It's all in a name.

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.]

Pop! Whizzzzz!

I took a few, here are some. Oos and Aas abound.

  

SQUAWK,

My Hallowe'en costume was homemade, so counts as creativity. This means I have something to post! Hoorah!

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...

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.