under another sun

Up with the sparrows this morning, and made Lorraine breakfast before she went on her way. For me a day of writing deathless poetry was plan A. A rambling sort of poem I started at the beginning of the week fell fully formed into place as an excellent (I think) short poem. Made me think of Keats and his idea that poetry should come as naturally as leaves to a tree or not at all. Things all progressing swimmingly interspersed with stroking and gloating over my new iMac. The cats being suspicious this morning, and then Calliope arrived with a 100% alive mouse. They had a stand off in my study, and when the poor squeaking thing turned to face Calliope, she suddenly lost her nerve for a second. Then the mouse ran around my study and hid. Calliope in hot pursuit crashing through all my precious things, computer wires, guitars etc. like an angry poltergeist. Having rolled my socks up over my trousers I was on Facebook and got advice. Charlotte said to put down a cereal packet and this almo...

A ticket to Rye this morning, where Lorraine and I were to meet Maureen and Pat to celebrate Pat's 79th birthday. They had also been married 55 years later this week too. I'd not been to Rye before, one of the two 'antient towns' along with Winchelsea whose councils traditionally maintained defence contingents for the realm of England, supporting the Cinque Ports , and steeped in history. Once it had been surrounded by sea, as a fortified hilltop town. Now the views are of green stretching to the sea. Spent a happy few hours wandering about this lovely little town. A really good photographer David Purdie had a little gallery there, which I enjoyed immensely. Lunched in the Mermaid Tavern, which had been sung about by many, including Keats with a poem that starts 'Souls of Poets dead and gone,/What Elysium have ye known,/Happy field or mossy cavern,/Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?' Now the Mermaid Inn, we had a pleasant enough meal in there and a pint of Ha...

On the side of Keats Up early with Lorraine. Before I started work, I watched the final Peter Ackroyd documentary about The Romantics, which allowed me to revisit my various opinions about them. Soulful Keats has always spoken most directly to me, I think some of his best poems arrive somehow still dripping with silence as if they had been hauled out of a dark psychological sea. Ackroyd emphasises his empathy, which is think is right. In contrast Byron, portrayed as a prototype celeb, leaves me almost completely unmoved. He mocked Keats as a Pissabed , and accused him of mental masturbation. Byron, in my opinion, was a flash git. Then on to my accounts, which refuse to be finished despite being manacled to my desk for hours . In the afternoon I worked on more ailment stuff for the agency, and was pleased to be doing it as financially things will be squeaky as a pipistrelle for the next couple of months. Lorraine needs to tighten her belt too. After discussing this for a while, w...

Leafless A bit of a struggle on all fronts today. Writing like pulling hens teeth, and putting me in mind of John Keats: That if Poetry comes not as naturally as the leaves to a tree it had better not come at all. I am questioning the whole business of the Doppelganger. It is not enough to set up a situation dramatically where a Doppelganger exists and the whole dilemma is about whether the protagonist is having a breakdown or not. This is the territory of Dostoevsky. Conrad in The Secret Sharer (Toby made me read it) is more deftly handled but still ultimately you are left with the same question. My Doppelganger poem published in Iron magazine years ago Someone-else's patch was more about the overlapping claims on territory. This gave it a slightly different edge. But I think Matt and I need a fresh take. Went to the gym where the psychological and overall fitness benefit outweighs the knee gyp. Home to send wrangling emails to hasten a long overdue payment from the French. I a...

Purgatorio Waking in the morning drenched in sweat and as enervated as a Johnny Keats in Rome reaching for his last kleenex. How thoughtful of the freaking Gods to ensure that while skewered by various undiagnosed gyps, and at the end of my spiritual, physical and mental tether, I have to spend seven or eight hours a day researching and writing about chronic, agonising medical conditions. A brief escape like the liquid song of a nightingale in a forest, a dryad among the trees, came when I was able to write about gardening with arthritis, and implements with long handles. But this passed. Outside the shades of Dante and Virgil wandered down the Twitten discussing my punishment, but I do not know the sin I am paying for. Unmanacled, I can only slump and watch Frasier DVDs. Those Crane boys stand between me and the abyss. Spoke to Mum and Lorraine and Bob. Lorraine had her head magnetically resonated at hospital this morning, but seemed cheerful. Below Dante and Virgil sightseeing in Pur...