At the interface of filing and self-flagellation
Woke up deciding on a Face-out Friday, having lately berated myself on not sending enough work out into the world. I spent a couple of hours getting a submission ready for a magazine only to discover it is no longer accepting submissions. Bah. But managed a competition entry at least, and wrote back to the nice Jeremy Page at The Frogmore Press.
I realised the essential stumbling block to sending poems out for publication is disorganisation: some duplicate files spread across two computers and a hard drive, plus different versions of the poems in different files. Spent hours rationalising all my poetry, refiling, categorising it. At least I have a much better idea of what I have now: a surprising amount of bilge, laughable tripe etc. of course, but some decent stuff too, most of which needs a cold eye cast over it.
Respite from this interface of filing and self-flagellation came in the shape of Dr Matthew Pollard with whom I drank a couple of late afternoon pints of Harvey's bitter in the garden of the Batty (Battle of Trafalgar) while shooting a good deal of breeze. Thence we went to the Basketmakers to meet up with Irish Tom, who was drinking with John O'Shea and Bryn. Also bumped into Simon, who I'd worked with when I was working with the Cat with the Hat.
A really nice couple of hours there, melting the peeves of the week away. Lorraine arrived later and eventually L and I broke away for a late curry in the Shahi. A cheery end to the week.
I realised the essential stumbling block to sending poems out for publication is disorganisation: some duplicate files spread across two computers and a hard drive, plus different versions of the poems in different files. Spent hours rationalising all my poetry, refiling, categorising it. At least I have a much better idea of what I have now: a surprising amount of bilge, laughable tripe etc. of course, but some decent stuff too, most of which needs a cold eye cast over it.
Respite from this interface of filing and self-flagellation came in the shape of Dr Matthew Pollard with whom I drank a couple of late afternoon pints of Harvey's bitter in the garden of the Batty (Battle of Trafalgar) while shooting a good deal of breeze. Thence we went to the Basketmakers to meet up with Irish Tom, who was drinking with John O'Shea and Bryn. Also bumped into Simon, who I'd worked with when I was working with the Cat with the Hat.
A really nice couple of hours there, melting the peeves of the week away. Lorraine arrived later and eventually L and I broke away for a late curry in the Shahi. A cheery end to the week.
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