To Believe
A brighter day, Lorraine and I went on a trip to Brighton Recycling Centre, whose organisation impressed us. Waved in and kept apart as we emptied bags of cardboard from Beth's move, and a few bags of garden waste. Drove past a pub, The Fox on the Downs, where a couple were sitting outside in the sun with pints, wearing PPE.
Lorraine had lots of school work to do. The staff member with a temperature tested negative, which is a relief, and one less headache for Lorraine to manage. I just want her to be able to get to the end of the term, now two weeks away, unscathed.
I began work on some stuff for mes amis in Paris, on goat, sheep and cow diseases. I began idly putting a file together containing all my published poems in order, going back to 1982. And had to dig out a couple of very early poems indeed. Some better than I had remembered, other sadly worse.
Story called Snowfall, sent out to US speculatively was swiftly rejected, but with the caveat that 'we are certain it will find a great home' -- so as rejections go a sweet one. I am going to biff it out again, as the few tweaks I made to it just prior to sending it have pulled in into final focus. I say this myself, but some of the short fiction I am doing now is good.
Dawn came by late this afternoon, and we sat in the sun and wind of the back garden. Nice to see Dawn who was in good spirits, and had managed to see her daughter Ellie and her partner Russ recently for the first time in months, being allowed into their bubble.
Lorraine and I had dinner, and shared a bottle of wine this evening, and watched a bit of TV.
So here is one of the two poems I had published in 1982, while 22 and month or so before leaving university. Thirty-eight years of being published. Sadly, the fame repellent spray still working perfectly.
Lorraine had lots of school work to do. The staff member with a temperature tested negative, which is a relief, and one less headache for Lorraine to manage. I just want her to be able to get to the end of the term, now two weeks away, unscathed.
I began work on some stuff for mes amis in Paris, on goat, sheep and cow diseases. I began idly putting a file together containing all my published poems in order, going back to 1982. And had to dig out a couple of very early poems indeed. Some better than I had remembered, other sadly worse.
Story called Snowfall, sent out to US speculatively was swiftly rejected, but with the caveat that 'we are certain it will find a great home' -- so as rejections go a sweet one. I am going to biff it out again, as the few tweaks I made to it just prior to sending it have pulled in into final focus. I say this myself, but some of the short fiction I am doing now is good.
Dawn came by late this afternoon, and we sat in the sun and wind of the back garden. Nice to see Dawn who was in good spirits, and had managed to see her daughter Ellie and her partner Russ recently for the first time in months, being allowed into their bubble.
Lorraine and I had dinner, and shared a bottle of wine this evening, and watched a bit of TV.
So here is one of the two poems I had published in 1982, while 22 and month or so before leaving university. Thirty-eight years of being published. Sadly, the fame repellent spray still working perfectly.
To Believe
Words can be the dusk in the tongue
where both the screech owl and the dove
confer, dumb to decision,
or are fossil like: an unchanged
machine shape with the ghost long gone.
But open, random sounds; like wind
or sea eroding the slow solid;
or even the noise of a church bell;
sometimes bunch like a fist and thump
your frame, over your faint heart, and
bruises this graveyard of the soul.
Feel your tangled ribs squabble
over an echo, rattling
the cold clay that jumps in the chest,
for this echo had no mouthing —
no preaching intermediary
could dislodge this starkest moment;
this anachronism: to believe.
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