A dream of Champions

Strange vivid dreams connected to 1966. I was being given some kind of commemorative medal to do with the World Cup Final that in the dream had belonged to Dave my grandfather (who I watched the final with as a six year old). I was very pleased to get them, then I felt a wave of sadness that he was dead and then woke up.

I'm guessing that working on my poems so intensely over the last few days is dredging up all kinds of associations. The work I'm assembling stretches over 25 years. It's like a biography of fragments and symbols. Whatever happens with the collection, it is quite a fascinating, if self-indulgent, process.

I am, however, making immense progress. Also finished the Brenda Maddox book Georgie's Ghosts about Yeats later years, which I really enjoyed. Yeats really was a chump in many ways, and believed all kinds of weird stuff, but if I had to take one poet's work to a desert island it would be his.

A hour or so ambling around town, via the Library and the pier to give my brain a break. Then back to work on my other project till about 10, which is entirely different, and is to do with skeletons and pies.

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