Feed Me! (2)

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There are millions and millions of bloggers out there.

That must mean there are a huge number of talented people beavering away writing posts that would really interest me, but who I have never heard of. And looking through the list of those I do follow, I can see that a large proportion of them have not posted for six months or a year or more. I hope that’s nothing to do with me…

But that must mean it’s time to track down some more to follow.

So if you have a particular favourite or two you would like to suggest I go and take a gander at, please leave a link in the comments box.

In particular, I like to read posts on India and Nepal, creative writing, and environmental issues, but my interests are by no means limited to these. I also follow quite a few others who post about the most diverse things.

I tried this exercise a year and a half ago, and the result was half a dozen splendid new (to me) bloggers to follow.

So, let’s do it again!

My contribution, then, are the following two bloggers:

Delhi-based artist Prenita Dutt blogs as Indian Saffron here and really deserves a much wider audience for her beautiful paintings.

Ellen Hawley is an American living in Cornwall, England, who blogs about the eccentricities, madness and just plain weirdness of much of British life. Full of dry humour and always very readable, her blog can be found here.

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Unfest at Tunbridge Wells and Books

Last weekend, Bank Holiday weekend, saw the annual UNFEST fringe music festival held in Tunbridge Wells.

It describes itself as Showcasing local and regional music, spoken word, food and drink,  the emphasis is on involving local, independent businesses.

Our writing group had a stand there on the Saturday afternoon, where we hassled unsuspecting passers-by in the hope they would buy our books or, should they be interested in writing, come along to one of our meetings to see what we are up to.

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We sold a few books and had a pleasant time.

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And later on another of our members, Paul Gunn, played with his band. Their splendid music is described as Featuring an edgy vintage piano, classical cello solos with Latin and Rock rhythms.

Should you be fortunate enough to reside in the Tunbridge Wells area you can find out about our writing group, Irregular Writers, here.

And wherever you live, you can find out more about Paul Gunn’s music here.

What on Earth are you waiting for?

A Little Village in Northern India…

Having bludgeoned all my readers with posts about Making Friends with the Crocodile recently, I thought it would be only fair to share a few pictures of villages in Northern India for the benefit of those who have not been there. It gives a flavour of the (fictitious) village I write about in the novel.

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Village street

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Pigs foraging on waste ground

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Morning

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Farm

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Hindu Temple

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Sunrise

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Village outskirts

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Hi jinks during the festival of Holi

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Goats at rest

The New Viking

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Long, long ago, (although not in a galaxy far, far away) I posted a poem about Vikings which was called, astonishingly, Vikings. (It can be found here should you wish to re-visit it.

This is a rather tongue-in-cheek follow up.

The New Viking, a Reformed man

 

He brought death and terror to these Saxon lands,

Taking iron and fire to fearful hamlets,

But he was defeated by a woman,

A yellow-haired woman, soft and pliant.

And now the screams of battle are the

Bloodcurdling cries of infants.

 

He beats his sword into a ploughshare,

And grows rows of turnips and cabbages.

His axe cleaves firewood.

Maybe he’ll name his house ‘Dunplundering’.

 

He no longer lives within sight of his beloved sea,

But he watches trees ripple in the wind;

An ocean of billows topped with brilliant green spume.

 

Casting long shadows in warm sunlight,

These immobile giants roaring and sighing,

Desperately attempting to free themselves

Of their earthen shackles

Feel uncomfortably close to home.

 

Those northern winters still call him.

The fire, the mead, the fighting,

The tales of monsters and warriors.

 

Hamstrung by instinct

He shifts uneasily, guiltily, on his chair by the hearth.

His sword fingers twitch and tap and he

Looks for reasons to pick arguments

With his neighbours.

 

Anything would do.

The Old Way 4

Poem number four in a series of six.

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The Old Way 4

 

Of course, I had been in a rush to get here.

I think I had been walking for about an hour

Before I reached this path.

But even so,

I had not realised how fast I was going.

 

I had known I needed to get away

(that almost goes without saying),

But finally I arrive, and I slow down.

I slow down so I might look and see.

 

And breathe.

 

I slow down to feel the breeze

And the sun on my head.

I slow down to hear the birds.

I am in no hurry,

Now I’m walking on the Old Way.

 

I have bread and cheese, and I have an apple,

As though I were one of those folk

Travelling in a bygone age.

My only concession to today is a plastic bag.

 

Which I now regret.

The Old Way 3

Number three in a series of poems.

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The Old Way 3

 

If in some distant future

Our roads are haunted

By the ghosts of countless travellers,

I wonder if,

Instead of ghostly horses and their riders,

Our descendants will be terrified

By the spectres of lorry drivers,

And motor cyclists.

 

But the Old Way

Has already seen ten times

Ten thousand travellers,

And all that over the course of

Many times a thousand years.

 

For all that time

It has linked cottage and farm.

For thousands of years

It has linked town and hamlet,

Village and encampment.

 

All that time.

 

And if ghosts there be,

Travelling the way,

It must surely be crowded.

The Old Way 2

This is the second poem in a series of six.

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The Old Way 2

 

I’m walking along the Old Way,

And I exult.

Nowhere else are roads so gentle beneath my feet.

Nowhere else would I find the path before me

So soft, and sprinkled with stars.

 

Let me stop for a moment and close my eyes.

Let me just be still and silent

And feel the ground beneath my feet.

 

I must connect, or re-connect, with the world.

With my world.

Here, I can feel the past as a living thing,

And like a meditation,

I can use this

To still my troubled mind.

The Old Way 2

This is the second poem in a series of six.

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The Old Way 2

 

I’m walking along the Old Way,

And I exult.

Nowhere else are roads so gentle beneath my feet.

Nowhere else would I find the path before me

So soft, and sprinkled with stars.

 

Let me stop for a moment and close my eyes.

Let me just be still and silent

And feel the ground beneath my feet.

 

I must connect, or re-connect, with the world.

With my world.

Here, I can feel the past as a living thing,

And like a meditation,

I can use this

To still my troubled mind.

 

The Old Way 1

This is poem number one in a series of six, the rest of which which I’ll post through the coming week.

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The Old Way 1

 

I often think the modern world feels like a party,

In a huge room filled with loud and boorish guests

Monopolising the conversation and jabbing fingers

And shouting each other down.

Me? I’m the one hiding in the kitchen;

I’m the one holding a drink and leaning against the wall,

Looking fed up with the whole wretched thing.

 

And just to continue with this analogy,

I feel as though I’ve tried the side door

And found it unlocked and,

With a quick glance around to see if anyone’s watching,

I’ve slipped out, away from the modern world.