The Poet's Cot
Bad nightmares last night. Lorraine up at 6, and made me a cup of tea before leaving. A quick early morning walk around the park as it wasn't raining, before working on poems for a few hours. Plus re-sending the emails that never arrived yesterday. Must be a full moon thing, like speaking to Bob, who called yesterday, and was cut off in three seconds, and called today and after three seconds I had no reception for some time, and so we did not speak again.
Later I picked up mended shoes and popped into the Brighton Art gallery where I saw an exhibition called SHOOT THE WRX paintings and bits of film by Jeff Keen (1923-2012) who had lived in Brighton for a good deal of his life. I enjoyed this exhibition, which melded influences of everything from abstract expressionism to Marvel magazines. I will return. Especially as I only realised that WRX was 'works' on the way home.
More work this afternoon, but in danger of rushing the manuscript. Poetry will not be rushed, so I am having to drop some of the less finished pieces.
Met Lorraine in Sainsbury's after work, and after we shopped I cooked a large stir fry. Lorraine slightly less frazzled, and we decompressed in our various ways to Masterchef, which is completely escapist stuff.
Below The Poet's Cot, a piece by Keen, and rather apt for the way I'm feeling about this MS, with its plastic soldier shooting out of the gate. And a scene at the bottom of Trafalgar Street I snapped in passing.
Later I picked up mended shoes and popped into the Brighton Art gallery where I saw an exhibition called SHOOT THE WRX paintings and bits of film by Jeff Keen (1923-2012) who had lived in Brighton for a good deal of his life. I enjoyed this exhibition, which melded influences of everything from abstract expressionism to Marvel magazines. I will return. Especially as I only realised that WRX was 'works' on the way home.
More work this afternoon, but in danger of rushing the manuscript. Poetry will not be rushed, so I am having to drop some of the less finished pieces.
Met Lorraine in Sainsbury's after work, and after we shopped I cooked a large stir fry. Lorraine slightly less frazzled, and we decompressed in our various ways to Masterchef, which is completely escapist stuff.
Below The Poet's Cot, a piece by Keen, and rather apt for the way I'm feeling about this MS, with its plastic soldier shooting out of the gate. And a scene at the bottom of Trafalgar Street I snapped in passing.
Comments