Monday, 23 November 2009
This is just a quick exercise poem. I've been trying to keep my hand in but it's getting increasingly difficult to find time for writing around knitting, crocheting, card-making and various other time-swallowing activities which go hand-in-hand with the Christmas approach. The nature of these crafticles also means I won't be able to post pictures, in case the recipients get any ideas. Perhaps I will leave some cryptic posts, like, um: today I have been folding the wrong parts of flowers and making berets for foodstuffs out of thready fluff. Hm.
Anyway, here's the poem. Go easy on it. It's as new as a new thing that's still got water in its ears from the birthing pool.
She is known by her name and so becomes it.
Her skin will blister with the suddenness,
her clothes bleach white then grub up with graft,
her surroundings dry to desert in the oven heat.
The next morning she wakes it will be virtually night
and the afternoon time to lay her head
on wheat-sack bedding, flour on her nose.
Dough will settle in her knuckles, her upper-arms
toughen for kneading. The flesh she has left
will rise and crack soft like a batch loaf roasting.
[EDIT - I decided very strongly against the last stanza, and so deleted it. Please forget it existed. Thank you.]
Friday, 6 November 2009
Wednesday, 4 November 2009
Perhaps brought on by my assumed character, I have joined the ranks of the birds at Twitter. @sophiefbaker. I am against the idea of hyperconnectivity, so will endeavour to avoid talking about anyting too banal. I will also make sure nobody ever feels like they know what's going on in my life on a moment-to-moment basis. There might be some poetry. Very short poetry.
As you can probably tell, I am slightly disappointed in myself for caving. I still had a little thrill when Jon Ronson @replied to me, however, regarding bloody goat meat...