Take some time out. Have a moment. Here's some to model yours on:

Pauses

I.

Three swans flew over this city and it did not seem strange
to stop and stare, their necks lined up with the bridge,
their heads travelling a steady line. I cannot explain what juxtaposition,
the sky’s exact colour is a mystery in recollection.
It only makes sense in relation to pauses. Three
white pauses, and a smile I might struggle to explain
but when it comes to it, enjoy.

II.

No crackle of radio silence, or the muffled movement
of a microphone out of visual context. But I have stopped,
there is time to fix my eyes on the radio alarm, my mind empty
of relatable experience for the gaps in air, the drifting silence
after Sailing By. No drama, no pips, no nuclear explosion.

    And then a chap, unhurried, a
technical glitch, a wry smile in his voice. The World Service. Sleep.

III.

My hand on your thigh, your mother
an unfair mechanical cackle down the telephone line.
Your own voice changes into a depiction of what you’d become—
your father—if it wasn’t for nights like this: us, entwined. Me
staring at the paused screen; a woman’s breast mid-fling, her nipple blurred.

Durham Book Fête

So I have just returned from a day knitting at a book festival. I can't really think of a better combination of activities, except it didn't involve any writing. I did, however, swap some clothes for a skirt, and some books for another book, so I reckon I came out on top regardless.

The theme of the day was knitting from recycled materials, namely plastic bags. It sort of turned into an advert for Sainsbury's as those were the predominant supply of bags, but the orange, I think, sets off Wendy's eyes quite marvellously.

I was knitting a book bag, but then the day was drawing to a close and I had been a little ambitious with the size, so I turned it into a hat. Good job I did! Turns out Wendy liked it enough to take it home and off my hands! I did get some pictures first though.

Howdy..

..and welcome to my new blog. No rules at all on this one, and no limit of a year! I think that's where I was going wrong. Either way, I've imported the stuff from Catalogue Twentysix and hopefully will be more inspired to update regularly now it's called something I can relate to more. Just--some stuff. Sounds easy enough! Wish me luck!

Proof. And an incurable knitting fever.

I have been being creative, though it hasn't involved much poetry. Maybe I am exploring knitting as a sort of poetry with objects. Very long, thin and flexible objects.

One in a month

is an unacceptable situation to have gotten myself into. Shucks.

I have learned to knit. I have been poorly. I miss swimming. My lungs still hurt if I cycle uphill in the chill nearly-winter wind.

A new poem, unrelated:



Spurn Head

The whip of dune grasses and cuts on the soles of my feet.
It alters, chances the river that feeds it. I race
to the tops and bottoms of dunes that no longer exist.

It is downwards that haunts me, giant slow-beat strides
in the shifting sand. My legs are salt-numbed and hefty; load-bearing
and practical, covered to the knee with every step.

I don’t remember the disappointment, the slowing down,
but lose myself in the towering impermanence
risen from the shining dark. Salt in my hair, cool sand between my toes.

I will return with you to this end of the end of the road
and lie myself down, my hair in my mouth and then your mouth there
with the wind whipping dune grass on us from the folding sands.

I will not tell you that there is permanence in its alteration,
that this is all I have dreamed of whether you are here or not:
that you could be anyone with sour-breath kisses in the dark.