest glassworks, founded in 1793]. To begin with he designed ranges of elegant, everyday glassware and that portfolio alone would have guaranteed him a lasting reputation. Toikka however, had a vision. A keen ornithologist, he yearned to replicate in glass the beauty of the world of birds...and so in 1979 he began to design the range of stunningly beautiful hand-blown glass birds that have become collectors' items and given him international status as a glass artist. He still designs glass birds today, but his designs - which all use only locally-sourced materials - are now hand-blown by a dedicated team of his skilled disciples. I'm fortunate to have a couple of his creations and they are wonderful artefacts, things of beauty that truly are a joy to behold and be held.

This 'recipe' of a poem was written sitting at my Dell Inspiron....

Birds Of Fire
Step one:
Sand, soda, lime and fire,
elements melt in the kiln -
radiant heart of the hot shop -
coalesce with a burning desire
to create a red-hot glass mass.

Step two:
A skilled hand grabs a pipe,
lifts a gather of the molten glow
and sets to work -
twist, twirl, blow
all in a controlled flow -
a small miracle is taking place,
the birth of another bird of fire.

Step three:
Step back,
let it cool,
stand and admire...
out of sight!
Smooth form, vibrant colours,
art embellishing nature,
a perfect poem in glass and light.


Thanks for reading - have a good week, S ;-)

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A Voyage of Discovery

Good afternoon readers, and happy Easter to all of you.

This week, on my voyage of discovery, I saw an article on The Guardian online about the British Pathe archive coming available online.

Having visited the excellent Manchester Museum with Lara last week, I have already found plenty of inspiration for a poem I'm now working on redrafting. I found the whole place fascinating with all the nooks and crannies filled of wonderful old things- and I mean stuffed.

I've long been a believer that the internet is just as full of treasure troves but, admittedly, find myself on the same seven or eight sites all of the time. So, as it isn't actually one I frequent too often and the kids at school rave on about it, I've decided that this Pathe archive going up on YouTube must have some creative inspiration in it.

It seems it is a pathway to a by-gone era. A chance to see from the comfort of your armchair what life was like in the the early part of the last century, without having to sit through the dodgy sky channels and adverts.

It can consume hours of your time just the same though, so I've picked out five videos that may just be that kick of inspiration you were looking for today. Hope you enjoy.

With Eve At Blackpool (1926)

10,000 Guides and Scouts... (1930)

1890s Traffic Scenes

New Paint for Blackpool Tower (1926)

The Champions (1931)

Thanks for reading,

S.

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Purple patch.

Good afternoon readers.
This week on the blog it has been all things purple. We've had colour inspirations, critical analysis and funny examples of found purple prose. This all leaves me in a bit of a cul-de-sac for ideas and so, as I like to post a Sunday poem, I've found inspiration in the over-elaborate dreams my girlfriend has been sharing with me. I think this may also double as chemical writing advice.

Purple.

My girl is quitting fags again
She is showing me the way
She is mad and stressed and I confess
I'm being careful what I say.

On her arm she wears a magic patch
A steady stream of nicotine
It helps her cope but there's a catch
She is having purple dreams.

Fleshed out in vivid detail
Whilst clutching at the quilt
She sleep talks about lizards
Coming for her wearing stilts.

The alligators swim the floor
She mans the Enterprise
There are walking, talking Russian dolls
And jars of fireflies.

It brings out a kind of madness
Such surreal thoughts in her head
So when stuck for inspiration
Wear a purple patch to bed.


Thanks for reading,
S.

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The Inspiration of Profession

Yesterday as I lugged bags of rubble, old ceramic sinks and decaying skirting boards into the skip, our builder offered me a job. Although it was probably not a serious offer, more a phrase that carries an illocutionary force of praise rather than promise, his idea that I could work for him and write poetry about his work was an arresting one, and one which has inspired the writing exercise described below.

There is an amazing poem (one of those poems that makes me coo with admiration every time I read it) called The Boys in the Fish Shop by Kathryn Simmonds, which shows just how successful a poem about a specific profession can be. If you haven’t read the poem before then you can read/listen to it on the Poetry Archive.

Profession as Inspiration

1)      Firstly, select a profession. I’d suggest choosing either one you know about, or one which you are currently in contact with in your daily life - be that via a shopping trip to the fishmongers (like in Simmonds’ poem), the emergency plumber fixing a leak or the gardener you pass in the park.

2)      Secondly, pay attention to the environment. One of the reasons Simmonds’ poem is so successful is because of the detail included about the shop in which the boys work. The environment in which you place your character/characters has the potential to add depth to character, narrative and the overall poem, as well as showing the reader the profession rather than telling, so use it to your advantage.

3)      Thirdly, notice interesting or unexpected traits in your character. For example, Simmonds notes the ‘acne like mottled skin of pink fish’ and the ‘hoop of a lure’ of one of the boys and the ‘hands on hips, an elbow on a broom’ of another. From each of these statements we infer something about each of the boys – character description is your opportunity to show something without spelling it out.

4)      Lastly, if you are writing the poem in the third, consider including some direct speech from your character. Simmonds uses the familiar address to a customer to bring the reader into this world – that ‘Yes darling’ is so indicative of the environment and class. If you’re not writing your poem in the third person but have chosen the first person, then pay attention to vocabulary use – for your character to be believable then there language usage and tone needs to be believable.

Thank you for reading,
Lara  

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Inspiration

 By Ashley Lister

 Inspiration is a lot like oxygen, love and internet connectivity: it’s only a problem when it’s not there.

Inspire a writer with an idea and that’s usually enough. Once a writer is armed with an idea, the quest for inspiration gets put aside as the labours of writing, crafting and editing take place. Inspiration is only ever an issue between projects.

Personally and professionally, I understand the difficulties that come from a lack of inspiration. When I’m teaching poetic forms some learners get so caught up in mastering the rules of a specific poem they can’t think of a subject that fires their imagination.

Papers have been written on this problem. Some theorists argue that, because the rational part of the brain is hyperactive in understanding the rules of form, the creative part of the brain is being suppressed or underutilised.

I don’t claim to know if this is exactly what is happening.

But I do know a way round it.

Here are the instructions for how to write a monotetra

The monotetra contains four lines in monorhyme. Each line is in tetrameter (four metrical feet) for a total of eight syllables. The last line contains two metrical feet, repeated. The monotetra can have one stanza or many stanzas.

Line 1: 8 syllables

Line 2: 8 syllables

Line 3: 8 syllables

Line 4: 8 syllables with repetition

Here’s an example:

It keeps the working world at bay

A word I whisper when I pray

And thankfully today’s the day

It’s Saturday. It’s Saturday.

At this point, in the classroom I would tell learners to experiment with the form. And I know there would be learners struggling to be inspired.

That’s where the random word generator comes in so useful.

To the right of this page is a random word generator. The random word generator should be generating a new word each time someone visits this page. If you don’t like that word, if it doesn’t inspire you, click on the link labelled NEXT WORD. If that doesn’t inspire you, clink on NEXT WORD a second time.

Inspired monotetras in the box below, please. I look forward to reading them.

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Ekphrasis: A Writing Exercise

As some of you will already know (because I keep harping on about it), I spent last week at a writing residential in North Wales. This is the second time that I’ve been to Ty Newydd, and neither occasion has disappointed. Each day was loosely structured to include a writing workshop in the morning, free time in the afternoon to write / read from the vast collection of poetry books in the library, and a reading / Q&A in the evening. I was inspired. I wrote a lot. Most of which is unusable, but there are a few pieces that contain faint flecks of potential – and, for me, that makes for a fairly successful week.

The piece that follows is a written version of what I took from Tuesday’s workshop on ekphrasis. I’d experienced this workshop before (last year in fact), but it has been an exercise that I have employed regularly when I’ve been stuck, or when I have found myself regressing back to my cryptic ways. This workshop was crucial to my development and learning in the first year of my MA, and enabled me to change my opaque poetry into something that was less difficult. I hope that you find it as useful as I have found it.

* * *

The term “ekphrasis” derives from the Greek ek, “out of”, and phrasis, “speech” or “expression”. In poetry and literature it is used to describe a poem or a section of prose that translates or speaks of a piece of art; you have probably read many examples of ekphrasis without realising that you were reading an ekphrastic poem.

For example, John Keats’ poem ‘An Ode to a Grecian Urn’ uses an ancient artefact as a subject, allowing the speaker to address it directly, while also describing some of the pictures on the object’s surface. Keats used one form of art – a stimuli for inspiration – and translated it into another art form. However, it is also possible to construct an ekphrastic poem without a ‘real’ work of art (notional); Robert Browning’s ‘My Last Duchess’ is an excellent example of this. The painting that the Duke of Ferrara addresses is not real outside of the poem; it has been imagined by Browning, enabling the Duke to plausibly speak to his dead wife as if she were alive and encouraging the reader to think of her as a real person.

In recent times, photographs have become a popular focus within poetry - and despite capturing a very specific and static moment, they offer a variety of directions and options. The poet needs to make decisions, and perhaps the most crucial decision is POV: who’s eyes will we see through? who will be the speaker in the poem? Personally, I think some of the most successful ekphrastic poems are those that do something interesting with POV. For example, in ‘I Go Back to May 1937’ sees the speaker (daughter) travelling back in time to her parents graduation day (the photograph), just prior to their marriage. She wants to warn them, “I want to go up to them and say Stop, / don’t do it – she’s the wrong woman, / he’s the wrong man”. Similarly, in ‘Long Exposure’ (Neil Rollinson) the use of POV is striking; the poem steps away from the photograph and hovers more generously on the photographer. However, the speaker is a further step away from the photographer, observing his movements and the process of taking a photo. The reader is never given an exact description of the final image; we’re left to imagine the results, only able to see what the twice-removed speaker is capable of seeing / describing to us.

The Poem & the Photograph: A writing exercise

1) Find a photograph. I like to open a book like A Year in Photography: Magnum Archive at a random page and then write. However, things like weekend newspaper supplements, old photo albums, or even a Google image search can offer countless photographs – and endless sources of inspiration.

2) Consider POV. The options here are as unrestricted as your imagination will allow. You could choose a speaker who is contained within the photograph: a person, an object, a shadow. Alternatively, you could decide that your speaker is external (outside of the photograph): the photographer, a bystander, or even (as demonstrated in the Sharon Olds’ poem above) a person’s experience on viewing a photograph.
The above list isn’t extensive, it’s more of a starting point to get you thinking about the importance of POV and voice, and the way in which it can greatly influence the subsequent direction of your poem.

3) Think outside the frame. Don’t allow yourself to be restricted by what is within the picture frame. Photographs have edges, boundaries, but our minds are without such parameters. You can fill in what the snapshot hasn’t captured; the scene around the edges, the scene in front of the photo.

4) Experiment with time. It can sometimes be interesting to shift time, hypothesise about what happened 30 seconds before or after the photograph was taken and imagine what the ‘new’ photo would have looked like. Equally, this can be exaggerated to include greater time gaps; you might like to work away from a specific moment in time towards a future time, asking: Where are these people now? Are they still alive? What happened to them? (See ‘Six Young Men’ by Ted Hughes)

Thank you for reading,
Lar

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TV Guide.

Evening all,

I have no real excuse for not posting this writing task earlier, I just forgot about my early start. Sorry about that.

Anyway, this week's theme is Writing Exercises which I think could actually work in favour of my timing after all. I wrote this task for the Hodgsonberry festival event three of us attended at a local high school way back in July. I have actually aimed it to be a start point for some year 8s but I'm sure you can get along without my assistance and write something on your own, after all, there is nothing on TV tonight...

FINDING INSPIRATION: A WRITING WORKSHOP

When looking for something to inspire, it is easy to get lost in your own head, especially with a blank page in front of you. You are not stuck for ideas, you just think you are. Your body and mind have experienced thousands of different words and senses today and you have only just thought about it. With this in mind, before you start writing remember that 5 minutes of jotting is almost always more fruitful than an hour of thinking.

Today, we are looking at Objects. Objects can be great for inspiring you. They have been made, been lived with, been used and, somewhere along the line, probably seen or done something pretty wicked. Remember, there is a story behind everything.

Pick up the object. Turn it over. Ask yourself everything you can think of about it. Here are just a few to get you started

· What is it?

· Who does it belong to?

· Have you seen it before?

· What colour is it?

· Is it smooth?

· Does it smell?

· Does it say anything (i.e. is it religious, does it represent anything else)?

· Where did you pick it up?

· What has it seen?

· What does it do?

· Why does it interest you?

Think about all of these questions. Have a look at the POEMS idea below. Do you have enough ideas to piece together a picture now? Find a PERSPECTIVE you would like to write from and you are just about ready to dazzle with poetry.

	P is for People: Who are the characters in the poem? O is for Objects: What do they symbolise? Find 3 interesting things to say. E is for Emotion: Is the mood sad, happy, reflective, angry...? M is for Message: Is there something you’re trying to say? S is for Setting: Where is the poem set? Why here? What does this add?

Note: Nobody writes amazing poetry on a first draft. Never be afraid to cross out and re-write a line. You will know when a line fits, trust your instincts!

Thanks for reading guys, S.

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I have a badly kept secret.

Working in a newsagents provides me with countless opportunities to read. I have to tell you now- this dirty little secret of mine is not something I'm ashamed of, I even embrace it.

Wander into my workplace of a morning and, if I'm on, you could probably notice a few magazines on the side. I read lots of them: Stuff for things I can't buy in the UK or even afford, Private Eye for a regular laugh at David 'I like soundbites I do' Cameron and co, Cosmo to try and stay ahead of the evil sex- at least in thinking, Woman's Weekly because I really don't care that I'm male- I like the stories (normally to mock) and they always seem to have a vegan recipe, More, Reveal, Real Lives, Now...for scandal and ridiculous stories and, by home time- I tend to have read enough to at least half inspire a poem, even if it never makes it.

I always have a favourite story as well. Today I read all about a woman that has married a fairground carousel. Fruitcake. Apparently, she "rides the pole until she silently reaches orgasm". As I said, a fruitcake.

When the first 'read and scatter the thoughts' approach fails, I find that the Sunday inserts can prove inspirational. Between The Observer, The Sunday Telegraph, The Sunday Times, The FT Weekend, The Mail On Sunday (never bought, you should understand) and anything else with a poly-bagged free CD, I have acquired a huge pile of recycling that I plan to use. In fact, it is on days like these (Sundays) that I tend to have a flick through, so let's see.

Matt Cardle X Factor interview? No interest.

Frieze Art Fair? Not my thing.

World Homeless Day photograph special? Well, thank you very much The Independent on Sunday.

Name Withheld

I keep coming back. Another look

your car crash life irresistible.

And through the lens your eyes change.

You could be anyone. First, a wispy

bearded man, washed up.

Then, the friendly drinker. Still, no -

your whiskers, yard brush bristles,

the youthfully kept brow. You are timeless,

Name Withheld, and I fear you

like Rasputin.

And there we have it, my badly kept secret: I write and so I read- anywhere and everywhere I can. Flyers, mags, posters, cards, papers, books, pamphlets, adverts, shop signs, street names... I think the key is to keep your eyes open- only then will you see. Hope you enjoyed the poem, an excellent use of Sunday time I think.

Thanks for reading. I enjoyed that.

S.

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On the Back Burner

Morning folks,

It is that time of the week again. There has been panic, there has been stress and there has been plenty of ‘oh, I’ll do it in the morning’ around here. I’m not quite sure this is what Ste had in mind when he chose the theme but, me being super organised and all- it was the blog that went ‘On the back burner’ in honesty.

The millstone has been turning though and a fine dusting of ideas are coming together, most of which I will save for my return from Devon.

When it comes to writing poetry, I bet many of you can relate to the idea of ‘it just not coming together’. I wait on it, normally. By this, I do not mean dinner service, I mean I’m quite happy to let the thought stew. Once thoroughly tender and oozing the gravy of creativity, my stewed thought gets on to a notepad. This is about it a lot of the time. I have half full pads, half empty pads (inspirational and solemn poetry), pads full of final drafts, pads full of second drafts... I just have pads.

The step of moving pads is where the blog theme comes in to its own. From that moment where the line hits your head, usually all alone and stubborn about the company you try and give it, it is just a waiting game sometimes. There are techniques, there are tips, there are sure-fire ways to bash out the line but, for me, it is the waiting that always finds the best one.

Are you like that? Do you write on pads? I don’t know what it says about me as a person but, I can’t really develop a poem on a computer. I find I change lines, lose direction between drafts and generally change the whole thing beyond recognition. Working on a screen, I often have no way back to the original piece I wanted to write.

I don’t know. Maybe it is just me and I lack the focus at times to always ‘Save As’ with a version number. It all seems a little clinical plus, I like to be able to whip it out wherever (on the bus) and get the juices flowing- you just can’t do that if you’re always wired in.

If you’re interested, I have a notebook full of ideas on poems I want to write documenting key figures of the age (a personal look at interesting people, historical perhaps), I have a fair few ideas on where I would take my Brett Easton Ellis style semi-autobiographical memoir (quite firmly on the back burner) and I also just have that pile of scraps- lines, pictures, inspiring thoughts, ideas, verses, whole poems even. Needless to say, it is only when I actually have a deadline to meet that these things get looked at in any real detail and usually, for a DGPS event something gets finished. It is at times of pressure when we need back-ups, plans and ways to beat the block... having lots on the back burner always helps me. I wouldn’t change my old fashioned methods for the world.

Cheers for reading,

S.

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Josh Knows Best.

This week’s theme ‘Comedy in Poetry and Writing’ has proved challenging. It has been difficult for one reason: I’m not funny. This isn’t a hyperbole to orchestrate a stream of ‘yes you are’ comments, it’s the truth, I’m really not funny (to adults at least). However, there is one person that I can always make laugh, but he’s two years old.

The inspiration for this post comes from my two-year-old nephew Josh. I considered filming my operatic version of The Gruffalo by Julia Donaldson, before realising that my out of tune notes and gangly skips are probably only appreciated by Josh. I wondered if sharing Poetsaurus – a scary dinosaur that stomps around the lounge reciting rhyming couplets – was a better idea, but realised it wasn’t. Therefore, I decided not to share my silliness with you. Instead, I thought I’d share a collection of haiku – inspired by a two-year-old who is far funnier than me.

From the perspective of a two-year-old

I
When feeding the ducks
Don’t bother throwing the bread –
Just eat it instead

II
If you want to see
Things from a new perspective
Then stand on your head.

III
Unscrew the rose head
Because it means that you can
Water more quickly.

IV
Fake, painted, plastic
Food looks good enough to eat...
Take a massive bite!

V
What is pretentious?
I just really, really like
Hummus and breadsticks.

VI
Jigsaw puzzles aren’t
Difficult if you forget
About the picture.

VII
Everything is red.
The grass is red, trees are red.
Everything is red!

VIII
Hide and Seek is great
when you hide in the same place –
You always get found.

IX
How old are you Josh?
Can you say that you are two?
Three, four, five, six, eight.

X
Teaching a toddler
To say fork will result in
A four letter word.

XI
It’s important to
remember to be polite
and always say ‘peas’.

XII
A black dog lying
In the sun on a hot day
Is called a hot dog.

Thank you for reading,
Lar

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Finding Inspiration

by Fiona Pitt-Kethley

In order to find inspiration easily it may be necessary to rearrange your life. Does the place you live in inspire you? If not, it may be time for a move. Do your hobbies inspire you? If not, it may be time to get some new interests. Embracing the new and moving on are two essentials for an inspiring life.

Look on many of the things you do as research for poems or prose. I have eventually found an inspiring place to live in – Cartagena in the South of Spain. It is inspiring partly because it has about 3000 years of history behind it if you go back to the days when it was Mastia, a city of Tartessos, long before the Carthaginians and the Romans arrived. It is inspiring also because it is set in wonderful countryside, something I can discover gradually on bike or on foot. Part of its charisma is the fact that some of this is under threat. A part of my life is taken up fighting with other like-minded people to save antiquities and threatened stretches of countryside. There is a perpetual conflict between industry and nature. Ironically, some of the architecture associated with industry is part of what we want to save. Since moving here I have spent a lot of time hunting minerals, going down mines and up mountains. I am becoming familiar not only with the outside but also the inside of the world I live in. It is all part of nature, something that many naturalists forget, emphasising only the importance of flora and fauna.

Grasping new opportunities is another part of finding inspiration. Recently I worked as an extra on a film by Alex de la Iglesia, one of my favourite directors. It was physically very uncomfortable as all the filming was at night in a freezing Roman Theatre. On many occasions we were sitting in puddles of dew by three in the morning. I had just got over pneumonia so it wasn´t exactly what the doctor would have recommended. But, it was inspiring. I have written both prose and poetry about this bizarre experience and made a whole new group of friends amongst the extras.

If you are finding inspiration difficult you must change your life and grasp at new opportunities and new friendships, surmounting whatever difficulties lie in your way.

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No. 005042

It’s late on Monday night. My trousers have mud-prints down each leg. My hair has started to weave itself into dreadlocks. My nails have small pieces of campsite dirt stuck in the corners. A cloth wristband – fastened with a pressed metal ring – is still attached to my left wrist. Beneath my eyes there are long, inspired days and late, inspired nights. This is the Latitude effect.

It’s left my mind impregnated with ideas. Glowing germs on a soil sky, waiting to grow into sparks. Waiting to shower and scatter onto the blank land. Scorch words into the grass. This is what matters. This is what you search for. This is what (once found) you want to keep. You want to seal it inside a Tupperware tub and freeze it. You want to tuck it at the back of your sock drawer. You want to lock it. Alarm it. Put an electric fence around it. You want it to stay. Forever.

But it leaves, forgets to close the door on the way out. A draught stirs the dust. Particles of doubt stand themselves up tall. Look menacing. Fear dots every unwritten ‘i’, crosses every unwritten ‘t’. And you wonder. You wonder if it is gone without a goodbye. Another once defined face chiselled by the water. Unrecognisable. Lost to a sea of strangers. Murky. Blue. Green. Bottles. No coastline. An expanse of bobbing corks and glass. Unread. A smudged ‘return to’ address. Everything says it shouldn’t come back...

...And when you want it to, it usually doesn’t. It plays the stroppy teenager better than Harry Enfield. It can make a game of hide-and-seek last days, even weeks. It can push invisible pins into your eyes. Cause a pen to click for an hour without pause. Force you to stare at emptiness as if it contained something profound. It’ll bring you to the ground. Have you pleading like a Lib Dem canvassing for votes. Nothing. It refuses to be bought with promises. It makes you wait. With no guarantee.

101 hours ago I walked into the poetry tent at Latitude. Found that thing you just want to keep. Packed it in my backpack. Brought it home. For the moment, at least.

Thank you for reading,
Lar

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