Thursday Morning 7.29

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Did it really take an hour and seven minutes to write the previous post? Well, yea and no.

It certainly took that length of time from stating to finishing, but in that time I also attended to a couple of comments, read my emails and searched for photographs that were badly labelled. Or, in truth, not labelled at all. I developed lazy habits early on in my blogging career and regularly waste time as a result.

I also searched for a couple of links and read the review on my poem, rejected a couple of ideas for things to say and rewrote a couple of paragraphs.

Here, halfway through my second blog post of the day, I note that I’m about halfway through and it has only taken six minutes.

My conclusion is that I can still write reasonably quickly, but waste time with all the peripheral activity.

Nella Last with Clifford, the son who went on to be a sculptor

 

Nella Last, or Housewife, 49, of whom I have written more than once, wrote 12 million words in her diaries, including 2 million during the war. If she wrote at 20 words a minute, as I have just (approximately) done, it would have taken her 417 days.

Of course, I doubt that she wrote as fast as that. You don’t do you? There’s thinking time and musing time and simply staring into space time. I’m doing a bit of that now.

I’m on 224 words and have taken sixteen minutes. Several of those have just been spent wondering how to finish this off with a point.

There is no point, simply a reflection on how much “writing time” is spent on things that aren’t really writing. And that’s before you start to consider the endless writing and rewriting involved in writing something decent.

Julia is up now and it’s 7.48. Probably a good time to put the kettle on. But first I have to add tags and photos. At least I don’t need to find a witty title.

 

After doing the links etc it’s now 8.03 and it’s becoming clearer where my day goes. Fifteen minutes just disappeared as I looked for a link to Clifford Last.

Thursday Morning 6.22

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It’s actually 6.23 now, but if I go back and correct the title more time will leak away. It’s rare, but I actually wrote the title first today.

August is here and the year seems to be rushing by. I’ve often felt like this – it’s just what seems to happen. The longest day is behind us, the year hovers for a while, like a cartoon boat on the brink of a waterfall, and August arrives. I think of autumn, shorter days and mortality. It’s one of those months (April being the other) when the progress of the year seems to reach a point of no return. In April I realise that the new year is properly under way and four months later . . .

I’m struggling. After being selected for a Distinctive Scribble award in Eucalypt magazine, I have to select a poem for the next edition and write something intelligent about it. The selection of the poems was simple enough. I read them all twice then started going through them again slowly. My short list took shape and I ended up with a list of about a quarter of the poems in the issue. It would have been longer but as you go through yuo can discard a number as you know they aren’t going to make the cut. Then you can go back and cut some of the early choices.

O

I’m left with eleven. A day later I’m left with three. But have so far failed to say anything sensible. The trouble is that so many poets have multiple degrees. I don’t. The review of my poem includes the words “concluding spondee”. A spondee is a metrical foot consisting of two long syllables. It’s one of those poetic things I zoned out when we did it at school. I am incapable of writing anything like that  My only hope is that I can get through the experience without making myself look like a total idiot. The gist of my comments (which look like they should be about 500 words long), is that I picked the winner because I liked it more than the others. The problem is that I now have to explain, in 490 words, why I liked it.

So – select the best poem out of 80 good poems. Let 79 poets down gently. Avoid sounding like an idiot.

What could possibly go wrong?

Here’s my poem, by the way. You may recognise the story of the shed.

  we had several
half tins of assorted paint
and a subdued shed
now we have neither
—bright stripes

 

I can only find one of the shed photos, the rest are flowers from the gardens at roughly the time of the shed painting.

Kintsugi – Broken Pots and Gold Paint

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Kintsugi is the ancient Japanese art of repairing broken pots.

It’s fine to start with – it’s about mending broken pots, embracing the imperfections, adding to the history of the object and making it more beautiful. It can be extended to include personal qualities like working with your faults and bouncing back from adversity.  Broken items are put back together and the repairs are highlighted in gold.

In Japan it is an ancient art form.

In the hands of the west it has become a handicraft, the philosophy has been cheapened and it is now possible to do courses and buy kits. I checked with one of the courses. Step One of the course is to break a pot, which does not seem true to the original intention (though there were accusations of collectors doing this in Japan in previous centuries). It is also possible to buy kits, one of which gave me a moment of amusement. The feedback indicated that one of the tea bowls in the kit had arrived broken, but went on to point out that this saved a job. Probably the only time an item broken in transport has been well received.

I’m not knocking it, because it can still produce a lovely and artistic piece of work, but I am pointing out that if you are happy with that, don’t dress it up. And if you want to be true to the spirit of kintsugi, don’t break a pot on purpose. Meanwhile, I got a poem out of it. I may get another. Released from the tyranny of submissions deadlines I find I can, once again, write. Definitely time for a rethink.

This is a haibun which mentions kintsugi, though only in  small way. More of it is about Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera and being married. And, of course, specifically about being married to a woman who stabbed herself in the jugular vein with a piece of broken plant pot because she wouldn’t ask for help. I originally posted a link to it from this post so if you remember it, sorry for being repetitive.

Self Portrait with Thorn Necklace and Hummingbird (1940)

 

A Necklace of Thorns

Despite their fame, their paintings and their place in history, Diego and Frida (we are on first name terms in my imagination) still had to chat about the weather, and bicker about who forgot to buy more milk for breakfast. I imagine the weather was mostly sunny, and that it was Diego who forgot the milk. With his affairs and all those frescoes, it must have been difficult to fit the shopping in.

My wife’s throat, spiked with black sutures, is less inflamed today. I check each morning, trying not to let my worries show. Across the toast crumbs, she reminds me that we need more bread today, and I have to paint the garage doors this spring. For a moment my mind flits to a glorious picture of doors featuring Leon Trotsky and Emiliano Zapata against a backdrop of moustachioed revolutionaries. My wife suggests we stick with green.

today
she has her stitches out
I joke I will buy
gold paint to mend the scar
shared history

First Published cho 22.1 (2026)

Zapata and Trotsky seemed to disappear when I wanted them.

 

Poetry, Pigeons and Purple Emperors

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Yesterday was the last day of the month and several submissions windows drew to a close. I was rushed and badly prepared. The worst bit was that I paid for a competition entry and realised when I looked at the receipt, that it was just past midnight, meaning that I had missed the deadline. I wrote and told them to accept it as a donation. The Ancient Idiot rides again!

Baby rabbit in the garden

In the end I made nine submissions of the ten I had intended. August is a quieter month, with only five submissions planned. I’m hoping to catch up, as there are 12 planned for September. I have very little completed work at the moment. What is worse is that I have very little that I actually like, and if I don’t like it, I don’t know why anyone else would.

We have had Stock Doves in the garden several times recently. They are modest birds, not much different from a feral pigeon in many ways, and come to feed on the seed spilt by the smaller birds on the feeder.

Stock Doves and “grass”

It’s been a good summer for seeing new bird species in the garden but it has been a thin season for butterflies. Having said that, one of my sister’s friends saw a Purple Emperor in the country park. They are found over the border in Northamptonshire and have been spotted in Lincolnshire.

I’ve been reading about them, and about a memorial to a crashed aircraft near one of the woods where they can be found, and am feeling enthused to make a trip.

Note on the photographs – the rabbit photo was taken on the 19th May, the Stock Dove photo on 31st July. The grass in the last picture actually looks a bit greener than it really is – what a difference. Apart from the colour, yes it does look scruffy in both pictures, but there doesn’t seem a lot of point mowing when it is already under stress.

Always close to hand

Sorry about the title (which I forgot to add in the first instance) – they are doves, not pigeons, and Purple Emperors hardly get a mention, but I am driven by a need to alliterate.  Yes, it is a word, I checked.

 

Poetry, Procrastination and Pampas Grass

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I am now on a 62 day activity streak. I know this because WP tells me so. To get this one I have had to log in and procrastinate for two months. It doesn’t rank up there with the Nobel Peace Prize, Oxford Professor of Poetry, or a Blue Peter Badge.

The Oxford professorship is still in my mind from a conversation I had with Julia recently. I can’t remember how I started on the train of thought but she asked me what I was thinking about, as she sometimes does. The honest answer, much of the time is “absolutely nothing”, but I try to make something up. If she can be bothered to ask, I really ought to make the attempt to be interesting.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

A couple of days ago I was honestly able to answer “I was just thinking that I’m glad I never applied to be Oxford professor of Poetry. It’s too political.”

You also need to be good at poetry, but I never let that sort of thing intrude into my thoughts.

To Julia’s credit, she didn’t miss a beat, just asked me more about it. From there we got onto the subject of Simon Armitage’s haircut. It’s not so bad at the moment but a few years ago it looked like a cross between a mop and a desperate cry for help in the midst of a mid-life crisis. I’m clearly not one to talk as both my hairstyles are questionable (billiard ball or “rough sleeper” being the two options), but it was very noticeable. Even Julia noticed it, and she is usually quite accepting of hirsute horror shows.

Thinking about it, I should probably have made something up along the lines of “How lucky I am to be married to you dear.” but I missed my chance and only just realised.

Here’s a link to Simon Armitage’s poem Chainsaw versus the Pampas Grass.  The commentary accompanying the poem says the poem is about overkill. That commentary is clearly written by someone who has never had to manage pampas grass in a garden. The last one I removed needed a hedge trimmer and an axe. The hole it left looked like the garden had been the victim of shellfire.

 

 

A Good Start to the Day

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Poppy

Compared to Nottingham, Peterborough is a joy to drive around. It is smaller, to be fair, and the road system is newer. The roads were built to serve the new townships and industrial areas as they6 were built as part of the expansion plan for the city. Nottingham’s roads are simply an attempt to impose order on a sprawling built-up area that already existed. It’s even better during the school holidays when traffic is lighter.

There were roadworks on the way – they are filling in an underpass, using 418 cubic metres of cement (192m lorry loads) and topping it off with  18 cubic meters of what they describe as “grout”, though I don’t suppose it is the same stuff they use to fill the gaps between bathroom tiles.

Poppy and chamomile

They have removed 35 trees as part of the process (I didn’t know there were 34 trees there, and can’t see where they have gone from) and will replace them with 49 new trees. These must be very small trees.

Anyway, all this is just to say, I took Julia and my sister to the station this morning. They are going to an art exhibition in Nottingham, to see the Monet exhibit, though “exhibition” may not be the right word.

Meanwhile, I have been to the pharmacy and laid down drafts for five poems (which I managed to remember before they faded away), so I am feeling quite pleased with myself.

I am now going to have a cup of tea and watch a little TV whilst a fan blows cool air over me. I shouldn’t really watch Tv in the morning, but Julia is not here to talk to and I am fed up of typing.

 

Wild flowers

Another Day, Another Poem

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My apologies, I have been a bit erratic and those of you who notice such things may have registered my absence for part of the week. It is simply a case of me using my time unwisely. I have caught up with some of it but have decided to let slide.

My apologies, too, for two poems in two days. There’s something tedious about poets publishing their own poetry in quantity, but these two fit together so I thought I’d do them both.

In the meantime, I have had a poem accepted, submitted a few more and had a piece used in a local newsletter. It was based on Major Becher. I have written about him before in several places. I really should go back and make a correction – his son was not killed in a plane crash, but in  an Italian bombing raid. Same result, but different details.

I said, in a previous post, I was going to publish my other, unsuccessful, nomination for the anthology. In a number of ways I prefer this one and would be interested in hearing what people think.

It is 105 words and it is complete. That as i keep saying to people. is the beauty of writing poetry compared to novels.

Autodidact with Knife and Fork

Workmen drag temporary traffic lights into place as their companions spray bright colours on the road. An old lady stoops suddenly, pulls a plastic bag from her pocket, picks up the mess her ancient dachshund made. A scowling mother with a double buggy, swerves around the crouching woman, forcing a teenager to jump aside. He almost drops his phone. A shopkeeper and a builder stand outside a shop, point to a green vee on the wall, discuss the leaking gutter. 

as a child
Breughel’s busy peasants
lived on my place mat
the things my father taught me
over Sunday lunch

For those of you who like context, I “wrote” most of it whilst I was in a queue caused by roadworks where Edwards Lane and Mansfield Road meet outside the Sherwood Manor pub. Sometimes poems just come to me.  The people were all people I saw that day, though not all while i was waiting – the men looking at the shop cropped up later. I missed out the blind man who got mixed up in it all as it was too complicated to explain how he swerved round the lady with the dog and thus showed he had more sight than his white stick suggested. Sometimes less is more. One day I might give him a poem of his own.

It’s a very different process to the previous poem, which was much more engineered and less spontaneous.

It was accepted by Ribbons, first time out, though there was a heavy edit – the final two lines (31 words) were removed and the story of the mats was contained in the rewritten tanka.

Again, no photo. I really am falling down on the job.

A Poem and a Commentary

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That is the haibun that I mentioned yesterday. It’s 98 words, which is why I don’t mind describing myself as a poet, but hesitate to claim to be a writer.

I’ve just been reading a book on writing poetry.  It is very scornful about Japanese forms, and about tanka in particular. And about the sad old men, he says, that write them. I checked the internet but, so far, have been unable to find evidence of the book’s author setting the world of poetry aflame. This is so often the case.

There is an expression that those who can, do, and those that can’t teach. Or criticise. But teachers and critics both have important places in the world, and both have sets of skills related to the job. People who write books about how to write poetry (and I have read a few now) seldom have much to offer. In the old days you could at least have given the book to charity or used it as emergency toilet paper, but in the digital age these satisfactions are no longer available.

Anyway, the poem – first published in Blithe Spirit, the journal of the British Haiku Society, in 2025 and then anthologised in Contemporary Haibun 21.

Living Art

In the lull between lunch and the afternoon shoppers, one cup of coffee is all it takes to secure two hours of peace. The cafe does not do “cheerful” but you can’t have everything for this price. For happiness and choice you need the more modern American-style coffee shops. Here the choice is limited to “with” and “without” milk. Sometimes I imagine myself in one of Hopper’s paintings, or stare at Rodin’s Thinker on another table. Today, sagging in in summer heat, Dali comes to mind.

bitter coffee
and the radio news
—rehearsing for The Scream

 

Tomorrow, I will publish the other poem that was nominated for the anthology. I actually think it was better than this one, and would be interested in what people think.

For people who like to know a bit more, the idea came whilst I was reading about the life of Edward Hopper. The idea of the half-empty cafe came from Nighthawks and the coffee cam from some tanka i had written on the subject after submitting some tanka written around a theme. I can’t remember the theme. In my hands it became about disappointment, though it may have been something more cheerful originally. I imagined myself in a typical English cafe, rather than an American diner, re-used the coffee/disappointment motif, and thought of Dali’s melting clocks. It was July and heat was on my mind. From there I added a bit more art and that was it.

I had previously submitted it to another magazine. The original version had a different title, a different haiku and 31 more words.  It also only mentioned Hopper. I took out about 60 words, replaced them with 30 different ones and added the extra artists.

Looking at it now, I don’t know how I thought the original version was good enough to submit, but that’s the way it happens. That’s why poems need time to mature. However, if you don’t send them out, you don’t always have the urge to improve.

No photos today. Can’t think of anything suitable to use.

That Whisper in my Ear

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Yesterday I received my copy of Contemporary Haibun 21. I may have mentioned a few months ago that I wanted to buy a poetry book from the USA but didn’t want to pay $30 for postage on top of the $30 cost of the book.

My Orange Parker Pen

However, I checked an old email account and found an email with the offer of a $10 discount on the book, because I am in it. Vanity got the better of me, and despite the combined costs being enough to buy two takeaway meals for the two of us, I gritted my teeth and paid the price.

It is “an annual anthology of English-language haibun (and haiga) gleaned from the best practitioners from around the world”. (Haiga are pictures paired up with a haiku for those of you who are lost in the sea of foreign words that begin with hai).

It’s not a bad thing to be in, but when I look, I can’t help thinking about the people who are in it three times where I am only in it once. Are they three times better than me?  How much better do I need to become? Three of them are editors who have been very active in rejecting me over the years. They are also editors of the anthology, so it makes it miraculous that I actually made the cut. One of them seems far too enthusiastic in rejecting me when I submit to the journal where he is a newly appointed editor. He’s new to this job, but I wonder if his zeal will be reflected in the selections next year. If it is, I may be able to save a lot of money.

Two pens – one made by my wife

On the other hand, if they left out the last 50 pages, which are reprints of articles I have already read, it might have been cheaper to print and post.

Tricky.

How much do I crave publication? How much is it worth? Is it worth worrying about when a significant number of the editors are generally not keen on my work? Why does something I should be happy about become a matter for deep thought and depression? If I were Roman general I would have someone next to me whispering in my ear to bring me down to earth, but I don’t, and I can do it all by myself.

Night Falls

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I just wrote a political manifesto, but as Julia pointed out, my plan for making sweeping changes to the way the country is run is impractical as we don’t have capital punishment or guns. And merely shooting the makers of reality TV programmes won’t immediately make the participants and viewers go out and take up education again.

She’s probably right, after all, in the USA they have lots of guns and capital punishment and their current political system has chosen to attack education rather than roll it out for everyone.

I’ll leave politics to other people.

Damsel Fly – Wilford

Instead, I will devote my thoughts to haircuts. My hair looks neatest when it is in a waste basket, and my head looks best when emulating a billiard ball. It is a tidy style to maintain with my excellent head shaver. Unfortunately, I don’t always keep it shaved. My recent experiences with the sun stopped me shaving for a bit, as my head was sore for a while. It was also dry, which is exacerbated by electric shaving.

Yes, I can moisturise, but I hate the idea of having small bits of passing debris  taking up residence on my head.

So, I now have hair. It has gone through the phase where it sticks out and makes me look astonished, and has become long enough to lay down and look like very short hair. Well, it does in patches. That’s the problem with being bald. It’s not the lack of flowing manly locks that worries me, or the visible manifestation of old age, it’s the untidy nature of partial coverage of the scalp. It’s untidy. Shaving tends to even things out and looks smarter.

Insects on Thistles

It is just unfortunate that a shaved head and the attendant folds of flesh at the top of my neck tend to make me look like prison officer from one of the less liberal countries of the world. Allied to a small, indistinct photograph (like the one of my driving license) I begin to look less like I’m involved in law enforcement and more like I’m involved in organised crime. I just don’t have the boyish good looks of a romantic hero.

And so, ruminating on what my life might have been if I had charm, good cheekbones and a cheery demeanour, I will go back to plotting world domination by means of light verse.

It’s likely to be an uphill struggle.

Marmalade Hoverfly

Marmalade Hoverfly