journeying: poetry

Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts

Friday, July 17, 2015

Somewhere a clock is ticking...

This is on the t-shirt I wear when I coffee!

I lost this week thanks to doing coffee on Saturday at the Tendring Show. Dave picked me up on Friday evening and we made our way down to the site via a shop to get milk and ice. When we got there, it was nigh on dark, we pitched the gazebo, spread out sleeping bags etc and crashed.

Ladies and Gentlemen, my new mat works like a freaking charm. I opened the valves at the top, unrolled it, popped my sleeping bag on top of it and crawled in. I was as snug as a bug in a rug. Bliss. Sleeping on the site of a country fair was not a quiet experience. We weren't the only ones on site. There were herdsmen bedding down their prized cattle at dark and at dawn they were cleaning up their charges. Their charges who like to sing in the middle of the night. Loudly, and off-key.

The day for me was a success. I didn't screw up the till. My back didn't ache too much. We were steadily busy, rather than crazy busy and we had a lot of repeat customers. At the end of the day, we packed up and headed home via a fabulous Chinese restaurant in Diss. The staff were lovely and made us feel very welcome, even though we carried half a field of dust with us, were dog tired and were just about able to grunt our order.

Tomorrow, Strangers at Large is in Swaffham town centre for the weekend. Pop by and say 'hi' if you're passing. I'm beginning my barista training, so you might be unlucky enough to have one of my coffees if you're brave. Don't worry, if I screw it up, Dave will make you another.

Working a 14 hour day, on my feet in the heat wiped me out for days. I only started to feel human yesterday, in that I actually did stuff like water my tomatoes. I got my backside back to the gym to work on my physical resilience. We're in the middle of a three weekend straight and I have other things to do than languish on a couch for days. One of the things that is clear - if I am physically exhausted, I become low in myself. I went with it as there was no point fighting against what my body needed, but I'd like to even out the dips and highs in my energy output.

My work now focuses on creating the balance between the things that make it nice to live here: tidy house, clean clothes, food in the fridge etc. with the things that enable me to do so: regular exercise and earning something, with the things that make life worthwhile: being creative, writing and maintaining the relationships that maintain me. Wish me luck.

Cafe Writers was amazing on Monday night. Jon McGregor was a stunning reader of his latest short story. He captured the angst of an uncomfortable young man in search of shag, so incredibly well. The poet, Joan Hewitt was amazing. Her poetry captures intimacy, humour and poignancy with such a deft hand. As a reader, she is fantastic.

I did read my poem in the open mic. Happily, I got there early enough so I was signed up in the start of the evening. I don't think my nerves would have held out for the whole event. Unhappily, I'd printed my poem off in 11pt and left my glasses behind. Note to Self: start taking reading glasses everywhere. I survived. No major stumblings or fluffing of lines. The weird part was the guy who ran out of the pub to say how much he liked my prose. Given I'd just read a 7 verse poem, perhaps you can see why I found it a bit disconcerting?

This week, I haven't done any writing of note and that pisses me off. I'm hoping after my foray into the City this afternoon, I will be able to rectify that. Not writing now is like having an itch that grows and becomes ever more insistent.

Hope you have a great weekend, whatever you do!

And finally, look! My tomato plants are still talking to me, despite their neglect.

Nature thrives despite my best efforts

Saturday, April 11, 2015

Creative Celebrations

You may or may not have gathered that I have a girl crush on Elizabeth Gilbert, the author of Eat, Pray, Love and Signature of all Things. I developed this crush early in February when I began trawling TED for videos to watch and inspire me. Lo! I found this. A couple of days ago, I revisited this video and I realised something quite disturbing. I have never properly honoured my own creativity. Yes, I did the BA in Creative Writing but afterwards, I dithered and Life happened and I allowed myself to drift away from it. I didn't follow anything through. I got caught up in "real life" and "bills" and trying to find a way to compromise and be sensible. Look how well that turned out.

I've been exceptionally lucky in the company I keep. My friend Julia, a fab poet is also a poetry tutor. As it turns out she is not only an excellent friend, she is an excellent tutor and when I said that I had stopped writing and started trying to coax life back into my creativity, she set me a goal: write a poem a week. Bless her, she's been fielding my feeble attempts since then, with great humour and even greater encouragement. Not only that, but she has also been sending me poems to get my juices flowing again.

What can I say? It works. I am finally beginning to feel like myself again. Properly myself. I wanted to share one of the poems that Julia sent through. When I first read it, I got goosebumps, honest to goodness goosebumps.

‘Thirteen Ways with Figs’

Silence the village gossip with nutty figs

rolled in crushed peppercorns.

Layer the fiery fruit in a jar between bay leaves.

Store in a dark place for three days.

Leave your offering on her doorstep.

Sweeten your mother-in-law,

a small, crepey woman in a black dress

smelling of mothballs,

with stuffed quails roasted in thick balsamic sauce,

followed by ricotta-rose cheesecake and marzipan-filled figs.

Spill velvet-pink petals over her plate.

Soothe inflamed ulcers and lesions

with a steamed fig, slippery elm, flaxseed poultice.

Wrap around the weeping skin in a muslin cloth.

Pick a ribbed fig from the tree at twilight.

Split the dark cocoon in two.

Rub the wart with amber pulp and seeds.

Tie the halves together again.

Bury them in the flinty earth

under the waning moon.

Cure fatigue, insomnia or nightmares

by boiling milk poured in a pail

with sun-baked figs and turmeric.

Add lavender honey to taste. Drink slowly.

Bind three white Cilento figs

with a crimson ribbon for dreams of love.

Place the fruit under your pillow.

In the morning,

loop the ribbon around your waist.

If your heart is in your mouth,

sear it, eat it with figs.

Beguile your partner with fig-leaf absolute

dabbed along the curve of your neck.

Wear almond blossoms in your hair.

Dance on a terrace with a view of the harbour,

to the flashing grin of an accordionist

who smells of sulphur and plays like the devil.

Clap your hands. This is no time to tiptoe.

On a balmy midsummer evening, wrap up your al fresco meal

at the warped wooden table under the plane tree

with blistered grilled figs, spoonfuls of soft mascarpone

drizzled with orange blossom and rose water.

Smell the mimosa.

Don’t wipe the sugary smudge from your chin.

Carry the sated silence to bed.

Arouse your lover with plump, purple figs in a cool bowl of water.

Break the thin, moist skin with your fingers.

Close your eyes. Listen to your breathing.

10.

On a windy day welcome your new neighbours across the pasture.

Make them feel at home with capocollo,

a sausage of figs, almonds, pistachios and cinnamon.

Fold in leaves

left in a basket on the porch. Follow the dung

trail home, a wasp

hovering at your shoulder.

11.

In autumn, line your pantry shelves with jars of fig jam

scented with cardamom pods. Seal in the sunshine

with smooth wax discs and screw-top lids.

12.

Feed a hungry family

with slow-cooked pork loin and Adriatic fig stuffing.

Serve with golden polenta. Garnish with watercress.

Open bottles of the full bodied local wine.

Taste the olive-wood smoke,

the measure of November’s indulgences.

13.

When the sky pops and hisses with stars,

celebrate the year’s trailing tail.

Prepare fig fillets stuffed with amaretti biscotti

and smoky chocolate slivers.

Serve with steaming espressos before midnight.

Va bene.

Michelle McGrane

Update: Julia has some incredible news, her new poetry collection called Bird Sisters will be published next spring. Please pop over and say congratulations! [click here]