Yesterday’s post was almost finished when I decided to use it. It had been hanging about for a while, I was out of inspiration and it seemed the easiest way to post something.  Sorry about that if you were expecting another tale of my woeful life, but sometimes my old ambition to be a historian breaks out.

Meanwhile, I have completed and sent off eight submissions, and still have seven more to go in the next couple of days. It’s a busy month and I may not manage them all, but you have to have ambition. The problem is that I haven’t actually written some of them, which is a problem as it can take months to write and polish a poem. Fortunately they are mostly tanka, which aren’t that difficult. If I had to write Haibun I’d be in trouble. Editors generally ask for groups of 10 tanka, but rarely take more than one. It’s a question of space, they tell me, often adding that several of the group were usable, but they can only pick one.

That means, as far as I’m concerned, that I only need one good one, as the rest are irrelevant. And even that one doesn’t need to be brilliant, just better than one of the others selected for publication. Yes, I know it’s cynical, and I know aiming to be 49th out of 50 is setting the bar low, and has pitfalls, but I’m up against it. Three infections in the last four months have hit my stamina and my productivity.

They have also hit the size of my world. If I want inspiration all I have is the view from my window, which is mainly evergreens and pigeons, or the daily trip to work. Neither is inspiring. I’m ging to read some poetry in a minute and steal the ideas. It’s what I’ve been reduced to. But as Eliot said: ‘Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal’

Orange Parker Pen