Monthly Archives: September 2023

Excuses and Plans

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I could tell you that I have been so busy writing poetry that I haven’t had time to blog. This would be plausible, but, as regular readers will know, unlikely. Gaps in my blogging are normally caused by laziness or napping in front of TV. Or both. The recent gap has been no exception – laziness and napping both come into play.

It’s a case of swings and roundabouts, or possibly actions and reactions. I just looked up Newton, as I seemed to recall he had something to do with it, but it turns out that although he did mention actions and reactions, he left out any mention of elderly men falling asleep.

I’m left with a distinct feeling of unease, and am now worried about the rotation of the earth slowing down. At that point I suppose there would be no gravity and we would all drift off into space. At that point the financial acumen of the British Government,  the world domination plans of the Russians and the moral concerns about eating meat and using fossil fuels would all seem less important. However, the main conclusion to draw from this is that I shouldn’t think too much. I’m going to be burnt to a crisp by global warming long before I drift off into space. And, realistically, I’m going to die of something weight-related before global warming gets me..

My Law of Ageing, which I really must get round to writing down, is that for every effort, life pushes back back by demanding an equivalent amount of nap time to rebalance the energy levels. So if you write over 40 poems in  a day and then spend hours driving to a funeral you are going to have to pay back by sleeping when you should be blogging. You may think you are 19, you may think you have got away without extra sleep, but in the end, even if it is days later, there is a debt to be paid.

Anyway, I hope it’s all sorted now and I can get back t normal. I made six submissions last month. I’ve already made seven so far this month. I want to do at least five more so I need to get a move on. I’d better finish this, get to bed and wake up with a positive mental attitude ready for an industrious Wednesday. Julia is going to work tomorrow, despite it being our day off and I have a blood test. Apart from that I have an empty day of possibilities lying ahead of me.

Welsh Poppy

An Early Start

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Well, not early for a farmer, but anything before 10 am is early for me on a Sunday. I’ve made a few notes about what I want to do for the rest of the day and have sent an email to one of my cousins  My patchy family history research, though deficient in many ways, seems to have contained a piece she needed to fill a gap. She, in turn, was able to correct something my dad told me. He was an extraordinary man, I know this because a journalist said it in a newspaper article about him, and we quoted it for years after. He wasn’t, however, a very reliable source of family history as his memories were often close to reality without actually being accurate.

I’m going to write my self-imposed minimum 250 words now and then get on with my list of thigs to do. It’s not that I don’t love all my readers, it’s just that when I get a good run of inspiration going I don’t love anything as much as getting it all down on paper. I have twelve notes made overnight and I need to get them fleshed out before they melt away. There is little so sad as a ghost of an idea, when you remember you had a brilliant idea, and thought of a great opening line, and find that it has slipped away as you came downstairs.

I now need fifteen words to finish off. It can be tricky when writing this sort of post – enough to show I’m still alive, but not enough to divert me. Expect me back later today when I need a change of pace.

Pictures are from our recent trip to Southwold, which was in the headlines this week – it will soon have no bank in town.  This is part of a growing trend towards removing cash from society and making us all vulnerable to internet fraud. Cash is a security issue for banks. So is computer fraud, but they can make that our problem with a few subtle alterations to their terms and conditions.

More beach huts at Southwold

 

 

The Journey of a Life

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It was beautiful as long as it lasted – The journey of my life
Farewell my Friends – Rabindranath Tagore

Today we celebrated the life of one of my uncles who died shortly after his 100th birthday. It was, to be honest, a very pleasant day. We set off at 7.30, the roads were clear and when we arrived in Wendover it was everything you would want from a small English town. The Church is light and airy and was pleasantly cool on a day that saw my car temperature gauge reach 33 degrees C. The service was excellent and we saw the memorial cross in the header, pictured by Julia.

It’s just a shame, as we mentioned several times, that we only meet when someone dies. If it hadn’t been for that it would have been a perfect day, with good weather and five generations of the family there. I’ve never had a picnic in a church before, so today’s post funeral buffet was quite a strange experience. I couldn’t, initially, rid myself of the feeling that I was going to be told off by a church official as I balanced a cup of tea and a plate of sandwiches on the chair next to me, but by the end, I was much more relaxed. I managed to spill cream from the excellent scones on my shirt, but fortunately I missed my tie. The tie is now folded back in the glove box ready for the next funeral.

I think one of the kids might have given it to me, as it’s much narrower than any tie I remember buying. This is good – if it had been wider the cream would have fallen on it, and ties are not easy to clean.

Now, a quick word on the wooden cross in the picture. I may have covered some of this before. After the war, as the Imperial War Graves Commission (as it was then) concentrated all the smaller burial grounds into the larger cemeteries we see today and erected the permanent grave markers, they gave the families the opportunity to have the original crosses from the graves of their loved ones. As I interpret the various articles I have read, the families had to pay for the markers to be sent. For many of them, already struggling to get by without a husband or a father, this additional cost could not be justified. Despite this, around 10,000 were returned. According to a website I read this evening, the location of approximately 550 are known. That means either that there are 9,450 held in private hands, which is unlikely, as you would hear about them or see them for sale, or that over 9,000 have rotted, been thrown away or otherwise lost. That is what happens to our history if we don’t look after it.

Of course, you could say that about a lot of things.

More information on Captain Hudson is available here. And here.

 

 

 

3,101 – Inspiration is Difficult in the Heat

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It seems that yesterday’s post was number 3,100.  At 3,000 I was happy at my achievement. Then I developed an ambition to get to 3,100. Now I’m looking forwards and wondering when I will get to number 4,000.

Yesterday I sent off three poems for a members’anthology. It’s not a great challenge – I’m pretty sure all members get one in automatically. However, the good bit was that I had the acceptance within hours. In the last year or so I have been submitting so late in the cycle that in some cases I’ve only waited days for a decision. Now that I’m submitting three weeks before the end of the cycle I have to wait at least three weeks. It’s definitely not as exciting . . .

As I’m starting to submit a bit of mainstream poetry again I’m going to have to get used to this sort of thing – many of the regular poetry magazines take three months or more to get back to you.

It’s been a bit hot today, but not the worst it’s been. I’m not going to complain because this i possible the best weather we’ve had all year and it’s going to finish soon. Give it a couple of months and it will be cooler. In fact it’s just a couple of weeks ago we were thinking we might need a touch of heating on. We normally last until late September or even into October in a good year. Withe price of power still being high, every day is a bonus.

These days I do not watch the approach of winter with the same relaxed attitude I used to have when I was in my 30s. The cold and damp hurt more, for one thing. Bills are higher, draughts are keener and duvets are no fun when you sleep with a woman who gathers the bedding round her with the grim determination of a hibernating bear (and snarls in much the same way as the aforementioned ursine when you try to get a little of it back).

It seems that Royal Mail filled a form in wrongly and the Irish Customs have charged the customer nearly 150 Euros in duty. We are now having to provide copy paperwork to help her reclaim the overpayment. The postage was £15 so you’d think they could get it right. That filled a good part of my afternoon.

Incidentally, last week while I was away at the funeral, we had two parcels returned by the Irish Post Office. It’s taken six months. There is something seriously wrong with the Irish postal service. Out favourite theory is that it is their revenge for Brexit. They were OK until Brexit and it all fell apart at that time. Same for Germany. Italy was always chaotic, even before Brexit.  I could have walked to Ireland, delivered them and walked back in that time.

Postal charges are going up again – for the second time in the year. In April First Class letters went up from 95p to £1.15, which was a bit savage. In October they will be going up to £1.25. Three price rises in 18 months. Meanwhile the quality of service goes down.

Heavily stamped envelope

Today’s Post – 300 Words, Fermented Shark and Pizza

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I was doing OK until lunch, not pulling up any trees, but getting some work done. Then I stopped to eat (Julia made avocados for lunch) and went to sit in front of TV with a coffee. (Yes, of course I made her one! And a Kit Kat.) The quizzes started, the snoozing commenced and four hours later I find I’ve frittered the afternoon away, watched some dreadful cricket and have to cook tea. The pizzas are in the oven now. I’m taking ten minutes to do this then I’m going to make the salad. It’s not a great meal, but it’s not the worst meal either. (Actually, it was quite a bad meal, as I got hot cheese stuck to the roof of my mouth).

View from Bangor Pier

I’m not sure what the worst meal is, probably something featuring fish, beetroot and salad, or something Icelandic with a sheep’s head or festering fish in the middle. At times like this, you have to ask why British cuisine is so often criticised when people like the Icelanders exist. How bad does your life have to be before you adopt boiled sheep’s head as  a national dish? Having just read this link, I can see life was very hard. I now forgive them for their culinary delinquency, though whether I’d want to go on a culinary tour of Iceland is another matter. They don’t have salt because they have no firewood to boil the seawater (and let’s face it, the sun is going to be no help in Iceland) so that’s why they ferment food and wind dry it. It’s amazing how little you can know about someone who is almost a neighbour.

Bangor Pier

If Iceland had a massive TV industry I suppose I’d know more about Icelandic cuisine and less about American.

I’m tempted to go on from here and discuss the use of soft power in world politics, but this probably isn’t the place for serious political discussions about subtlety and influence. Fermented shark, yes. Russian Foreign Policy, no. Draw your own conclusions.

Jellyfish at Bangor

I was looking for photos when I found these. It was a good day and a big jellyfish – about the size of a dustbin.

Reflections and Other Procrastination

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Got up intending to launch into another positive and productive day after reading another chapter of the positive thinking book and spent an hour and a half catching up, reading blogs and moving things round. It’s all necessary and it’s all entertaining, but is it work? As his is my day off, does it matter if it’s work?

I see that Paolsoren is making a determined bid to become the next big thing in Australian poetry. Already dubbed “the Antipodean McGonagall” by one of his readers, his latest poem is open to many interpretations. Beware if you read the poem, it contains the concept of asparagus stew which some readers may find upsetting. I did.

Derrick Knight is still travelling round the New Forest bothering livestock and photographing flies. Well, he was yesterday. I’m thinking of starting a campaign where we all add “National treasure” every time we mention his name. He should probably include it in the title of his blog too. Derrick Knight, National Treasure . ..

Meanwhile Tootlepedal is stalking butterflies in the pursuit of a perfect flying butterfly shot. “Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp, Or what’s a heaven for?” as Browning famously said. I still don’t understand it because reach and grasp are two different things. One involves arm length and the other involves grip strength. However, leaving that aside, I know it’s meant to be a quote about ambition and know that ambition is alive and well in the Borders.

Last night on Amazon I ordered some display stands for the displays I’m planning on doing at the Numismatic Society of Nottinghamshire. I also researched products for my newly shaved head. I was looking for something in the line of a polish, but they mainly seemed to have moisturising products. Ridiculous! If I need moisturising I can use hand cream. It’s bound to work on other body parts. I have half a bottle left from the days I used to use it to stop my hands cracking in my gardening days. As for he polish, we have some beeswax in the cleaning cupboard. I always said beeswax was better than spray polish and it looks like I’m right. Considering that I think of  myself as bald, my scalp is alarmingly stubbly after just one week. Time for another shave.

(Disclaimer: It’s probably better if you don’t try his a home. What works for me may not be good for all skin types, and remember, my idea of a suitable male fragrance is Dettol, so I’m no fashion icon. The original Dettol that is, not the new stuff with the lavender and honey. Honey!) 

A Short Productive Spell

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I Have a Problem

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My positive thinking campaign has paid off so far. I have written more and have submitted to two magazines that I have a patchy record with, one that has always turned me down and one I have never submitted to before. So far, two have replied and both accepted something – one senryu and one Haibun. These were, to be fair, the magazines that had published me before, even if it was not a regular thing. I’m now waiting to see what happens with the other two. It could be months yet, as neither are particularly speedy.

Unfortunately, though I’m doing more work, I am also finding myself bogged down by admin. Some of it is out of proportion to the increased workload. I could keep track of most stuff I was doing with just a brain and a piece of paper but now I’m picking up the work rate and increasing the submissions I am having to keep better records. My brain is marginal at the best of times but give it four new magazines, and the  30 extra poems and I am struggling to keep up.

So far this year I have made 38 submissions. By the end of the year it will be about 50. It’s a long way from the hundred I used to talk about as a target, but it’s near enough one a week, which seems quite a lot when you are the one doing the writing. I don’t know how the woman who wrote the article managed a hundred.  I just looked it up. She was actually aiming for 100 rejections a year. However, all she got was  43, and five acceptances. Lightweight! Makes my submission record, in a lazy year, look quite good.

Today has been mainly taken up with sorting out two submissions, working out my paperwork system, cookery, reading blogs and  drinking tea. Well you need some relaxation time don’t you? I think I have things sorted now, but it’s been a struggle.

It’s now time to complete a blog post telling you all how hard I am working.

Ooops! I just realised that the first meeting of the Numismatic Society is taking place on 11th and I wanted to put on a small display of some local items. I hve the items (mostly) bu I now have a week to do the research. It’s going to be a bit tight.

The Numismatic Society starts again. Can winter be far behind?

Oh, the problem? Time. It’s always time . . .

 

 

Too Many Roses

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After the serious business of poetry, we get back to the sort of blog I am better known for – observations on buying groceries via the internet. I am never afraid to tackle the big issues . . .

The TESCO shopping arrived last night. It featured several substitutions, including roses. I had ordered a small bunch of roses for Julia, but they had been out off stock. Nothing grand, just a small £3 bunch. The environmental cost of flying flowers from Africa is huge, but I try to keep our impact down so I think I can be forgiven a few flowers now and then. Anyway, nobody is perfect.

They sent two £10 bouquets. I had, it seems, ordered two bunches by accident. When I was told that one colour was out of stock I should have left them to substitute with another colour. Instead I assumed they wouldn’t send any and ordered again. They didn’t have any £3 bunches, even after the change of colour I made (bunch, by the way, is probably slightly misleading as a term for £3 worth of roses). So they sent two £10 bunches. I can only assume that the £10 bunches were at the end of their shelf life., as they only charged me £6. Sometimes they are good like that. We currently have more roses than we really need so will be sharing them tomorrow. Even though I’m annoyed with myself for over-ordering, it’s still nice to get a bonus.

Something similar happened with the mushrooms and I ended up with two small packs instead of one medium – extra mushrooms for the same price. Sometimes these things work out. I’m on TESCO again because ASDA really messed up last week. I didn’t mention it because there was no convenient place to do so, but they forgot to include the frozen food.  That meant we had no burgers or veggie burgers, which meant a substantial amount of the menu planning went out of the window. They should, as I pointed out to them, have immediately sent us replacements as it was a mistake, not a case of low supplies. The refund they sent was not an adequate response for a hole in the menu. This is the trouble with shopping on the internet, a silly mistake can ruin a week’s planning.

Flowers – detail

To quote W. H. Davis –What is this life if, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare. I expect he would have included random flower deliveries if they had supermarkets in his day.  Life should include unexpected deliveries of flowers, as I said to Julia, otherwise what’s the point of it?

Which reminds me. We had a poem at the funeral on Thursday. I’m not keen on most of the ones they use. If I should fall from my perch in the near future, can you please do me a favour and spend a day of quoting this one to people. It needs quoting more widely. 

Two Poems from the Past

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I keep saying I will put some of my poems in the blog, but never quite get round to it. I just found a few at the bottom of my email box. They were first published in Acumen in May 2021. One of them was on  the page facing  a poem from Roger McGough and I felt quite famous for a while. They are not particularly cheerful, for which I apologise, but writing something serious is an occupational hazard of being a poet.

When COVID struck in 2020 we just thought it was another flu. When the idea of a lockdown was first mentioned we were in the middle of Norfolk, heading for the Suffolk coast. The poem, The First Week is written about that time. The other one was a poem originally written after my mother died, but repurposed after my father died from COVID. When we stopped at the Garden centre on the way home (see the blog post) we had intended seeing him. By that time he was locked down and we never did see him again.

Here they are.

The First Week

We didn’t know what was to come that year, the lack of holiday,
freedom and fresh air. Walking on the shore, shingle ground underfoot.
Aldeburgh is not a restful beach. In the distance we saw a house in the clouds,
and the nuclear power station nestled on the edge.

We stopped at the stainless steel clamshells, changing shape as we
drew nearer – seabird, shell or boat. Slipping from one to the other,
clever design. Punched through with letters – I hear those voices
that will not be drowned.

Back in town, amongst the living, we passed the place where the pier
used to be, queued for fish and chips with people fleeing London to their
holiday homes. When we set off we had no idea that this would be
a week in history remembered for so many wrong reasons.

Eating in the car park at the end of town, we saw concrete cubes,
the left over tank traps from another war. Further along, a village the
waves washed away and the Martello Tower that protected the coast
from invasion, but could not stop the sea.

 

New Normal

Is this how it ends? A shaded room, light filtering through curtains,
and an on-line fight for breath.
At home, surrounded by familiar things, I hear the magpies chatter,
as I watch my father fading in his final, silent scene. I feel I should be
there, and dwell on my regrets. The scent of brewing coffee fills the air.
Only one visitor allowed: I let my sister go to say goodbye. In my
imagination staff monitor and measure and make notes, passing through
my mind like helpful ghosts. Machines make noise. I’ve heard it all before and
can supply the sound effects the computer cannot play. Death at a
social distance. It is the modern way.

Later, at a distanced service, dismal poems will be read,
to say you are just waiting in another room and are not really dead.

 

Water Lily