You Annoy Me When...

As I tell Shaun that this week's theme is 'Stupid Arguments', he declares: "You're a row specialist". With defences up, I deny, and inform him that our stupid arguments are in fact caused by him doing things that annoy me. Most of these things tend to be a consequence of living together - and, while I find calm in order, Shaun seems perfectly happy with clutter and disarray. So, for your amusement, I give you a list of ten things Shaun does that really annoy me.

1) He leaves dirty clothes in the lounge, in the bathroom, on the bedroom floor and rarely manages to actually put them in the washing basket. This is made more annoying when I find a stray sock tucked beneath the bed AFTER I've finished doing all the laundry.

2) When he wears a t-shirt underneath a shirt he removes the two items as if they were a singular item and then leaves it on the floor. This is made more annoying when the t-shirt is white and the shirt is dark and I have to uncouple the items before washing.

3) After having a bath he leaves wet towels in one of three places: on the bed, on a chair or on the floor.

4) He plays Xbox before doing anything remotely useful or helpful. This made more annoying when I finish work and then have to do the housework.

5) He takes a hairbrush or deodorant out of the bathroom and then leaves it in the bedroom. These items live in the bathroom and should be returned there.

6) He takes his shoes off and leaves them in the lounge rather than placing them on the shoe rack. This made more annoying when I trip over them.

7) He uses the chopping board and doesn't wipe it down afterwards.

8) He never takes the empty toilet roll off the holder and replaces it with the new one. Instead, he balances the new one on top of the holder.

9) He puts out-of-date food back into the fridge rather than throwing it away

10) He drives my car more than I do and then leaves it in a mess: crumbles, cigarette ash, unfinished cans of pop, mouldy food, snotty tissues, CDs in the wrong cases, etc, etc.

But for all our stupid arguments there is always resolution and forgiveness - a sobering realisation that, despite our differences, neither of us works quite as well without the other.

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Come Rain or Shine

Choose one of the options below:

a) If you are reading this post at 7am - Shaun and I are probably three hours into a six hour drive to Latitude Festival.

b) If you are reading this post at 11am - Shaun and I are probably queuing excitedly on a Southwold country road waiting to park our car in a field.

c) If you are reading this post at 2pm - Shaun  and I are probably getting bands of fabric clamped to our wrists (which will come to signify such a happy time that we'll refuse to cut them off).

d) If you are reading this post at 3pm - Shaun and I have probably put up the tent (hopefully without incident or argument)and are now milling around the campsite village and buying ridiculous hats from the Oxfam Tent.

e) If you are reading this after 5pm - Shaun and I will probably be exploring the arena, scouting out vegan food and filling our evening with inspiring, random and wonderful acts.

Hopefully the weather will be nice, but regardless of whether we are met by rain or shine, I'll be wearing my wellies (any excuse will suffice).

At Latitude 2012, our arrival coincided with a day of torrential rain, and by the time we awoke on Friday morning - our feet sitting in a puddle of rainwater - the decision to bring a smaller tent seemed less ingenious and more stupid. There was another 'wet foot' crisis in 2011, when I stepped into a puddle only to discover my wellies had a hole. With cold and wet feet, and Jo Shapcott due to start in under thirty minutes, Shaun left me in the Poetry Tent and went off in search of new socks. He returned twenty minutes later - finding non-wool socks had been more difficult than he had anticipated - and presented me with a pair of £7 yellow and black striped socks. We look back on these moments now, where things didn't go quite as planned, and we laugh...

There is always the hope that things will go perfectly - but when they don't, and you look back, it is usually the less than perfect memories that you remember and which make you smile. So, here is to a Latitude that doesn't go quite as perfectly as my mind has imagined.

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A Thirst

It has been a while since I jotted down anything which resembles a poem, and even longer since I managed to write anything I actually like. I feel thirsty - my mind dehydrated, shrivelling and shrinking. I imagine a slug caught on a salt trail - osmosis - the melting mess baking in English sun.

I know there are possible solutions - causes of action which may result in a different outcome - the "If you write all day you'll get into it, into your body, into your feelings, into your consciousness" ethos - but this always seems far easier to quote than to implement.

When you are really thirsty - in a literal sense - any palatable liquid will suffice. After long walks over Grizedale I've been delighted by the prospect of tent-warm bottled water - self-imposed coffee restriction (because of the expense) at Latitude has made the one-cup-a-day coffee the most satisfying I've tasted - a baobab fruit drink shack in the humid climes of The Eden Project's rainforest saw me downing a mysterious, milky concoction without a moment of suspicion or hesitation. In our Western society of convenience, thirst can be quickly quenched. But, while the dryness of tongue is easily resolved by a multitude of flavoured liquids, the rehydration of my mind seems to be a more complicated and less convenient process.

Reluctance - laziness - fear. That new pad of yellow paper with its fresh-start intention remains blank. The attempt to romanticise - digging out the old typewriter - fails to bring the love story it promised. Creativity and craft - plentiful on my bookshelves but suddenly empty once in my hands. A world which used to be rich with idea is now poor and quiet. A thirst that even the luxuries of Western society cannot quench.   

A Mortally Wounded Brigand Quenches His Thirst — Eugene Delacroix

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Milestone

This week will see us reach 1,000 posts on the Dead Good Blog.  In celebration of that fact, the current bloggers will be creating found poetry using snippets from our favourite past posts. 

It goes without saying that I am just as proud of this blog today as I was in June 2011 when the first post went live.  Since then, we have seen an abundant variety of inspiring and surprising posts on poetry, for the most part, and writing in general.  I want to take this opportunity to say thank you to everyone who has ever written, or commented, for us and express my desire that the blog should stretch on for another 1,000 posts as it continues to engage readers and writers across the world.

Here is my found poem.  If you click on any line you will find yourself transported to a piece of imaginative blogging.  Enjoy!

 

One Thousand

Something to a few,
a woman whose life was a mess

before the bitterness

do I starve this year?

Come hold me now
come see the sun
come stand with me

lay down the tracks

From a wild sky painted furious

crumpled metal objects

the brass blasts of the Salvation band

hear the horses coming closer, see the gallons of blood

twisting grey

tunnels, stale urine light and a voice

like dandelion seeds

that warns of gaps

This is the light to live in

Thinking

I could bring him to life with nothing more than hope

and the power of my own mind

religion and fecking psychics

they weren’t my first choice
not my intention

You will be left wearing pants

being trodden underfoot

Rabbit holes lead to burrows
and gardens aren’t a secret

The place we lay when no more days to give

it won’t be sad.

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Poetic Eavesdropping

A Writing Exercise:

Take yourself out into the world and listen. Whether you find yourself on a train, in a coffee shop, in an art gallery or in a supermarket queue, there should be plenty of chatter for you to eavesdrop on. Listen to the conversations of those around you, and jot down anything that catches your attention. Perhaps you'll find yourself drawn to a singular voice, one conversation, or maybe you'll find your attention flits between different voices in different conversations. Either way, just write what you hear (or what you think you hear).

Can the snippets of conversation be reworked into a type of 'found poem'?

Does anything you've heard cause you to think of anything else?

Can you find a starting, middle or end point for a poem from the conversations you've overheard?

*Due to illness this post is minimal 

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Preserving Memories

Floating

I imagine you sitting on a pool of mercury

Like Styrofoam on water

You do not sink

The faces of your family and friends

Dark shadows cast on the light

That now holds you

Somewhere beneath the surface

Memories are suspended

in glass storage jars

Like catching smoke

I struggle to remember the details

Blurred with time

Until one rises from the haze

Sharp and clear

Perfectly preserved

Like an ammonite in sedimentary rock

It places you in this world

Still here.

(In memory of Laila Antoun)

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Interruptions & Love

Dear Boy Poet,

Last night, after you'd returned from work, you dropped your backpack

in the middle of my writing space. You pulled off your shoes,

and began to retell your day with a loudness I'm still not used to.

The ideas and half-formed lines (from an afternoon of silence)

fell like glass marbles.

Later, on the computer, you typed a new poem. I listen

to the speed of the tapping and know you've found that zone

which so often seems to evade me.

And, for a moment, I am jealous and resenting...   

This morning, I eased myself away from your warmth, quietly

made black coffee and settled back into thinking.

At seven your alarm began to cycle through those sounds

(specifically chosen to force you from our bed).

By half past, you've pressed the snooze button six times

and I'm forced to leave my thoughts behind

to wake you.

Our differences sometimes cause us to clash,

but our similarities always bring resolution.

For every time you have made a picnic, coaxed me

into the car and taken me to a place that allows my mind

to breath - I thank you.

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Sounds From The Stands

So the football seasons have ended, the Play-Offs are into their second legs, the curse of Benfica continues, and the success of Arsene Wenger's season will be known after Saturday's F.A. Cup.

For those with an Ings, Nugent, Sako or Winnall there was cause to celebrate. For others, the dream of promotion or survival has faded like the colour on second-hand football seats. But through it all there have been chants - songs rising from the terraces as elation, passion, believe or protest is expelled.

*          *          *

At nine I knew I would never fall out of love with football. My Dad took me to my first Coventry game (holding my hand just a little too tightly) and there - in a seat which would become mine for the next seven years - I found my voice. For ninety minutes the shyness slipped away and football took over. When I eventually went to my first proper away game, a last-match-of-the-season at Vicarage Lane looking for our first away win, I sang like I had never sang before.

The atmosphere on away days is like no other game - 3,000 fans in one section of the ground, all standing up and belting out song after song. At Watford (to the horror of my Dad's wallet) I caught the 'away bug'...

I've jumped to my feet singing, 'Stand up if you're one nil up,' at Old Trafford. I've mocked other teams' fans with: 'Shall we sing a song for you' on cold Tuesday nights. At forty-four football grounds I've sang 'In Our Coventry Home', and I've joined in with songs which, if my mother had heard me singing, would have resulted in a soapy mouth.

*          *          *

With simple rhyme, a splash of wit, and to a well-known or in vogue tune (after Bob The Builder topped the charts with 'Can We Fix It' there was a few choruses of 'Gordon Strachan can he fix it' at Portman Road, needless to say it didn't really take off) football songs take hold of fans, stands and stadiums across the country. They have the ability to express our pride, our joy and our frustrations; they're the thing which creates atmospheres that television (whether 3D or not) will never be able to replicate. They're 'love' songs for the beautiful game and for the teams we refuse to abandon (no matter how much they hurt us).

Thank you for reading,

Lara

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Anxiety and Me

At four I push myself to the middle of a privet bush.

At five I stand frozen at the edge of the swimming pool.

At seven I lock the car door at traffic lights, and unlock it when we're moving.

At nine I start biting my fingernails.

At ten I never put my hand up.

At twelve I press my forehead against a radiator and pretend to be ill.

At thirteen I run.

At fourteen I write my mind into a diary.

At fifteen I fracture into a thousand pieces.

At sixteen I fail my English oral exam.

At seventeen I faint.

At eighteen I feel like I'm drowning on dry land.

At nineteen I try a cigarette for the first time.

At twenty-one I sit in the dark.

At twenty-three I start biting my fingernails again.

At twenty-four I f**k up my first year exams and forget how to spell 'literature'.

At twenty-five I listen to Simon and Garfunkel's I Am a Rock on repeat.

At twenty-six I look at an unopened envelope for over three hours.

At twenty-seven I feel like an ant in a wind-tunnel.

At twenty-eight I grind my teeth while I sleep.

At twenty-nine I cut myself off from the world.

At thirty I start smoking again.

Thank you for reading, 

Lara

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In White Coats

For quite a while now I've been trying to work on a collection of poems which pick and unpick at the mental health system. Below is a fragment from said collection:

I

Through squares of reinforced glass

I notice her cumbersome frame, and awkward arms.

The short cut white hair and lined face

out of time with the age of her eyes.

Don't worry, a nurse tells me, That's just Lily.

Over the next few days, she takes a liking to me,

sweeping her large, heavy hand over my hair

as if I were a doll, and rearranging my bedside table

until everything is straight and facing forwards.

At night, I lie awake listening to the lullabies

she sings to herself

                                *             *             *

I remember her licking at a red lollipop

and holding hands with a nurse.

I'm going out for the day, she said.

When she returned a couple of hours later,

she was tied to a wheelchair - her eyes empty,

her mouth stuck open as a line of strawberry saliva

travelled down her chin.

That night, the words of long ago lullabies,

were never sung. 

Sometimes, when writing poetry, the difficulty isn't in finding the idea, but rather in finding the best way to represent it. The fragment of poem above needs work when it comes to the representation of the idea - it's too prosey, the tenses aren't quite right and I'm not sure about the way in which speech has been presented. But this is one of the great challenges and pleasures of poetry, the rewriting and editing, as if the idea were a muddy gemstone plucked from the ground simply waiting to be cleaned and polished by the writing process.

Thank you for reading,

Lara

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What's your name?

Because I thought it was Wednesday (and not Thursday) today's post is both late and short.

There was a time about 10 years ago when I returned home to my London flat and felt guilty for not properly acknowledging someone. On realising I couldn't even describe him, despite only passing thirty minutes earlier, I wrote this:

Homeless

I passed you on Blackfriars Bridge,

dropped some change in a polystyrene cup,

and said - you're welcome.

Your sign said you were hungry,

I thought money would be enough

to fill the gap,

But how could it?

I should have stopped,

asked your name, and allowed you for minute

to be someone again.

Thank you for reading,

Lara

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A Trip to Manchester Museum

On Monday we took our oldest nephew to Manchester Museum and, just as he has never experienced a museum before, I have never experienced a museum in the company of a five year old. I found that I had to change the way I would normally approach a day out like this. This day wasn't about me increasing my knowledge, taking in every item, reading every description, or even obtaining a collection of well-composed photographs. Rather it was about finding a way to keep Josh engaged, showing him new things and attempting to explain them in an exciting way.

We found 'Which is your favourite?' to be an effective question for getting Josh to actually look in each cabinet (the temptation to bounce off to explore the next room was difficult for him to resist). Although, as with any question posed to a child, his response occasionally surprised. For instance, whilst looking at a cabinet of carved wooden statues Josh declared: I like that one the best. The one with the really big boobies.

When there were things he could touch he seemed even more engaged. He had the opportunity to stroke a stuffed fox, running his fingers over body, tail, feet, nose and ears to discover how the fur felt different on each part.  

There was something joyful about him jumping to the next display and hearing the word 'awesome' spill from his mouth, and there was a sense of feeling special when he'd skipped ahead to only return, take my hand and say, I need to show you this really cool thing.

Over lunch he examined the museum map, mentally checked off where we had been and planned where we would go next... 

After lunch, with map unfolded, clutched in both hands, he became our guide and we followed without objection.

In the vivarium, Shaun lifted him up to see the leaf frogs which were suckered onto the leaves in disguise. A little later, we overhead him repeating what Shaun had told him about them to another adult, pointing them out and telling her what they were.

He pressed buttons on a giant earth and saw red coloured dots erupt to represent volcanoes and green flashing ones to show the earthquakes. He circle around the sphere's circumference, trying to take in every light before they darkened.

In tiredness he still found the strength to be amazed by Stan the T-Rex, desperate to take a photograph so he didn't forget his overall favourite thing.

*             *             *

Monday was a day of discovery for us all.

Thank you for reading,

Lara.

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