Sotheby’s Surrealist Auction Sale

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Sorry I’m so late. I wrote some poems, cooked a massive pasta bake, read some poetry, did some research, engaged in small talk with No 1 Son and my sister and generally lost my grip on the day.

So the poetry I mentioned did not get posted and when I go back to yesterday’s post I will have to add a note to say I was late.

Here it is, first published in Quail Eggs Issue 3 December 2025.

If you have a few minutes go and have a look. It is a pleasant, peaceful place. Just in case you are like me – click on he bars o the left of the title and everything opens up. I confess it took me a while to work it out.

Sotheby’s Surrealist Auction Sale

Blue, orange, yellow, red – Warhol’s copy of The Scream. I could do that. Make a copy, steal his inspiration, expending no imagination. Was there a class at art school called Copy Campbells Cans and Make a Mint? The road to Hell is paved with good imitations.

Warhol’s version has an auction estimate of £2 – £3 million. Mine, I expect, would do to line a budgie cage or two. I can see it now, a captive canary – they are easier to paint than budgies – with my copy of The Scream and melting pocket watches draped around the place. Collectors with fortunes bid on a print of a stolen idea. Sensing value in something mere mortals cannot see.

The bidding dies, a new Lot is announced. A porter shows off an empty coat hanger.

“Lot 164,” the auctioneer intones – “The Emperor’s New Clothes . . .”

as a child
I wondered if my blue
was the same as
other people saw
sometimes I still do

More Speed than Usual

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Flying Scotsman at NVR

10.45. This is the crossroads of the day. Yesterday I chose to research and write articles, interspersed with reading blogs and replying to comments.  A poetry book arrived, which I skimmed and found to be good. I collected Number One Son from the station – we had tea and watched TV and caught up. At midnight I found myself lacking a blog post. Such are the choices we make. However, I did find time to read some articles on writing haibun. I have made notes as part of my new self-education attempt.

Unfortunately Mallard is not at NVR.

Today I have choices to make again. Julia and No 1 Son have gone off to town. They are travelling by steam railway, as the NVR passes within a few hundred yards of the house and goes all the way to Peterborough.


Photograph is borrowed from Country Life magazine website and Courtesy of The Estate of Steve McQueen/ Sotheby’s.

So, do I fritter my time away or do I set to work and produce something useful? Whilst searching for the NVR site I already browsed and found some new information. Checking the link for the book I noted a couple of openings for poetry submissions. Then I noticed that Sotheby’s are holding a sale of important watches. They don’t seem that important, though they are all well beyond my budget. One, worn by Steve McQueen in Le Mans, comes with a filing box of correspondence and provenance and the upper estimate is $1,000,000. That’s a lot of money just to tell the time. And it’s a lot of money for an undeniably ugly watch.

However, as a piece of film history, and part of the story of a 20th Century icon, it is also a priceless relic. Pricing, as we always said in the antiques trade, is as much art as science. Well, I did, I’m not sure about the rest of them.

Give me a million dollars and I’d be happy to go on a round the world cruise with a £10 watch. The cruise would be so much more relaxing if I didn’t have to worry about losing my watch or having it stolen.

The next post of the day will be a haibun on the subject of auction sales. (Sorry, the day got away from me and it was posted in the early hours of toady, which would have been “tomorrow” when I originally posted about “The next post of the day.)

Photograph is borrowed from Country Life magazine website and Courtesy of The Estate of Steve McQueen/ Sotheby’s.

A Pottering Sort of Day

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I completed my research on Friendly Societies of the 19th Century today and tidied up my piece on the 1882 Preston Guild Medal worn by members of the Independent United Order of Mechanics. They were prone to schisms, sometimes over doctrine, sometimes over money, and a government report of the time says, with the air of a disappointed parent “it is very difficult to distinguish the different orders of Mechanics”. Tell that, I thought, to the members of the Free and Independent United Order of Mechanics, who were mainly based in the Lake District. Is it me, or are the words “Judean People’s Front” drifting in you mind now?

When I say “completed”, I mean completed it enough for the purposes of writing an article about a medallion. The full story of the Friendly Societies will probably never be known.

I’m now researching the 1914  medal issued by the town of Northampton to the children who had fathers serving in the Army or Navy. It’s associated with the Poor Children’s Dinner Fund and I’m having trouble disentangling the two things. They made 3,100 medallions for distribution, but they were lost by the railway company and not given out until mid-January.  There were 2,914 children who qualified, including 80 who, by 1914, had fathers who were either dead or “missing”. Considering that many of the early recruits were unmarried, this is a lot of kids. It would, of course, get considerably worse.

There were 879 Christmas hampers for the Fund to distribute in 1914, about 500 less than in 1913. The boot trade (Northampton’s main trade) had picked up in 1914 due to the need for military boots, so there were fewer poor people needing help. Seventy percent of British Army boots used in 1914-18 were made in Northampton, with one manufacturer doubling in output and many women involved in the wartime trade. they also made boots for the Russian Army.

This is a multi-purpose article, as it will do, with slightly different slants, for several different places. I’ve already used it to fill half a blog post. It will go on the Numismatic Society Facebook Page as an example of a medallion and on the research page of the Peterborough Military History Group. Peterborough was in Northamptonshire in 1914.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Some Thoughts on Poetry and Particularly Tanka

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Julia’s latest vase (she gave the last one away as a present) with silk fritilleries.

I’ve just been replying to two emails from editors. One was comparatively simple, a quick note of thanks for an acceptance. I had an automatic reply by return, telling me that they weren’t taking submissions at the moment – an impersonal response to my attempt at being polite. To be honest, I wasn’t surprised – some magazines are like that.

The other was more complicated. It was a rejection with some suggested links to articles which would help me improve. It’s the sort of response that always invites being categorised as condescending.

I read the first one and it told me that most western definitions of haiku were too restrictive. This explains why editors annoy me by publishing haiku that fall outside the published definitions. Maybe they should take down the definitions hey often display, or display a current one. Same goes for the people who are often quoted on the subject – if your definition is outdated, have the courtesy to indicate this or update it.

As for the haibun article, it quoted a number of haibun. One of the haiku wasn’t a haiku by any definition and the rest all reiterated the subject material, which you aren’t supposed to do. I can’t help feeling that if I’d have submitted any of them, they would have been turned down, not used as examples. I just wrote and thanked them for the feedback and said they provided food for thought.

Email is not the forum to exchange views over something like that, as it could be construed as argumentative and although I have issues with things, I don’t want to start an argument with someone who is trying to help.

This is the one she gave away as a present.

That’s the nice thing about tanka – fewer rules, more freedom, and fewer people writing about them.

 

Marx, Opium and a Senior Moment

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Refillable Pilot V7 – another of my doomed attempts to profit from product placement

Yesterday I missed posting and had to do it in the early hours of the morning. It had, as the post reveals, been a vexing day. When I tried to link to the post I found I had managed not to post it, and although it was on my list when I checked the posts, it was still a draft. I have just posted. A senior moment, and today looks like it may be a vexatious day too.

I mentioned Bargain Hunt yesterday, then realised there may be people who don’t know what its true place in society is. It basically fills the place that religion used to hold for many of us in the UK, and the political space that Marx claimed for religion – being the opiate of the people (or opium of the masses or whatever translation you prefer). Well, it is for those of us who are retired.

Pilot V7 – I wonder if a box of free pens is heading my way? You do hear stories . . .

There have been some heated discussions in the antiques world , I admit. I’ve been in some of them. But antique dealers have  never declared war on anyone just because they prefer Clarice Cliff to Susie Cooper, or consider Christopher Dresser to be the anti-Christ.

I looked for a new pen on Amazon yesterday as I sometimes like to use fineliners like the Pilot V7. I have a couple that are on their last legs and was wondering about buying some more. The trouble is that they are a little pricey for what they are, and they aren’t very ecological. Well, I found one on Amazon tha is refillable and, according to the card, is 72% recycled plastic and has 56% less CO2 impact. They don’t saw what it is actually 56% less than but it is a pen, not a politician, so it is probably not a downright lie.

Yes, not buying a new pen would have 100% less carbon impact, but it’s a start.

An advertising claim that is not as clear as it could be . . .

 

Oh dear, missed a post! Or a day. Whatever . . .

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It’s been a day of bits and pieces. Visit to the nurse this morning – all going well.  Bit of writing, indexing poetry. Lunch. Bargain Hunt. Wash up. Bit more writing. Unfortunately, nothing very useful. More indexing. Then my sister called and took me to hospital for my scan. Nothing major, just a foot. In fact just one toe. And only the tip of that toe. It’s already been X-rayed and pronounced clear, but the sent me a letter so I felt I had to go.

It’s probably an example of NHS waste, but it’s better to try to do too much than to do too little. Not that it mattered. They have a lengthy safety questionnaire before you have a scan. They also have a lot of other questions, which weren’t on the questionnaire, and it turned out that I couldn’t have a scan. I have to go back next week. I can’t keep asking my sister to give me a lift so that, like the extra (unnecessary) trip last week, is another £16 for taxis. Another hour and half out of my life.  Another evening spent feeling like my life is pointless and that I count for nothing. Another half hour spent lying uncomfortably in two badly fitting gowns. They make me wear one at the front and one at the back because, apparently, I am the only fat person who ever goes to hospital.

And then I checked my emails. I have had a rejection. Not only that, I have had some advice from the editor. It is very good of them to take the time to do it, but once again, as so often, the advice is basically to read some articles (links enclosed) as I am missing the whole point of haiku and haibun. The problem is, of course, that I have read much on this subject and had thought  I was doing it right. There’s a very fine line between being helpful and depressing.

However, I bought myself a new pen, which always brightens a day. More of that later. Time to post and go to bed.

Tomorrow, as they say, is another day . . .

On the other hand tomorrow is actually right now as it’s past midnight, and I need some sleep.

Note: Actually I then went to bed and forgot to post, so here it is, posted at 9.54 when I discovered I couldn’t link to it and found out it was still in drafts.

The Drudgery of Organisation

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Sign from the trackside between Grantham and Notingham

I have listed 44 published poems, with dates and details of first publication. I have been through them again, and they are now mainly in alphabetical order. There are several other lists to go through, then more searching to find the unlisted ones. I wish I’d been more organise. At least I was organised at times, which makes it easier than it might have been.

As a result of this month being so light on possible submissions I now have six weeks to get things organised. With any luck I may be able to submit some things as soon as the window opens in May. This was how I used to do it. In fact, I used to do all my submissions on the first day of the window instead of leaving it until the last minute. It was more relaxed and though my poetry probably wasn’t any better, it was at least edited properly.

Brick Train at Darlington

Experience tells me that I should not fritter this time away, and I am going to try not to do this. I have four minutes left, at which point it will be time o cook lunch for Julia before she goes off to help in the tearoom.

One thing I notice with my index of poems is that I have a lot of poems starting with the word “The”. I may have to try to be less formulaic.

To make the index more interesting I could, of course, index “The Banana in the Road”, an editor’s choice in Cattatils Spring 2022 edition as “Banana in the Road, The”.

It’s a thought . . .

Mallard at the National Railway Museum – looks fast even when she’s standing still.

 

 

Keeping Count (109 Posts 108 Days)

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This is going to be my 109th post of the year and it is day 108. It’s a lot easier now that I’m counting in the titles and don’t have to go back to the first day of the year to do my counting.

It’s depressing that my work rate is actually so low, and also that the year is almost a third of the way through.

I’ve just been reading an interview with an author in the back of a book -it’s a J D Kirk Scottish crime novel, though his real name is Barry Hutchison.  In the interview he claims to have written 200 books, though somewhere else he goes for 140. It’s a lot of books.  This includes a lot for children and some comic books, so the word count may not be very high, though I’m not one to judge. I (vaguely) claim to have had 250 poems published, but I honestly have no idea, having lost control of the counting some time ago. I am going to have to try and get them all together. In terms of word count, some are about a dozen words and I doubt if the longest passes 300, so I’m not in a position to preach.

Actually, I have a terrible feeling that I may be exaggerating. It’s possible that I went to bed thinking “150” and woke next day thinking “250”. Excuse me while I go and count.

My Orange Parker Pen

Several hours later . . .

My admin, as you know, is poor and I can’t find all my published poems. Even if they were all in one place it would be incomplete as I’m a poor record keeper, and they are in at least five lists, but I am over 250.

In fact, I’d better get on with that. And I’d better get my act together and keep proper records in future.

Orange Parker Pen

Thoughts on Editors

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So far this year I have had 16 acceptances. One came this morning and prompted this post. That’s from 30 submissions, so it’s a touch over 50%. I have done better in past years, but this year, as I have said, I have tried harder and sent submissions to people who habitually turn me down. It’s character forming.

I’ve been scouring the internet looking for more places to submit and have found a few, but run into three problems.

One is that some only accept postal submissions and I no longer like sending them. Paper does actually, as the expression goes, grow on trees, but I feel it’s better to use emails for both convenience and carbon footprint.

Two is that the editors of these harder to find journals can be quite aggressive, which is probably a reason why they are not so well supported. In general I find editors of Japanese style magazines are nicer and more helpful than those of mainstream poetry journals, but if they aren’t, why should I bother with them?

And three – when I relaunched my poetry writing I decided to aim for the best magazines. I did. I got rejected. I am still rejected. But when I did get in it was worth doing and quite exciting to find myself in a journal with people I’d actually heard of. Better to be rejected by a quality journal than be accepted by one of lower quality.  And better to aspire to meet the quality threshold of a better journal.

My Orange Parker Pen

There is another reason, I just remembered. Some magazines want to be paid to include my work. With some, it’s voluntary – I can access a quicker decision by paying, but with one they actually want you to pay for inclusion.

Few magazines have ever paid. I can live with that. I can live with taking out subscriptions for magazines. That seems fair. It’s a hobby and hobbies cost money. But to pay for inclusion? I don’t think I’ll bother tank you.

Poetry – creatively stacked but a touch light on stock

Rat Traps and Ramblings

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We have had rat traps down for four days now. We have caught three rats (two of which were quite young) and three mice over the four nights with two traps being sprung without catching. We currently have them out but not set. I want to see if anything finishes off the bait, and I also want to give them a false sense of security. And, to be honest, I want a rest from emptying them.

When I am once again prepared for the sight of bulging eyes and mangled bodies I will give it another go.

I really don’t know what is going on in the world when I am feeling sorry for dead rats. However, rats spread diseases and I take immunosuppressants. The two things don’t go together well, and though I’ve not heard of someone getting ill from contact with rats in the garden, why take the chance? I once worked with a man who became ill after fishing. He seems to have come into contact with germs from rat urine in the water and when he put his fingers to his lips (he was a smoker) he made himself very ill.

However, I won’t bore you with my rat stories.

When I was an adolescent (and possibly a borderline embryo psychopath) I used to go out looking for dead animals by the roadside. I collected birds feet (this was a proper thing – there was even an article in the RSPB magazine about it. I still have the book on taxidermy I saved up for, though I never progressed to actually curing a skin or stuffing anything as I couldn’t get the chemicals and my mother objected to me storing dead birds and animals in the fridge.

Blackbird on picnic table – Rufford Abbey

The crunch came when I stored a dead mole in a box in the conservatory. I managed to conceal it from prying eyes for several days (I only used to skin at weekends) but after one particularly warm day it made its presence known and taxidermy was banned.

For some reason my word count has disappeared but I must be past 250 words by now so time to publish. I just noticed that I don’t have  place for Tags either. Curiouser and curiouser . . .

Chaffinch in the Bird Garden