It’s Difficult…

Bits of poems keep coming to me at the moment, but only in the form of phrases or the odd line. And nothing that relates to other poems I might be working on. Then when I attempt to tease them out further, the muse just disappears.

I think I’ve finished with A Good Place (the novel I’ve been working on for the last four years). That’s ‘finished with’ as opposed to ‘finished’. It’s just not a story I feel compelled to tell and on the basis of if you have nothing to say, then say nothing, I see no point in continuing with it for now. Anything I do feel I want to say at present can probably best be said in the form of poetry.

Even if I’m having trouble writing them at the moment.

There is a popular post that crops up on social media, invariably a variation on a photograph of a log cabin somewhere in a wilderness, with a caption along the lines of No TV, no internet, but plenty of books and all the food and drink you need. Could you live here for a month for $10,000? to which most people seem to reply Definitely! or Bring it on! or somesuch.

Leaving aside the interesting point that so many people say they would welcome that situation, it is certainly something that speaks strongly to me. Well, more than ‘speaks strongly’ – it jumps up and down waving its arms in the air and shouting ‘Oi! Look at me! Over here!’ Nothing seems to hold my interest at the present; I just feel I want to disappear into the wilderness and walk and walk and walk.

Maybe I’ll come across my muse there.

It’s the incessant noise as much as anything. Traffic. Aircraft. People talking or shouting into mobile phones in the quiet of the woods. Chainsaws, drills, and hammering. Unless you’re in the middle of Dartmoor or the Cairngorms, there’s no escape. And no guarantee of it even there.

Some Diary Extracts

April 10th 2022:

A few days ago I dug out all the pastel paintings I have hanging around and put them to one side, the intention being to chuck them all out. As part of managing to get my creative side working properly again, I feel I need to clear out the majority of my old work. I think it is simply preventing me from getting going again – as well as taking up space we don’t really have spare. I’ve always been a little reluctant to just destroy a painting I think I might be able to sell at some point, but that’s something that doesn’t matter to me in the same way any longer.

It’s much the same with writing. Nice if someone buys it and nice, of course, if someone reads it and likes it and, hopefully, gets something from it. But not important in the same way as it used to be. I’ve never wanted to be famous, or sell millions of books (much the same thing, of course), and perhaps this is part of that. If the poetry I’m currently writing is any good, I would like someone to publish it, and if a small audience appreciated it and thought it worthwhile, well, I’d be tickled pink. But it’s not that important.

If I paint again, or carve wood, it will be entirely for me. If someone likes a painting, then perhaps I’ll simply give it to them. I appreciate this isn’t a philosophy that most creatives could adopt, but it’s what I feel I should like to do at the moment.

Wall painting in Amberley Church, Sussex. It dates from around 1300AD, was whitewashed over around 1550, and restored in 1967.

April 11th 2022:

We’re off to Amberley for a couple of days. We should have been walking the South Downs Way at the moment, but Covid has left us too tired for that, so we cancelled our various bookings. But to give ourselves a short break, we kept the Amberley one and booked an extra night.

Yesterday I contemplated completely coming off the internet for a matter of all of about half a second. I find it a huge distraction and much of it incredibly annoying, but like most folk I’m in too deep to extricate myself. We’ve arranged our lives around it over the past twenty years especially, and in my own case I keep in touch with many people that way, I have my blog, which I don’t think I’m ready to give up yet, rely upon it for booking trains and finding train and bus timetables, use it for family research, writing research, and to find and order books and music. None of these would be insurmountable problems, but cumulatively it would just be too much hassle to do without.

But even when I’m using my laptop for writing, I get too easily distracted by the internet and I feel a little like those people who walk through lovely scenery staring down at their mobile phones.

April 15th 2022:

Sunny and clear this morning and the forecast is that the day will be warm and bright. Having had quite a busy day yesterday, I felt quite run down in the evening and this morning feel very tired despite having slept well. It is four weeks until we go to Coll and I hope I’ve got some energy back by then.

It is sunny and, dare I say it, warm all day and despite this being Easter Bank Holiday weekend, the forecast is that it will continue this way.

Strange powers are at work.

Yuck Time

Well, damn this blasted Covid.

March really isn’t going to plan at the moment. Having already messed up my creative plans for the month, even my Plan B has now fallen apart as we’ve coughed and groaned and generally felt sorry for ourselves. I did manage to write a couple of poems before the yuck set in, though, so all was not entirely lost.

We had plans to do some long walks, now the glorious Spring weather has finally arrived, getting ourselves ready for going away to walk some of the South Downs Way again next month.

At least we’ve got a sunny back garden to sit in, I suppose.

In the meantime, here’s an old photo randomly of a decorated window on a house in the Nepalese Himalaya I took in 1988.

Feels like quite a long while ago.

That Project – Into March, Now

February’s project was to finish the final draft of A Good Place. As you may have gathered from my last update post, this wasn’t going too well. By the end of the month, though, I had virtually achieved my aim. I’d chucked out some stuff that wasn’t working, rehashed what was left, and inserted a couple of ideas. It works, but I feel somewhat flat. As I said in that earlier post, it’s just not a story I feel particularly strongly about. If I hadn’t invested so much time in it by now, I’d just scrap it and be done with.

Actually, it’s possible I will do that eventually. I’ve put it aside and I don’t intend to look at it again for ages. Possibly not until next year. But March, I said, would be a month of painting and drawing. So what have I been doing? I’ve been writing poems.

Yes, writing poems. But before you all start jeering at me, hear me out. Our spare room is full of books and papers and God only knows what else. Bags and boxes of stuff that need sorting. To get it into some sort of order we need to get a new, large, set of shelves. But to make the most of the space we also needed to get rid of an old computer desk and a cupboard. That we’ve done, but that involved emptying said desk and cupboard, so even more stuff is piled on the floor and any other available surface.

So where on earth can you paint or draw?

Precisely! You see the problem! So, for the time being, change of plan. This month I’m fiddling around with some poems instead – you may have seen one effort on here last post – and leaving the painting for now.

Next month, then?

Um…not necessarily. I do have other plans for April. I’ll let you know what they are later.

On Leaving Home

What would you take if it were us? she asked.

I shook my head.

.

She was silent for a moment, watching the television.

There were adverts: for cars, for perfumes,

For garden furniture and super-sized burgers.

It all seems so petty, she said.

I nodded.

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What would you take?

.

A handful of photographs, I suppose.

Our papers and bank cards.

Don’t forget the last of that bread.

And put on your warmest coat, a hat,

Your gloves and your boots.

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Can I take this?

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No, leave that. We’ve no room.

Maybe we’ll be back sometime.

Maybe as soon as next Spring.

If there’s anything left to return to, that is.

If there’s anyone here who would welcome us back.

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Where have you come from?

.

I no longer remember the answer to that.

Possibly Sumy or Sana,

On the other hand, Aleppo, or Aden.

It might have been Myanmar,

Conceivably Kyiv or Kandahar.

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Why should we allow you in? who are you?

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Who am I? I might be your son,

Your daughter, your wife or your father.

One day, I might even be you.

And on that day, pray for a compassionate welcome,

Pray for the kindness of strangers.

My Books

While I am still sorting out a new paperback printing both for Making Friends With the Crocodile and for The Night Bus, I have put up a listing on my Etsy shop for the last few remaining paperback copies of each that I have. If you fancy grabbing yourself a copy, the links are here: Making Friends With the Crocodile and The Night Bus.

A little reminder of each:

The Night Bus This book is in two parts. A collection of seven short – and not so short – stories, which make up the bulk of the book, followed by a selection of recent poems.

Travel has always been a passion of the author and, one way or another, nearly every piece here is to do with journeys. Some of the stories are quite dark, but the majority of the poems have a lighter touch. Two stories are set in India; in one, a young man goes in search of a mysterious destiny, while in the other a travelling Englishman becomes embroiled in a chilling disappearance. One story speaks of the support and comradeship of a close-knit island community while another tells of jealous intelligences far older than mankind.

There is one long poem, which gives the title to this collection and tells of a journey across India and into the mountains. There is also a short series of poems about the ancient paths and tracks of Britain; in these, especially, a love of the natural world shines through.

Making Friends With the Crocodile There is an Indian proverb: If you live by the banks of a river, make friends with the crocodile.

Set in India, this is a novel about the corrosive relationship between a mother and daughter-in-law, and the contempt in which that society still holds women. Siddiqa’s son has brought his new wife, Naira, to live with them, so Siddiqa is no longer the lowliest in the household, for she now has a daughter-in-law to assume that role. But when Naira accuses one of her husband’s friends of sexually assaulting her, all their lives begin to spiral out of control.

Measurements (a re-post)

After my previous post on the merits of idleness (which was meant seriously, not tongue in cheek, just in case anyone was in doubt), it seemed a good idea to re-post this poem that I put up three years ago.

Happy buffaloes. You just can’t have too many happy buffaloes.

And, of course, by simply re-cycling an old post, I get more leisure time. I think that’s a result.

Measurements

We measure out our time in days,

We measure things so many ways.

We measure distance out in miles,

We measure happiness with smiles.

*

Some think the dollar and the dime

Should be the measure of their time.

The passage of each single hour,

Is marked by exercise of power.

*

I think our time is short enough,

Without recourse to such sad stuff.

I’ll measure my remaining years,

With laughter, books, light rain and beers.

Panicking Pigeons and Floundering Pheasants

Some birds look particularly elegant and graceful when they fly…

And some don’t…

Panicking pigeons are pitiful things,

Flapping and slapping and clapping their wings,

Each one has only one thing on its brain,

And that’s searching for insects, for seeds, and for grain.

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Walk-bobbing-walking like chickens on speed,

Or speeded up clockwork or on some doped seed,

Cooing down chimneys and shitting on folks,

A ridiculous call like a ghost being choked.

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A floundering pheasant’s a physical freak,

With a whirring of wings and a creak from its beak,

You would think they would hide up and shut up all day,

But a clattering rusty noise gives them away.

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There are plenty of elegant fowl in the sky,

The swift and the swallow, the eagle and kite,

With a breath-taking swoop or a beautiful song,

At times, though, evolution just got it plain wrong.

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And on the subject of birds, I couldn’t let you go without letting you listen to the blackbird in our garden who I mentioned in the previous post, who has been singing his little heart out every day:

We Do Violence

Yay! Day seven of my Poem-A-Day-For-A-Week-Or-So project. I’m jolly impressed I got this far, although I say so myself. And I’m quite pleased with this one. Although, like all the others, it’ll benefit from some work on it later.

We Do Violence

We all occupy two places simultaneously:

Wherever we happen to be in the physical world,

And wherever we currently inhabit in our heads.

The trick is to get the two to coincide.

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We interpret our landscape as we walk,

Inflicting our thoughts upon it, changing it,

Or at the very least changing our perceptions of it,

Rather than being truly open to the experience.

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To achieve that, like a meditation

We need to let go of our thoughts.

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And the worst of these interpretations,

Is this absurd need to name everything.

We begin to only look for particular things.

And filter out those we cannot name.

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We do violence to the landscape in this way,

Subverting it from what it is, to what we wish it to be.

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We need to listen to the landscape in silence,

undistracted by thoughts or by words.

Words are, at best, a poor substitute for things.

As soon as we name a thing, we claim it as our own.

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We limit it to our own understanding, and we dilute it,

By placing it in the company of other things

That we name the same. It is akin to taking away the

Individual names of people and referring to them all as person.

Quick!

Day 6 of my poem a day for a week or so project. Almost there! And this one is a bit of an experiment…

Quick

Quick, the useless and the wistful,

The deceitful and the unwary,

Come now to me, for I must be honest,

For I must write my poem

.

I have things to say which I must first discover,

Although this seems to take so long.

But time is perfectly without fault and

Time alone will determine how long I must take.

.

I am forever reinventing myself

Plunging in to find out what resonates

Immersing myself in this life

Until I understand or tire of it.