Sunday, January 31, 2010
Monday, January 25, 2010
Good Girl.
I hear her voice outside my door
the sound creeps under, "kurva", she whispers
scared someone will hear her, most of all me.
I hear her. I think she hates herself.
In the morning she sweeps the stairs for a rent reduction
and her husband drinks burčák from 8, he fights
downstairs, outside. Sometimes she bakes bread
for the caretaker, whose wife is useless.
She walks to Delvita, comes out laden
with bags, sits to catch breath and rest her feet. I wonder
if being fucked at life gives
you fat ankles. I watch her from my balcony.
She thinks I am reading, Seifert, but I am watching
always watching.
I keep myself to myself, I smell the gulas in her kitchen
she cooks daily. Her children fight but
her husband says nothing. She raises her voice and I think, yes
she is not happy. My mouth waters. I will eat out tonight.
I love the men I sleep with, sometimes briefly, but the love is there
and it's real. She brings in clothes from the balcony line
cracks a shirt in the air. A whip for his back.
Dropping pegs into a tub on the floor she curses her life. Under her breath.
Tomorrow when she slices onions, I will cry for her.
kurva, burčák
Excitement!
Look HERE! How splendid. The Poetry Library bought my book last month. There I am, with TS Eliot Jenny Joseph and Clive James. Me! What the hell?
Look HERE! How splendid. The Poetry Library bought my book last month. There I am, with TS Eliot Jenny Joseph and Clive James. Me! What the hell?
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Get Happy.
Here's the thing. Pick up a pen. Place it between your teeth (horizontally, we don't want a Nosferatu look going on) and then let go. Bite the pen gently, and continue biting down. Feel the shape your face is making? Look in the mirror. It is using the same muscles that smiling uses. Do it for long enough, your muscles send signals to your brain. They tell it that you are smiling. Brain reacts accordingly, and cheers the hell up.
It works.
Here's the thing. Pick up a pen. Place it between your teeth (horizontally, we don't want a Nosferatu look going on) and then let go. Bite the pen gently, and continue biting down. Feel the shape your face is making? Look in the mirror. It is using the same muscles that smiling uses. Do it for long enough, your muscles send signals to your brain. They tell it that you are smiling. Brain reacts accordingly, and cheers the hell up.
It works.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Padel
Trying to get back into writing anything other than academic waffle and blog waffle. I don't want to spread any more gossip about Ruth Padel, but I took her into a bath with me this morning for an hour, and really enjoyed myself.
I don't read enough poetry anymore, and this has to change. I saw this, and LOVED it.
Tell Me about It.
When they mourn you over there
the way you'd want, the way you mourn
your friends;
when they're celebrating
having loved you
in Derry, Rathmullen, wherever -
birettas, candles, Latin,
all the weavings you don't believe in
but love anyway and I'll never share
for who the hell converts to
ex-Catholic? - no one will know
someone's missing you here
for ever. Whose arms,
printed with that absolute
man's stillness
when your breath calms
into my shoulder, and you fall asleep
inside me, open and close
in a foreign night round nothing.
Who misses the way
you pour loose change onto a bar
in a puddle of fairytale silver
and move through the night,
through everything, curious
mischevous as a mongoose
and never an unkind word.
I might dream
of coming over, touching
just one friend's sleeve
to whisper
'Talk about him. A bit.
The way he was, here' -
but never do it. Instead,
I'll say Yes in my sleep
to you. To no one. You'll put
your tongue in my mouth, deep.
the way you do,
and my eyes will open
on a dark garden. I'll wake up
touching myself for you.
The alarm will stare
venomous digits. I'll hang on
to the fragile haze
of a wine-bar.
when you leant over the foreign formica,
haltering my hand within your two
like the filling in a sandwich,
sashaying the skin of each finger
down to the soft web between,
over and over, a rosary of rub
and slide, as if you could solder
me to your lifeline. As if
you could take me with you.
and I'll wish you had.
Ruth Padel.
Trying to get back into writing anything other than academic waffle and blog waffle. I don't want to spread any more gossip about Ruth Padel, but I took her into a bath with me this morning for an hour, and really enjoyed myself.
I don't read enough poetry anymore, and this has to change. I saw this, and LOVED it.
Tell Me about It.
When they mourn you over there
the way you'd want, the way you mourn
your friends;
when they're celebrating
having loved you
in Derry, Rathmullen, wherever -
birettas, candles, Latin,
all the weavings you don't believe in
but love anyway and I'll never share
for who the hell converts to
ex-Catholic? - no one will know
someone's missing you here
for ever. Whose arms,
printed with that absolute
man's stillness
when your breath calms
into my shoulder, and you fall asleep
inside me, open and close
in a foreign night round nothing.
Who misses the way
you pour loose change onto a bar
in a puddle of fairytale silver
and move through the night,
through everything, curious
mischevous as a mongoose
and never an unkind word.
I might dream
of coming over, touching
just one friend's sleeve
to whisper
'Talk about him. A bit.
The way he was, here' -
but never do it. Instead,
I'll say Yes in my sleep
to you. To no one. You'll put
your tongue in my mouth, deep.
the way you do,
and my eyes will open
on a dark garden. I'll wake up
touching myself for you.
The alarm will stare
venomous digits. I'll hang on
to the fragile haze
of a wine-bar.
when you leant over the foreign formica,
haltering my hand within your two
like the filling in a sandwich,
sashaying the skin of each finger
down to the soft web between,
over and over, a rosary of rub
and slide, as if you could solder
me to your lifeline. As if
you could take me with you.
and I'll wish you had.
Ruth Padel.
Bonny Chats.
Laying in bed with my youngest I am forced to watch Tracey Beaker on the laptop. Not my idea of a Sunday lie in really.
Bonny - Isn't it a shame that fish don't have arms?
Pesk - Why would fish need arms?
Bonny - They could carry things if they had arms. Like bunches of flowers. They could use their gills like pockets. (pause) Except then they'd drown. (pause) Can fish drown?
Pesk - Watch your programme.
Laying in bed with my youngest I am forced to watch Tracey Beaker on the laptop. Not my idea of a Sunday lie in really.
Bonny - Isn't it a shame that fish don't have arms?
Pesk - Why would fish need arms?
Bonny - They could carry things if they had arms. Like bunches of flowers. They could use their gills like pockets. (pause) Except then they'd drown. (pause) Can fish drown?
Pesk - Watch your programme.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Disco Dolly. And Derek.
Ok, so here is the deal. When I win £7,000,000 on the lottery (because I surely will, by law of karma alone) I hereby pledge that I will open the world's greatest residential home for the elderly confused. In it, will be -
1. A nightclub. Not just any nightclub, this will called Bacchus' Geriatric Gardens. It will be an outdoors but indoors and have a huge domed ceiling dotted with glittering stars, the moon will always be full and the air scented with perfume. It will have enormous egg shaped seats swinging from overhead trellises which will be festooned with passion flowers and jasmine. There will be hideaway caves for snogging. Here and there will be mini bars staffed by muscled young barmen and boobalicious young barmaids, serving sanatogen tonics as well as champagne cocktails. There will be laser shows on the hour, as well as wandering opera singers and marching bands.
2. A small fairground in the gardens, with rollercoaster, a waltzer, a helter skelter (with big puffy cushions for fragile hips), coconut shies and hook a duck stalls. A little kiosk will give away candy floss and toffee apples (denture friendly).
3. A (minimum 2) star Michelin chef will design and cook the menus. It will be eggs and salmon for breakfast, steak for lunch (unless a soft diet is required, then it will be foie gras) and whatever magnificent concoction they choose for dinner. Swan probably. Chocolate strawberries and muffins sprinkled with golden and pink glitter will be laid out on china plates for those who are peckish throughout the day.
4. The staff will be on a 2:1 ratio, and wear a uniform of pink feather boas and hotpants. Both sexes.
5. There will be a betting shop where every bet placed is a winner.
I am fed up, with the misery the old folks of this world endure at the end of their lives. So, come on. Point the finger at ME dear lotto God.
Ok, so here is the deal. When I win £7,000,000 on the lottery (because I surely will, by law of karma alone) I hereby pledge that I will open the world's greatest residential home for the elderly confused. In it, will be -
1. A nightclub. Not just any nightclub, this will called Bacchus' Geriatric Gardens. It will be an outdoors but indoors and have a huge domed ceiling dotted with glittering stars, the moon will always be full and the air scented with perfume. It will have enormous egg shaped seats swinging from overhead trellises which will be festooned with passion flowers and jasmine. There will be hideaway caves for snogging. Here and there will be mini bars staffed by muscled young barmen and boobalicious young barmaids, serving sanatogen tonics as well as champagne cocktails. There will be laser shows on the hour, as well as wandering opera singers and marching bands.
2. A small fairground in the gardens, with rollercoaster, a waltzer, a helter skelter (with big puffy cushions for fragile hips), coconut shies and hook a duck stalls. A little kiosk will give away candy floss and toffee apples (denture friendly).
3. A (minimum 2) star Michelin chef will design and cook the menus. It will be eggs and salmon for breakfast, steak for lunch (unless a soft diet is required, then it will be foie gras) and whatever magnificent concoction they choose for dinner. Swan probably. Chocolate strawberries and muffins sprinkled with golden and pink glitter will be laid out on china plates for those who are peckish throughout the day.
4. The staff will be on a 2:1 ratio, and wear a uniform of pink feather boas and hotpants. Both sexes.
5. There will be a betting shop where every bet placed is a winner.
I am fed up, with the misery the old folks of this world endure at the end of their lives. So, come on. Point the finger at ME dear lotto God.
Wednesday, January 06, 2010
Luggage
I find my job difficult at times, though I know for certain I could, nor would, do nothing else. In early January, the month of icy leaden skies, outrageously stroppy bills land on my doormat and wait, fuming with indignance until I get home and am forced to open them. Driving home through snowstorms and on slippy roads, I carry the spirit of my clients with me. Silent and weeping, their presence is as tangible as though they are bodily sitting in my car, looking sorrowfully back at me as I glance in the rearview mirror. My children, bouyant and giggling when I arrive, deserve more of a mother than the one that pours a glass of wine and slides into a hot bath. I have to find a way to allow those clients to leave me as they leave the consulting room... I am not equipped to give my best to anyone if I allow them to stay.
Monday, January 04, 2010
Hur hur.
My sister bought me these for Christmas . I shall be blogging their progress.
In all their glory... oh the mirth when I opened this gift in front of my daughters...
Aren't they tiny?....But give them some attention and they will grow... more hur hurring.
Potted up.
Note how Buddha can hardly contain his mirth, while David's lips (to the right) are barely disguising a sneer. Even Bonny (photo) is still giggling...
So.
I lose 11lbs on a 4 week crab, lettuce and rice cracker crash, then shock of being snowed in from 18th -22nd December when I haven't done a SNIFF of Christmas shopping sent me barging, elbows akimbo to the kitchen in a biscuit frenzy which continues unabated. So, today, I decided to apply myself again, and trotted off dutifully at lunchtime to M&S. Sushi. Low fat yogurt and a wee box of sugarfree starwberry and cream chewies. Till manfunction followed by operator ineptitude saw me standing, ravenous, while the inept shopboy kept his furious finger on the help button, to no avail. So, i flung the food down and stalked out in a hissy fit across to the bakery where I purchased a sausage roll (large, yes I do want it hot) and three giant cookies for a quid. Marks and Spencer, you have made me fat. It is your fault.
Back to work this morning after a two week break, en route I had to stop at a collapse at the bus stop outside the job centre. Maybe a job had been advertised and the wee lass had collapsed from shock I thought, as I pulled the car up to help. Actually I didnt think that, what I thought was "please don't be dead, please don't be dying, please don't be dead, please don't be dying". She wasn't bless her, the ambulance turned up and I drove off to work late, but full of Nurse Gladys virtue, bosom a bustling. Crap day at work even without the M&S hissy, best bud was still on holiday, the new build has been pulled last minute and everyone is morose and then my water tank cracked on the car due to me forgetting about antifreeze during the Worst For One Hundred Years Winter. It's booked in at the garage Thursday morning. More cash, bah.
So, the snow is still laying all around, though less deep crisp or even. More icy and relentless. The ground is full of snow beads, they look just like the polystyrene packing balls you get when you buy something fragile.
I'm fragile today.
Hope tomorrow brings Good Karma.
So... come on, help me out.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
