Sunset over Sherwood

It’s the end of the month in just under ten hours and I have submissions to make. More accurately, I have submissions to write. This is not ideal as everyone knows it takes months to write a good poem and let it mature.

I’ve been doing more enjoyable things for the last month. And a lot of non-enjoyable things. It doesn’t really matter – I have frittered my time and now have very little left. I have decided with one of the two submissions, that I won’t bother this month. They have published me once in seven years so I’m not going to beat myself up about it. The other, I will try. It’s a new stsrt-up and deserves support. If someone is willing to start a magazine and put the hours in, I feel writers should give it some support. It doesn’t mean I expect to get in, but I do want the editor to know I support her efforts.

Green’s Windmill – Nottingham 

So am I writing? Yes. I’m writing a blog post. I don’t want to miss it, but I don’t want to do any real work either. It’s just the way I am and nothing seems to change me. It’s not laziness, as I’ve got through quite a lot of stuff this month, just not followed the Poetry Plan.

At one time I used to have so much material in hand that I actually used to wait for submission windows to open as I could send things out on day one. Now I end to be in right at the end. In mitigation I plead several illnesses and a much increased number of submissions. In truth, with no sense of urgency and a love of procrastination, it was always likely to end up this way despite my plans and good intentions.

However, look on this blog post as an example of my double edged sword of a predicament (or double-ended pencil, if you prefer a writing metaphor. I said I would get back to daily blogging so I need to write this to make sure that happens, and because the daily blogging will be good for my writing in other areas too.

So, I’d better get on with the poetry. I have just over nine hours left and I also have to bring the shopping in and cook a meal tonight. Julia is in the cafe this afternoon so it’s only fair that I cook.

Time, he’s waiting in the wings . . . as Bowie reminds us. Though he went on to say  He speaks of senseless things, which is bit close to the mark when you look at my subject matter.

A Creaking gate hangs the lonest . . .