written and posted by members of Lancashire Dead Good Poets' Society

Showing posts with label communication. Show all posts
Showing posts with label communication. Show all posts

Tuesday, 6 January 2026

Procrastination

 

“Never put off until tomorrow what you can do today.”

A statement attributed to Benjamin Franklin, and one of my dad’s favourite sayings. I’m not sure if he lived by it, but he was a busy man for most of his life and was always doing something. He made lists, meticulously handwritten on plain paper folded into three. He never used lined paper and it was always folded that way. Items were crossed off with one neat line upon completion. Unfinished tasks would be carried on to the list for the next day. This was likely to be, ‘Write to Alan’. I don’t think the delay was procrastination as much as it was waiting for the right moment. Alan was his brother and at this time would be living in Virginia, USA. The letter, when it happened, took time and lots of thought until it was perfectly paragraphed on to a couple of sheets of thin, pale blue, airmail stationery. These days, they would be emailing across the Atlantic, but my dad missed out on such communication. Anyway, letter written and crossed off. I don’t remember him ever losing his list. No, of course he wouldn’t. Not pedantic, but certainly a perfectionist.

Maybe I should take after him more and keep a list. I’d be less likely to put things off until I genuinely forget. Like the room upstairs, the attic and the shed. Oh, I think I’ve just listed everything. Thank goodness it’s not written down.

I’m sure I’ve mentioned our damp-proofing before. It happened in the summer and lots of things got packed up and stored upstairs. Those things were added to when more remedial work was needed. The original plan to paint walls and put the house on the market was and still is delayed. We can’t possibly need everything. I haven’t taken one thing out of a box since they were put away in June. Downstairs is quite spartan – I put a few books back on shelves, a priority – but we are preparing to move. I decided to sort the boxes out before Christmas and make the spare room look less like hoarding.

A much better idea was to shut the door on everything, go and spend some quality time in Dumfries & Galloway and enjoy a pre-Christmas break. That’s exactly what we did.

We came back in December, in time to put the Christmas tree up and a few festive bits in the front room. From the loft I called down to my husband, who was on the landing, that I would get round to sorting the ‘jumble sale’ out in the New Year and that it’s ridiculous, as is the spare room and the shed. I’m married to a wise man who wouldn’t see the need to remind me of how many times I’ve previously mentioned it.

Procrastination. That must be me. We’re in the New Year now, so I’ll see how I get on.

My Haiku,

I’m making a list
And it’s quickly grown too long.
My ‘need to do’ jobs.

More space is needed,
I must sort out the loft room.
I’ll do it next week.

And empty the shed
Of the accumulated
Packaging mountain.

PMW 2026

Happy New Year to all. Thanks for reading, Pam x

Tuesday, 25 March 2014

Worms of Light

07:30:00 Posted by Damp incendiary device , , , , , , 2 comments
I'm afraid that poets are pointing things out, very carefully, but their indexes are impossible to read.  Even when a poem speaks to me I fail to communicate exactly what it was saying, or even specify the language.  Poetry is like any other piece of art.  It's communicating an idea that, ideally, is unable to be stated plainly.  Therefore, the knowledge - if that's what it is - contained in poems is nebulous. 

Reading poetry is like studying a subject for which you have no use - yet.  The images and ideas stream into your experience.  Sometimes only incomplete snippets make it through with the rest forgotten. 

Writing poetry is like labelling the images and ideas which don't fit neatly in your mental drawers.  It's wrangling the ideas with legs and persuading them to stand still rather than running back into the dark.   

But labelling is not the same as organising categorically.  The poems are captured in beautiful glass jars and the labels are written in an intricate script but, though the shelves look neat and ordered, the these collections are not fit for a museum.  Poems are cabinets of oddities and poetry books are curiosity shops.  Don't walk in expecting to find that which you seek.  Expect to be delighted by the lambent trinket, covered in dust. 



from Paracelsus by Diane di Prima


                           Extract


the tar, the sticky
substance
                    heart
                                of things
(each plant a star,        extract


the juice of stars
                                by circular stillation
smear
            the inner man w/the coction
till he burn
            like worms of light in quicksilver
not the false
            puffballs of marshfire,


Paracelsus' Salamander