Be kind.
Achieve wisdom and exercise that skill.
The world has always been filled
With angry greedy people.
You cannot legislate them away,
Or hope that they will die out.
The world has always relied on people
Who are kind and wise,
To act as counterbalances to these others.
Unfortunately, the World supply of angry greedy people
Appears to be limitless,
So there will always be a need for kindness and wisdom.
You might just save the world.
We have all been encouraged to think
That our time is so important.
Yet it is only when we become old,
And we have so much less of it left,
That we realise this is not the case.
We’ve been told we must save time,
Instead of using it and moving on.
How precious time is,
As if it were a commodity we might hoard
And use when we need it most.
Instead of squandering it on what makes us happy,
And filling it with unimportant things.
But I say, let what you’re doing fill your time.
If you’re washing up,
Then let your plates be the cleanest.
And if you’re looking at the winter sun on frosty leaves,
Well, let that be the best experience you have ever had.
Sometimes I have these flashes,
When I think I’ve understood something deep and profound.
And usually it means an evening drinking wine,
Or half an hour sitting on a sunlit hillside.
But I do wonder what we’re all so busy chasing.
And if you think this lesson worth remembering,
There’s no better time than now.
I was writing a haiku yesterday, and decided to go the extra mile with it. Traditionally in Japan these poems were sometimes written in the form of tanka, which are essentially poems of five lines rather than three, with a syllable count of 5/7/5/7/7.
They could also be written as linked verse, with one or two poets writing haiku, and others supplying the two remaining lines between each haiku.
I’ve gone down the linked verse route, and also given myself the remit that each verse (of two or three lines) must contain a word or sentiment linking it to those either side – something that was also commonly done.
Yesterday was cold and miserable, hence the results.
It’s my first attempt – please don’t be too harsh!
The flowers have gone.
Crumbling stems standing askew,
In waterlogged soil.
Outlined against the grey sky,
Old willows by the stream.
Ten thousand leaves are
All that remain of autumn.
Wistful nostalgia.
Memories of warmer days,
Are all but forgotten now.
Wrapped up warm and snug,
Watching the grey willows weep.
Hands in my pockets.
Leaves fall slowly through the air,
Onto silent black waters.
Now a gust of wind
Swirls leaves around and around.
Racing each other.
Shifting clouds race overhead,
Sudden drizzle on the breeze.
Spiteful winter day,
Grasses shiver in the wind.
Low sunlight dazzles.
Walking in meditation,
Clouds unexpectedly clear.
Sudden bright sunshine
Reminds me the cold Winter,
Will change into Spring.
Pandering to my Inner Vagabond, here…
If I could just wave a wand,
I would wander the world.
With my notebook in hand,
And a bag on my back.
I would sleep under hedges,
In hotels and haylofts.
Drink beers under trees,
And eat cheese on the moor.
I’d watch clouds over hilltops,
And boats on the ocean.
Shapes and shadows at sunset,
A moon with a view.
And I’d write trivial poems
Of snowfall and sunlight,
Birds singing at dawn
And the sounds of a stream.
There’s the lure of a skyline,
And skylarks above me,
Wine and wood smoke my welcome
At the end of the day.
To travel, to journey,
There’s magic in wandering
Over moorland and downland,
Through woods and through fields.
The world’s full of wonders
All waiting for wanderers.
Let me follow these paths
For as long as I can.
I’ve been away from the computer for most of the last week, but now I’m back with a slightly longer poem than I usually write.
At five o’clock the fire is lit.
Around the table we all sit,
With buttered bread and eggs and ham,
With cups of tea and cake and jam.
The idle talk is of the day,
The work now done, the latest play,
And ‘Anything to watch tonight?’
Or in the warmth and soft lamplight,
Perhaps we’ll read and play a hand,
Of whist, or bridge, you understand.
And ‘Don’t forget, at half past nine,
The radio – it’s music time.’
Then bank the fire, put out the lights,
The household settles for the night.
The heat blasts out in every room,
And lights and games and TVs soon
Take over so completely that
It’s pointless even trying to chat.
The sounds of gunfire, screaming cars,
Exploding buildings, and on Mars
The aliens armed with laser beams,
Are killed on several different screens
In different rooms by different boys,
With highly deadly killing toys.
The evening mealtime’s such a treat,
With pizza, chocolate, crisps and sweets.
Although it seems they all are eating
Different things at different sittings.
‘A cup of cocoa? I don’t think
That that will do, an energy drink
Is what I need, the evening’s young,
And there’s still much that’s to be done.
And if I cannot concentrate,
Upon this game, it’ll be too late,
The zombies will have won and then
I’ll go back down to level ten.’
It’s one o’clock, they still can’t sleep.
There’s not much point in counting sheep,
‘cause they’re all battery-powered toys,
Just so much electronic noise
And moving parts all running round,
And round and round and round and round.
I’m standing now beneath night skies,
Pale silver light from fresh moonrise.
I’ve walked for almost half a day,
It takes that long to get away
now, searching for a quiet place
Where I can pause and have some space.
I’m thinking how it used to be,
At five o’clock, the time for tea.
It seems to me that what we’ve gained,
Is not worth any of the pain.
And even more what we have lost,
We should have saved at any cost.
But anyway, now it’s just me
I have my flask, I’ll pour my tea.
It’s October.
That must mean it’s autumn. It certainly feels like it, now. So here’s a little poem for when the days are drawing in and it’s becoming colder and darker outside.
Keep watch at the window in the Westering light,
On the distant hill in the approaching night,
Under darkling clouds, over dew-touched heath,
Where the flowers of summer are now touched by death,
I’ll be coming home in the fading light.
Keep watch at the window in the fading light,
You’ll see me walking when the moon is bright,
My shadow before me coming down the hill,
My breath opaque in the air now chill,
I’ll be coming home in the last of the light.
Keep watch at the window in the last of the light,
When I’m weary you’ll see me come into sight,
Drawn by the firelight and the thought of wine,
By the thought of you; so glad you’re mine!
I’m home now, let’s shut out the night.
That depends on who you talk to, of course.
The self publishing boom has given rise to the publication of millions of new books, the majority of which would never have been published traditionally because they would be either deemed to be of insufficient interest to return a profit to the publishers or because they were, frankly, just too terrible to see the light of day.
How good a book is can be very subjective in many ways, but certain rules must apply.
If you buy a traditionally published book, you may be reasonably certain that it has been edited and proof-read to a high standard, the printing and layout of the book is of good quality, and the actual contents – plot, dialogue, character development et al – are sufficiently well written as to repay your reading time.
There are no such guarantees with a self published book.
As a member of several Goodreads groups, I receive regular emails which consist largely of other members promoting their books. These promotions frequently consist of a synopsis of the book, extracts, and links. All well and good, but the number of extracts that are poorly written, unedited (it would seem), with poor print layout, and the number of synopses that are equally poor, is very high indeed. Probably the majority, unfortunately. And should I follow the link to the ebook sales site and read a longer extract, frequently this, too, is filled with more of the same errors.
As far as the plot and dialogue and all that goes with that is concerned, I admit that may be partly down to taste. I have no doubt that some poorly written and poorly plotted books still give great pleasure to many readers, and good luck to them. There are certainly examples of the same amongst traditionally published books. And styles go in and out of fashion, anyway.
What I do take issue with, though, is poor, sloppy editing.
Most people cannot afford to pay for professional editing – I certainly can’t. I understand that. It means doing the job yourself, but taking infinite time and care over it. Check it over and over again until it is the best you can do. The odd mistake will slip through, but that happens even in a professionally edited work. Persuade others to act as beta readers for you. They may not be professionals, but they will spot things you don’t. You are too close to the work, anyway.
If you can’t do that, don’t publish the book.
Let’s take layout first. It only takes a careful look at half a dozen professionally published books to get a good idea of what that layout should look like. And you can buy books that supply more detail. If you are serious about your book, you should do that.
Spellcheck is a useful tool, but only if it is used properly. It recognises a correctly spelled word in its database, but has nothing to say about the suitability of its use. I do find it particularly irritating to come across passages where the completely wrong word has been used, no doubt because Spellcheck flagged it up as the correct spelling. Common examples are groyne / groin, sheer / shear, alter / altar etc. etc. etc.
Grammar is the biggest minefield, though. We all get that wrong at times, even the best of us. But at least avoid the biggest howlers – the so-called grocer’s apostrophe, for example. Put the manuscript through a program such as Grammarly, which is free to download, to pick up the majority of the errors.
Another phenomenon I have seen recently is a 4,000 word story published on Amazon as a ‘Novella’. I suppose there’s nothing wrong with selling a story that length, but anything that comes in at 4,000 words is a short story. And quite a short one at that. To describe it as a novella, no matter what price it is being sold at is, quite frankly, a bit of a bloody cheek.
Please don’t do that.
And I’m sure many other readers have their own pet peeves.
I have decided to absent myself from WordPress World for a while.
I frequently need to take a large step back from the world and give myself some time and space to re-charge my batteries, and also to think deeply about the importance I attach to whatever is going on in my life at the moment.
Those things that cause stress tend to assume a greater importance than they probably deserve to, while the things I do for my own pleasure tend to make me feel unreasonably guilty about giving them the time that others might want.
While there is so much going on, and so little time, I seem able to devote less and less of it to either writing blogs or following others. I have noticed I am leaving far fewer comments, and tending to skim read far more than I used to.
Clearly, I need a break.
But while I am doing that, I mean to write a number of blog posts without feeling under pressure to finish them by some sort of deadline, so that when I reappear I might have something to post that is worth reading.
Hopefully, I will be able to make progress on my book, short stories and poems.
And the odd painting or two.
See you later.
Inspiration, writers’ block, ideas…I could write about all or any of these topics. Instead, I thought I’d simply post another poem – plus, of course, a picture (with far better weather than we’re having here) – and let it do the job instead.
I’m a collector of images long stored in my memory,
A desert inferno of razor-sharp rocks.
A mountain breeze rippling an icy cold puddle,
Thick mists and thin soups, flowers, trains, and old shoes.
I’m a collector of memories, both mine and ones borrowed,
The harrowing journey, the lovers’ first kiss.
There’s betrayal and loyalty, flatulence, hope,
There’s a child being born, and a wolf at the door.
I’m a collector of stories, the stranger the better,
Believable, odd, and ridiculous too.
Close to home or historical, alien, fanciful,
Some to keep secret and some I can tell.
I’m a collector of moonbeams and of chance reflections,
A collector of sadness and bittersweet pain.
A collector of strangely shaped stones in a circle,
And dreams that tell stories I don’t understand.
One more of the poems from a notebook of about 25 years ago. Re-reading them, I am slightly surprised to find I rather like a lot of them, still. Although my style has altered considerably, my sentiments are still much the same. Which is as you would expect, I suppose.
But there are plenty that I certainly won’t be inflicting upon you!
As hard as ice and twice as cold,
The devil that is growing old;
Who taunts our bodies’ feeble frames,
And takes our minds – forgetting names.
As cold as ice and twice as hard,
The back that’s bent, the hand that’s scarred.
The face that’s worn and lined with sorrow,
The fear there may be no tomorrow.
The fear tomorrow may come yet,
And bring us more embarrassment,
But how we cling with greedy hands,
To these poor fragile, shallow, lands!
Mick Canning 