Love Can't Tell You What To Do

I’m visiting my mother in her Dorset home,
-by home, I mean it’s not her home,
it’s anything but - she greets me
like a long lost friend, which I am not.

Here, she is contained
like the other old ladies
and the one chivalrous old man. For once
she isn’t different, so that’s different.

It’s a blast proof room
and can withstand the shudders
of unhappiness; if they get too much
there are games and sherry.

Mother ticks away, she always has,
like a UXB in our basements;
my brother, sister, me, like criminals
after a heist can’t meet each other’s eye.

Then, in the middle of our pears and ginger,
Ma remembers something –
feels the missed step, a giddying
nothingness under her mind.

Now she’s a little girl at boarding school
who doesn’t want to be here
with an outrage of grief so reasonable
if she was anywhere else we would listen.

Why can’t I sneak her into the car
and smuggle her home, a baby naked bird
to drip feed in a shoe box lined with cotton wool?
You know it starts off well but it never works.

Why won’t I break her out
like the tiger out of the zoo?
She could stay in my bedroom,
she would be gentle and quiet!

I wake in the night
listen for her breath,
the swish of her tail
her growl at my door.

Still life

In a waiting room
with four white chairs,
two plants, a cheap box of tissues
and a book of complaints
I am anxiously sifting through
the past week
trying not to let
bad memories
slip under the carpet
of a sunny day.
Forgetting painful details
double edge survival
instinct propping
up destructive
landscapes

Imagine

Translation

What are we but stories
fuzzy book of remembering,
feelings and echoes.
Hear it?
You turn its pages vacantly, then
place it down and rush out;
a voice of now is calling.
A page falls out
as your body’s whirlwind
makes a memory
glide out of context
softly onto
today

Don't Hold Your Breath

We say that

with pessimism,

with doubt.

But it is good advice.

When I breathe

I live.

Inspiration is the in-breath.

Inspiration is the life and soul of a party.

I am the party in question.

The question is:

Why should I not be

inspired?

Why should I wish

to be soul-less, life-less?

In all the agitation,

all the tension,

all the hustle and bustle of

the day,

if I can just

Breathe...

Breathe in.

One moment of inbreath.

One moment of inspiration.

I am restored.

I am in equilibrium.

I am human.

Being.

Lullaby

I knew my mother would not live much longer. I had mentally encouraged her to let go of this life, and move on to the next. I told her in my mind that she would be helped forward, to go towards the light without fear, that loved ones would welcome her lovingly. In my mind I heard the lullaby she sang me as a child, which I was always unable to hear without welling up with tears. It was as if she knew the roles were reversed, that I was lulling her to sleep.

I kissed her goodbye for the last time, hoping she would last until I returned. A Judas kiss. The emotion was too intense. I had to find an excuse to go. There was a perceived need to catalogue the contents of her house so they could be distributed among friends and relatives or otherwise disposed of. This became my excuse to leave. I had to buy a laptop computer to hold a database of these items, and photographs of each one. There was no outlet here in the West Country for Apple Macs, and as a dedicated Mac user nothing else would do. When the job was done it still had to be of use to me. I had to drive to London and buy a PowerBook, and return before the morning.

By the time I had purchased the machine and was heading west to the motorway, it was 9.45pm. I suddenly heard the Paul Robeson lullaby in my head.

Oh, my baby, my curly-headed baby, your Daddy’s in the cottonfields, a-workin’ all the day.

It continued to the chorus, as the long-forgotten memory resurfaced; my mother singing it to me as I was a very young child, calming me, relaxing me for the nights rest. I realised that my mother was at this moment on the point of transition to the other side of life, and the words continued to be sung in my mind as I proceeded down the M3. Around 10.30pm I felt a sharp pain in my chest, which subsided instantly.

45 minutes later as I was driving at 70mph my mobile phone interrupted my thoughts. My brother informed me that Mum had died at 10.30. Now my sadness had turned to a mixture of relief and remorse; she was no longer in pain, but I had avoided being there to help her through it. Then I realised that she was OK; her lullaby had been a loving message to me that she had passed on to the next phase. In a way, I had been with her, and she with me. The separation was only physical, illusory.

Lula lula lula lula bye byes — does you want the moon to play with, the stars to find your way with…

Now Mum was, at last, doing just that.

Aspects of Love

I am that which loves, lets Love flow, expecting no return, but accepting every shade from Not-Love to Love itself.

Accepting ignorance, indifference, ridicule, hatred, feigned affection, fawning, tolerance, sentimentality, dog-like worship, obsequiousness, servitude, hanging-on, and sex adorned as ‘love’.
They are stages on the way to learning what Love is.

You, I, cannot ‘make’ Love. Love makes, creates who and what I am.

By letting Love flow; allowing Love to flow, I learn what Love is.

It is only then I realise THAT — I AM — that I AM able to co-create — by Being an Aspect of Love.

Love is all that is. There is no Reality other than Love.

Julia Cameron Podcast: The Artists Way

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U-Turn at Dulwich Library — the Plough

One long lorry, articulate, dominates the conversation,

first hauls her bulk from left to right, indicating her intention,

perhaps to go down Barry Road. Two lanes of vehicles wait behind,

hanging on her every wordless syllable, and now two more

are halted, speechless, and the lights prevent the motion of

the cross road traffic. Only she, bent at her supple waist, can move,

and slowly turns and doubles back up Lordship Lane,

the impossible achieved. You turn if you want to,

this lady IS for turning.

2-up Recruitment

Here is the 2-up A5 version to print on A4. Again, click on this picture to enlarge to full size and print, landscape. Check the preview to make sure it is all in one page and hasn't cut off a strip. If it has, reduce size by a few percent to allow for a wider margin on the gripping edge (most likely the right hand edge on the landscape view, but please check — it may default to the left on your printer.)

You will need to trim the extra margin off to make them both the same size, a bit less than A5.

4-up Recruitment

Here is an A4 (4-up A6) recruitment flyer for handing out at poetry venues etc. Please click on the flyer to enlarge to full size, right-click and download and print out as best you can. There is a gap at the bottom because most printers require it for gripping the paper. Just trim the bottom two handouts to the same size as the top two.

Latest Recruitment Flyer

Here is the latest A5 recruitment flyer for putting up in libraries, bookshops, poetry venues etc. The 4-up A6 version is on a later post, as is the 2-up A5 version.

Positive outlook

Hell is on the horizon, for

Future finance cannot stand.

We can do it. Getting through it

we return to making barter

freemen, women on the land.

As laid out in Magna Carta —

each a Sovereign Soul and free —

harm no-one and love our Ruler;

Ruled by Self, love thee and me.

Thus the shield of Truth protects us —

firewalk through this hell, prevail.

Behold a new and bright horizon

City of Light beyond the Veil.

Now seeing clear — the Veil is lifted.

We can fly or walk on water,

make our world just as it ought

to co-create and manifest it.

Gone illusion, played our parts;

that fascia, fear had passed in one last night of fright.

Twin moons and sun give constant Light,

Perpetual day as Love so fills our hearts.

Frank's Sunday

This slideshow may be viewed full screen by clicking on the picture, going to my Picasa web album and selecting Full screen or Slideshow. (Button top left)

Gale's Set

Gale's set was the finale, and he read his The Worm and Oregon. He wound up with a request for new members. Credits.

By all means rate others' performances and make comments, but PLEASE approve your own video asap so it can be made public on YouTube, and thence appear on our cryptwriters.info website.

Stephen's Set

Stephen's performance of his poems; The Stranger, Tunnels, and Reflections were the 9th item. Uploaded in Blogger.

By all means rate others' performances and make comments, but PLEASE approve your own video asap so it can be made public on YouTube, and thence appear on our cryptwriters.info website.

Debbie's Set

Debbie's set was the 8th item, and she read her Home, Trading Up, and Everything is Far Too Big. Uploaded to Blogger so you can see it here.

By all means rate others' performances and make comments, but PLEASE approve your own video asap so it can be made public on YouTube, and thence appear on our cryptwriters.info website.

Sheila's Set

The 7th item was Sheila's reading of You Drew Breath by Greta Stoddart. Uploaded to Blogger.

By all means rate others' performances and make comments, but PLEASE approve your own video asap so it can be made public on YouTube, and thence appear on our cryptwriters.info website.

Philippa's Set

The 6th item, Philippa's work, read by John: The Garage and The Card

This is uploaded to Blogger, so you can see it here.

By all means rate others' performances and make comments, but PLEASE approve your own video asap so it can be made public on YouTube, and thence appear on our cryptwriters.info website.

Peter's Set

Peter read first after the interval, his Utter Depression in the Morning, The Good Moods Do not Last, Memory and Memories Lost, Both Organised and Most Disorganised Am I, and What my Headmaster said to my Mother in 1964. This is now the Picasa version.

By all means rate others' performances and make comments, but PLEASE approve your own video asap so it can be made public on YouTube, and thence appear on our cryptwriters.info website.

Lisa Part 2

Part two of Lisa's Standing up for Lucy. (Picasa version).

By all means rate others' performances and make comments, but PLEASE approve your own video asap so it can be made public on YouTube, and thence appear on our cryptwriters.info website.

Lisa Part 1

Lisa's Standing up for Lucy read by Debbie was item 4 on the menu, last reading before the interval. Too long for YouTube's 10 minute limit, so two parts. Actually this is now the Picasa version – click to access it, and view it full screen in Picasa.

By all means rate others' performances and make comments, but PLEASE approve your own video asap so it can be made public on YouTube, and thence appear on our cryptwriters.info website.

David's set

The second reader on the programme, David read Petit Chou, An Eye for Beauty, Falling and Last Gift.
This is the revised blogger version.

Annie's set

The third reader on the Voices II programme, Annie performs Down from the Elephant and Tarte au Pommes.

Revised blogger version.

By all means rate others' performances and make comments, but PLEASE approve your own video asap so it can be made public on YouTube, and thence appear on our cryptwriters.info website.

Voices II - Ewa's Set

Ewa opened the programme reading her The World According to Emelia, Ode to City Bankers, Settlement and Warsaw.

I have re-uploaded this new version with red lower third captions to Blogger.

I am considering making a good quality DVD copy of the whole show for each of us. Would you be interested?

By all means rate others' performances and make comments, but PLEASE approve your own video asap so it can be made public on YouTube, and thence appear on our cryptwriters.info website.

Poem for a wedding

I have been writing a poem for my brother's civil ceremony to his partner James. I am going to be reading it as part of the ceremony. It's not easy and I could really do with some input from you if you can spare me a minute or two! I am planning to top and tail it with something more personal about them.

Tying the knot

Life's thread starts so slender.
A cord that breathes love into new life.
The birth knot sets us free
to grow as unique individuals.

You are two life threads
who have come together.
Finding strength and purpose
in each other as you grew.

After many entwined years
of love and support for each other,
your lives are now tightly woven
into a single thick silken cord.

The mastery of a sailor's craft fixes
those strands from slipping.
A knot that shows the depth of your love
and the strength of your union.

Madrid muse

I apologise for the lack of contribution to either this blog or indeed my own for so long. I have been rather busy with teaching work and a friend here on holiday but I do enjoy reading this blog and the emails and glad all is going well. I have some free days now with little distractions so I am going to have a writing fest! Happy summertime!

Rain on a Windscreen

Rain on a windscreen, lit by streetlamp —

late evening in East Dulwich.

The lamp projects the droplets, each dark nucleus

and bright surround a Kirlian fingerprint that

straightway after impact fades.

Ascending the grey dashboard, they streak

a flowing background for the younger drops.

All move to meet and mingle, but

can never meet their source beyond the glass.

Against the tide

Just as I reach the bus stop at the beginning of the No 12 route, lightning cracks the gloomy clouds. As if waiting for the signal, water droplets the size of small birds eggs hit the pavement — others baptise my head while the thunder grumbles its response from left to right. Waiting passengers scramble to be under the shelter's inadequate roof, and we huddle together like tight typography, close, not touching. Bags are adjusted and pushchairs are manoeuvred to allow soggy stragglers to join us, willing the No 12 bus to come. It does, as we are beginning to think it won't. Three entrances of the bendy bus separate us. Most step out into the rain and get soaked before its doors open. I am the last to leave the shelter, jumping through the nearest door as the others clear inside, feeling the doorway gutter overflow pouring over me as I enter, leaving a wetness down my neck, and my jacket sticking coldly to my back. I hurry to grab a seat, forgetting to scan my pass, then leave the seat to correct the omission and the bus moves off.

What am I doing here risking my health? I have an assignment to video the tango dancers on Westminster Bridge. One of the 14 locations around London picked to recognise and pay respect to those who lost their lives, limbs or loved ones in the 7 July Bombings of 2005, by raising the spirits of sad and jaded commuters on 7 London Bridges and in 7 London rail stations with the joyful, connective dancing of the Tango. Having created four such videos for the event last year, one of which has received over 3 thousand viewings on YouTube, I am keen to do an even better job this year. I have learned a lot since the first one and have plans for a vastly improved production. I have even taken a couple of Tango lessons. Interviews will be conducted and I can edit it to ten minutes long like a professional news item.

But the rain has changed the plan. I text the architect of the project, an enthusiastic german called Tom: "Donner und blitzen in Peckham. How is it where you are? Want to switch to Waterloo station?" He replies: "Lets go victoria station." I respond: "Ok may be late have to switch buses. Approaching Camberwell." As Camberwell Green is announced, I step off the bus into a veritable torrent and leap into the nearest doorway, displacing a couple of sheltering males, who step aside to allow me in. One tells me that Stratford High Street is flooded and all traffic halted. We wait until there is a lull and then make for the bus shelter. Once there, while waiting for a 36 to take me to Victoria, I grab the camera and video the floods swelling the gutter flow across the pavement.

As I switch off the camera the next No 12 pulls away like a riverboat and its wash covers my shoes. I miss my No 36 in the confusion and have to wait for another.

I am now on the bus, upstairs (just in case) but unable to see out due to the windows being totally steamed up inside and wet with rain outside. I console myself by scribbling some additional paragraphs to a short story I am writing.

Arriving at Victoria at about 6.25pm, already missing half an hour of action, I discover it has stopped raining, but there are crowds of commuters unusually not milling around, but standing still, staring expectantly at the closed main gate. The station is flooded. I call Tom.

"Where are you?" I ask him.

"Inside the station, dancing." He says, happily.

"How did you manage that?" I ask him, "The station is closed."

"No, it's open. We are inside, dancing."

"Tom, which station are you inside?"

"King's Cross" says Tom.

"Tom, you told me Victoria. What's going on?"

"Well, Pippa texted me that Victoria was flooded so we changed it. I texted everybody. Didn't you get that text?"

"No, Tom, I didn't."

"Oh. Sorry, I must have missed you off. My fault. But come anyway", he said.

"No, Tom," I say, "There is no point in my trying to get to King's Cross, it would take me half an hour at least by bus, and all alternatives are out. Tango Commute was 6pm to 7pm. If I arrive at 5 to 7 that means 5 minutes of filming. That is not enough for a serious video."

"Come — we're going for a drink afterwards."

"No, Tom, I am going on to a Poetry event this evening. I am going to go home now. Heaven knows how long it will take." It does take a time; I have to queue for a bus in the middle of the road. The bus queue itself is a flood of humanity. Four busloads of people had failed to get onto their train. The first bus hoovers up its load surprisingly quickly, and we are left in the road. The jam of bodies prevents our retreat to the pavement. The second bus driver lets on too many people and I have to stand halfway up the stairs of the bus, trying to hang on to both rails to keep from being thrown down and to simultaneously protect a heavy bag of equipment. I find I can best manage with the bag on a stair. Eventually of course, some passengers have to squeeze past me to get off, and I move up to stand in the upstairs aisle — totally against regs, as is standing on the stairs. After a mile or so I am able to sit, and place the equipment bag on my lap, transferring its base wetness plus the grime of the bus stairs to my trousers.

When I arrive home I dump the camera, grab my poems and drive straight to Walworth. A poetry picnic in Burgess Park. How likely is that in this weather? I drive straight past the park and leave my car in Westmoreland Road yards from the Red Lion. It was the right decision. Even so, only Liz, Janet and Annie are there, and no-one arrives after me. A quadrilateral quorum.

Frank's Restaurant Views

The first view from Frank's Restaurant, on top of the Multiplex Multistorey Carpark, Peckham. Centre: The London Eye. Right: Norman Foster's Gerkin.

The second view from Frank's Restaurant with Canary Wharf and the O2 Arena, right.

Canary Wharf.

The O2 Arena.

Moonbow

A reverse-fleched arrow

runs its vapour shaft across

the new moon's bow,

seeking to nock the missing string,

continues unnocked as if loosed

in the wrong direction,

vapour trailing off

missing the point.

Will it be shot from the bow

more expertly

when the flight returns?

Boo!

Is anybody in here? I keep checking in but it is a little quiet. Maybe you are all asleep? Or scribing away at some great manuscripts? S-S-h-h-h-h-h! Deb

How to upload a video on blogger

I have followed the instructions on this video from YouTube but have altered the default size 320 x 266 in the code to 410 x 332 to fit this layout. This appears twice in the Edit Html code, so both must be altered.

Test Video 69MB Quicktime

This video, created from footage taken at Waterloo Station during the 7/7/2008 Tango Commute was uploaded this morning between 9.30am and 9.55am. That is how long the 69MB file took to upload on my connection, which is broadband and is currently tested at 7.1Mbps download. Uploads test at 0.7Mbps.

Blogger accepts AVI, MPEG, QuickTime, Real and Windows Media, 100 MB maximum size.

The default video size is 320x266px. I have altered it to 410x332px in 'Edit html'. Unfortunately there does not seem to be a button for viewing blogger videos at full screen, so I have uploaded it to YouTube and then copied and pasted the code here. The next post describes the process for uploading videos to blogger and using YouTube videos.

Flag of Convenience

The store that stocked my staple fare —

why I patronised them for many a year —

stealthily dropped each one by one,

because at selling they'd not score.

The reason I shopped there has gone.

Convenience store it is no more.

I now stop for staples at several shops

as in days of yore, before the store

proclaimed its convenience.

In those days there used to be a weird

building that styled itself publicly

convenient, but that has disappeared.

It was always piss-poor.

Endings...

I am sorry that I did not come to the meeting last night and that I will not be coming next week. I regret that I didn't say farewell at our last meeting now as it proved to be the last one for me. I have not been doing any creative writing for the past couple of weeks as I have to concentrate on other projects especially the moving to Spain one! I will be keeping in touch with you via the website and the blog and I hope to have something to share with you during my time away. That is certainly the plan!

I have had an amazing time with you all and I want you to know how much the group has helped me. So it is thank you time:

Thank you

Gale for being such an inspirational tutor and for giving me the wonderful opportunity to perform at Shuffle.

Stephen for getting the group started and keeping it all going. I have really enjoyed your work - especially your history of England saga!

David for the lifts and for all the wonderful work you do with the website and the blog. I know how many hours it takes up and how much care and creativity you put into making it what it is. I am also in awe of how much you are also able to write and how good it is - not going to mention the limericks!

Peter for being such an inspiration in how you deal with the everyday effects of your Aspergers and how it gives you such a unique writing voice. You have made me laugh and you have made me cry with your insights.

Pippa for being a friend and for being excited for me with my move to Spain. I long to read more about your life and your travels as they are so fascinating. You too are an inspiration to me.

Annie for being my lovely neighbourhood friend and for sharing so much over the last few months. I enjoy your work and your use of language and will treasure our times together.

Ewa for being so lovely and such joyful company. The day we spent with you and your family at Easter was such fun and I loved reading their work too on the blog. I was often touched by your writing about your childhood as we clearly had similar experiences. I look forward to reading more.

Sheila and Mike, I have not got to know so well but I have enjoyed our times together.

Gosh, this has turned into a bit of a speech!

I hope that you all manage to keep the group going somehow - especially as I want to come back next year if you will have me!

DO read my blog if you can and do come and see me if you are ever in Spain.

Hasta luego!

Debbiex

PS on a practical note my new email address is deborahespiers@gmail.com

An England poem by Grace Nichols

Outward from Hull

The gulls of Hull
the train pulling out -
a metallic snake
along the estuary
leaving behind
the forceful ghost
of Wilberforce
the confluence
of the Hull and the Humber.
Brough, Selby, Doncaster.
how many times
have I sat this way, England,
gazing out at the leafless
names of trees, at cathedrals
I still haven't seen -
our inter-city boa pushing
through the deepening night -
the wet black roots
of the country.
Suddenly, for some
unearthly reason,
it falters, then stops -
an inexplicable
paralysis of rhythm -
the broach of a small town
gleaming in the distance -
the eels and eels
of branching tracks.

O England -
provincial as Larkin
omnivorous as Shakespeare.

Grace Nichols


I really like the imagery in this poem - the snake is a great metaphor for the train. I have posted this here rather than bring copies to the class. Grace Nichols was born in 1950 in Guyana and now lives in England. Her debut collection, I is a Long-memoried woman won the Commonwealth Poetry prize in 1983.

Help needed!

I have got into a google knot since I changed my email address and now this blog is not on my dashboard on my google account. Help needed oh webmaster! I am not faceless but I am lost!

Human Replacement and Repair Inc

Spares and Parts Department

We are sorry you wear out.

Our driver tried to deliver/collect/install

your part/s. today: LEGS (2) — RECON

Date: 13/12/2019. Time: 10.35am

Please contact us to make another appointment.

“176. to. Tottenham Court Road.”

“176. to. Tottenham Court Road,”

the amplified voice, female, informs me.

“Westmoreland Road”. I know her sister.

Or maybe it is her — in a former job.

They are similar — Words. With. Gaps.

As the machine selects the apt phrase

For the location.

"Next Left Turn” — the car GPS guides me,

a bland, unflappable backseat driver

I can insult without fear of reprisal —

when she informs too late or too soon,

or tries to take me down a road that is

now no-entry, her memory frozen, unchanged by

experience or observation. She cannot see Road Works,

road closures, diversions, her bland blindness

often causing me to ‘suspend guidance’.

But on the bus I cannot turn her off.

She intrudes into my reading, my iPod listening, writing.

Insistently and robotically repeating her set route markers;

going up; returning: “176. to. Penge.

Do not. Rest. Do not. Sleep. I cannot. Allow. You to.

Miss your. Stop.”

A Moment of Ecstasy

A double cone — raspberry ripples.
Tongue spirals the creamy whip, up to its tip.
Lips enclosing fruit, expose sweet juice.
Feel the ice cream take pleasure in giving pleasure.

Fulfilling purpose fully.

Twin scoops sharing — living, loving this moment.

Tonight's videos

A driver's view of Tower Bridge 22:40, 28 May 09

Then I discovered the phone should be held the other way up...

On the way back from the London Irish Centre. The evening was somewhat formal. Mostly. Not so much fun as The Poetry Café. The room was gloomily lit, readers having to stand next to a standard lamp to see their scripts. I had no impulse to take photographs, though I was prepared to. Gale was reading — several we had heard before or were in the Hospital Booklet; The Worm, The Builder, Birthday, The Housekeeper... Most female readers were reading sombre stuff about failed love affairs or marriages and death. Two of these lady poets claimed a student link with Michael Donaghy.

The contrast came with Tristan Hazell who read some very funny pieces, and we in the back row (Pippa, John and myself) were spluttering with laughter. There should have been some less restrained audience response, but apparently their mood was fixed and there was barely a titter.

Then to finish they went totally Irish with an Irish poet called Tim Cunningham who had a lovely accent but his Irish historical references were meaningless to the english, so a lot of his stuff went over my head.

The Poems were framed by a duo of Penny Whistle and Fiddle, in the Irish manner, with a few equally dour songs and one or two jiggy pieces that had me exercising my buttocks on the chair in time to the music. It relieved the tedium of sitting through the sad stuff.

1 The edge of today: another evening of London poetry

David, feel free to use them for write up of poetry in Camden... that's what it looks like tonight.

2

3

As lofty words were savoured in Camden, those south of the river had heavenly glow for company...

A trio of sight-impaired rodents

Three blind mice.

See how they ride

so fast on their guide

dogs. They've read the braille

on the wall. The farmers wife

can not prevail

and will have to learn

what it entails

to throw her knife.

Solitary

My virtual disappearance last week (I will not explain the reason here, as it may detract from what follows) prompted a few observant friends to mourn my passing. Rumours of my demise were greatly exaggerated. As the picture clearly shows, on my return, other than the total whitening of my hair, I was none the worse for my ordeal, having been treated tolerably well despite my enforced isolation. A week in solitary confinement allows one time to review one's perspective on life, and I was not harmed in any way. And to fend off the suggestion, neither was I hammered.

I even received one or two tasty morsels: a snail, the hindquarters of a rat, etc kindly pushed under the door by an anonymous benefactor. When hunger grips, you become less fussy. Even 30 years of Vegetarianism may lapse. My confinement did not stem the flow of my creative juices, and I brought back with me on my emergence much written material.

The cell was small, perhaps an eight foot cube, and a door with a peephole — usually closed — was the only relief and source of light when open. The walls were damp and black with mould. In one corner was a lead standpipe which due to its totally seized tap had been torn from its upper bracket by a former inmate and stood at a drunken angle. That act had caused a rip in the pipe which now supplied a constant drip of water — the source of a thin stream ending at the single soak hole in the centre of the cell, the only provision of sanitation. The floor, stone flags, was strewn with straw, which may never have been changed.

As I grew used to the darkness my need to write overtook my hunger, and caused a useful diversion. I hunted around to find writing materials. I started to clean the mould off the walls, which made them lighter, and made it easier to see what I was doing in the gloom. I dissolved the mould in water to make ink. I selected a few pieces of the least fecal hard straw from near the wall and by wearing away the ends on the stone floor fashioned pens with nibs of varying width, and by trial and error found one that worked well enough to experimentally scratch words on the now lighter section of wall. I first wrote a message to my captors. "Thank you for your hospitality. I will recommend this place to all my enemies."

This effort had exhausted my energy, and I fell asleep. In my weakened state my dreams were strange, and I fancied several beings of light greeted me and imparted wisdom. The borderline between sleep and waking blurred, and I believed they were present with me in the cell. They dictated much valuable and inspiring information, which I duly wrote in the only available space that I could take with me on my release — my own body. As the days passed, less and less space was left that I could reach and use as my parchment. I was growing thinner due to lack of food and interaction with living human beings. I wrote smaller and smaller to conserve the medium. At the last the letters were barely two millimetres high, and to the naked eye appear as a single solid line.

I have examined this writing since leaving captivity and am sad to say I cannot read a word of it. Before washing it all off I photographed every sentence, but for reasons of propriety will not be making it public. The files will remain locked in my computer until my death. Perhaps then (an appropriate time for a literary legacy to be uncovered) some future Champollion with time on his hands and the enthusiasm to give several years of his life to deciphering these hieroglyphs will discover what the heck I was raving about.

Facebook

I am back on. Please link as a friend. Lost all that stuff.

Filming the War

Same day
changing our things,
same day
washing the sky from our wings.
Mosaics on the bathroom floor
Mediterranean breeze;
filming the war.

Same time
looking at sand,
same time
panning the lens over
land.
Rewrite the scriptures,
heroes are shown
learning to walk
on their knees;
filming the war

By Jed

A Request to all readers.

When you post a comment without properly signing in*, you will not see your comment on the blog until I, as moderator, have seen and approved it. It arrives in my mailbox, and if I am out, will stay there until I return. I am sorry, but that is the way it works. The other dissatisfactory thing about it is that your contribution is not flagged on the site, so readers may see it only by chance, when they visit that item.

*The only way for you to be able to post poetry or other contributions and comments independently and instantaneously is by signing in to blogger, that is, responding directly to the contributors invitation email sent by cryptic42, and if you do not have a googlemail address creating one for yourself. Then you may create a blogger account. You are not obliged to create a blog, just an account. You can use your own name or an alias, as in cryptic42. (I imagine most of you have broken that little cypher by now!)

I urge you to take that step, so we can see that you are here in person (or whatever persona you choose), and appreciate your presence. And of course, enjoy reading your work. Thank you.

Garden Conversations

Hello, said the butterfly sitting on a rose
I have come to have fun
By sitting on your nose
Then a big heffalump came and did a pose,
A pose that no other creature could do, I suppose
You see, heffalumps are cleverer than you
The pose that he did, twisted round and round
Until he finally gave up and sat on the ground.
Suddenly a voice shouted out: Have ya seen Vera?
Another voice called back: Yeah! She’s right near ya!

By Miranda

Squiggle

Is this what you mean by a squiggle?

(I squizzed this one in!)

Risqué

A lady from Epsom to please us

plucked some hair from her body with tweezers.

Though our wives thought it rude

she'd sunbathe in the nude

delighting we neighbourhood geezers.

Shocking

A wicked old lady from Ewell

Her navel enhanced with a jewel

The navel was pierced

but what was more fierce -

To the jewel it must have been cruel.

Partly True

I once had a girlfriend called Grace

We had problems in every embrace.

One part would get tangled

whatever the angle -

It's as plain as the nose on my face.

Sniff

A young man who once lived in Wembley

Had a nose like a levelled chimbley

Said "All my relations

have this gross mutation -

Big noses run in my fambly".

Unfair

There was a young man named Lefarge

Whose nose was unfeasibly large

to travel by train

was a bit of a strain

British Rail made him pay a surcharge.

Preview

There was a young man called José

Who was blessed with a massive nosé

When he went to the forum

His nose went before him

And the people would then shout "Olé!"

Last Meeting Pic

I will eventually upload the meeting report. Does anyone object to it? It came out better than I expected. My blurred view was due to my having inadvertently changed the viewfinder dioptre setting. Nice smiles! ;-) Or are they similes?

Click on it to see full size.

Fresh from an Ice Cream Van

Of course it came with a chime and the children ran across the road barefooted... another image to add to your collection, Debbie.

Poetry on a plate

Made by Emilia for her sister's nameday on 11 May 2009.

Yumble Tumble

Profiteroles on a bed of angel delight with pomegranate and passion fruit with whipped cream and strawberry on top...

Review - Saturday 2 May 2009 4.30pm

Museum of London Docklands

Roddy Lumsden signing

Poets and audience head for the pub

The Sampler

Museum of London Docklands

Hosted by Christopher Horton

Poets: Simon Barraclough, Isobel Dixon and Roddy Lumsden

On the day that The Guardian is awash with poetry following the announcement of Carol Ann Duffy as the new poet Laureate, it felt like a good time to be at a poetry event. The Guardian editorial spoke of the exciting work that is being produced in the UK and the places that people flock to hear it. So where were they today? It was a bank holiday and the weather was glorious so maybe it was not surprising but I was sorry not to see a bigger audience for such talent.

I am excited by the increased interest in the performance of the written word and in story telling. Poetry events have more in common with stand up comedy these days - without the heckling thank goodness. For me, a good poetry event delivers a mixture of voices and imagery and will stir mixed emotions - not just of envy but of empathy and humour. And so to the former sugar warehouse at East India Quay.

Simon Barraclough was the opener and I enjoyed his often humorous verse. A highlight was his 50th anniversary tribute to the French new wave cinema - specifically Truffaut - a villanelle about Jules and Jim "these guys are loopy for Jeanne Moreau." He was commissioned to write a poem for St George's Day about an English county and inspired by childhood holidays, this northern poet chose Dorset with its jurassic clifftop scenery. His final poem drew on the iconic image of Marilyn Monroe standing over the air vent and is about St Pauls.

Isobel Dixon was born in South Africa and has recently published a collection called A fold in the map which includes poetry about her father and his death. I enjoyed her poem inspired by a visit to Whitby museum, a place I know well. She read a poem about an amazing contraption, a Tempest Prognasticator, invented by a Dr Merryweather to predict storms. It involves 12 bottles with leeches, and the "leech disturbed is newly risen, quite to the summit of this prism". I will definitely seek out her collection and read her poems for her father which were particularly effective.

After a short break were were entertained by Roddy Lumsden, a poet I have heard and read more about than I have read his work. He began his set with a poem written by his friend Craig Arnold who was missing in Japan where he was researching a book about volcanoes (tragically he has not been found and is now presumed to be dead). He read poetry written during a visit to New York and and my favourite title of the day was Angels hurled down. A set of poems, titled Young, Beautiful and Damned was about cheap celebrity and led neatly to his final poem for Kate Moss, titled Blue, that she commissioned. I look forward to reading more of his work and regret my neglect of this talented poet.

And so we wandered out into the evening sunlight and audience and poets headed off for a post performance drink or two in the nearest pub. A great event in a perfect venue.

Limerick for David

There was a webmaster from Dulwich
whose mission in life was to publish
his words and his verse
for better and worse
forgetting to cook food that would nourish.

Limerick for Mike

There was a young fellow called Mike

who travelled to school on a bike.

though riding made fit

once fell arse over tit

and ended up having to hike.

Ladies Fingers

Okra

Musical Interlude - Stand by Me

Moles and Wales

There was a young man from Pwllheli

who had a big mole on his belly.

Of the mark he was proud,

since its shape, like a cloud,

reminded him of his aunt Nelly.

On a Lighter Note

There is a small fellow in Ealing

who frequently has a strange feeling

the end of his nose

inexplicably glows

and his friends hoist him up to the ceiling.

More on that subject

There was a young woman from Nice,

who was wanted by local police.

It was not for a crime

that they wanted her time

t'was her bosom that disturbed their peace.

This must be the place.

Our blog is the place to be meetin'.

I log on when I am still eatin'.

Where the progress of work

sometimes brings a wry smirk,

and the limericks can hardly be beaten.

Limerick for David

There was a tall man called David
Whose life’s motto was ‘save it!’
He amassed photos and views
Shared them through CPUs
His attention to detail’s what made it.

Limerick for Gale

A poet called Joseph Gale Burns

Thought 'my name though not Rabbie concerns'

So he turned it around

dropped the Joe to the ground

Now calls himself Gale, and he earns.

Limerick for Stephen

An actor whose stage name was Stephen

Though religious had trouble believin'.

He wrote many tracts

On Matthew to Acts

But worried they all were deceivin'.

Limerick for Lisa

A young lady writer called Lisa

Liked to travel to places like Pisa

When in Holland while tourin'

met a young man called Joeren

Who was happy whenever he'd please her.

Limerick for Annie

There was young lady called Annie

Wrote nothing at all for an année

En Mai lost her plume,

But found it next Juin

'Cos her Tante had lent it to Granny.

Limerick for Ewa

A lady, petite, known as Ewa

Was often astute, clear and clever

Once fell for a fella

whose guitar was bright yella

Said Jed: 'we're for evva togevva'.

Limerick for Philippa

There was a young lady called Pippa

Met a scot in a bar who did flip her

a card with his name

she said John, what's your game?

Now they live on the Thames near a shipper.

Limerick for Peter

A meticulous poet called Peter

Liked to measure each line for its metre.

Once the verse and its scansion

Caused his head some expansion

For his fellows had heard nothing sweeter.

MAGMAnimous (For Gale)

There lived a man in Forest Hill
Whose poems were famous in Brazil
They moved them to samba
Drove mad in Uganda
Those groovy verses from Forest Hill

Limerick for Debbie

A lady – a writer - called Spiers

It's Deborah, not Debbie, enquires

for flights where the rain

mainly falls on the plain -

where she'll hear the Celestial Choirs.

Petit Chou

Tesco – the vegetable aisle.

A cabbage throws itself at me –

lands at my feet.

If women did that

My life would be

less cabbage-like.

Never Again

I said, never again

But still, once more

never again, I swore.

Heaps of flat folded trousers

Is this too literal? Phone cam in Bromley yesterday. How about that for timing?

Cotton rich

Heaps of flat, tightly folded
trousers, mountains of tops
pile high on islands erected to
seduce with £2.50 hanging over -
irresistible - even to those on the dole,
whose grannies would not throw
a jam jar away. Bagfuls of
fresh mouth-watering cotton
and lycra win the prime space in
overcrowded IKEA storage units
and render last season’s stuff
to charity bags waiting
by the letter box.
Who buys second-hand
things from Primark -
do they get shipped back
to their makers?

Confessions of a married woman

No, I have not baked the cake,
I spent the day
getting over
a conversation,
a meeting,
an encounter.
Words, eyes, and
smiles mixed with
ambiguities,
uncertainty,
anxiety.

I am relieved now,
days have passed and
it’s back to normal.
I have baked the cake.

Blue Moon

Pretty as a picture,

your body language, words and pleasant laughter,

friends in common, made our meeting such a joy

and promised many more,

a future of companionship and intimacy

growing old disgracefully

together.

Came the parting,

and sweet sorrow as we kissed…

our first…

our last.

In retrospect, the pretty picture-view —

our road ahead —

the windscreen punctured by

a speck of ricocheting grit —

a million shards — the pixels now dispersed

as petals in a gale of doubt.

That vision of your loveliness is lost,

as fear has torn us each from each,

our future now is passed.

The scattered atoms of our possibilities

fall separate.

The fallout flashed from that

brief burst of energy

contaminates the site for many years;

hope lives

upon a moment,

and dissolves.

Frozen kiss

their eyes fixed on each
other's mouths, lips
parted motionless in charged
anticipation

Moving Image

I look at a baby in arms,

smiling granny is mouthing

sweet words, eyes wide,

a second pair of arms open

and scoop the baby softly,

he, the granddad,

glides into a careful waltz,

all black and white flickers

of a silent film of me, first seen.

Have We Met?

When I was Montague and you were Capulet

perhaps I slew you in a feudal brawl

and now to make amends, for you I fall,

or you were Montague and I the Capulet,

as star crossed lovers

died without fulfilling all.

Our memories are wiped at birth,

that freshly we may tread life’s path

or later when with scorn an adult laughs

at our ‘pretended’ recall of the past.

And so the vernal impulse sparked in us

to right the wrongs of ages gone

anew draws us to each, the opportune

to live and let love flow in heavens view.

Tate Britain Bonus

I saw nothing of the woman's face, hair, or figure, as she walked up the steps of Tate Britain towards us, other than her breasts, a shelf of flesh flashing, cantilevered cups overbrimming.

My imagination took the leap, diving into those twin pools below me, sure there was room in there to swim a length or two before she noticed.

Deborah Van Spiers - Recent Visitors to Tate Britain

Dating from early May 2009, and thought to depict three friends of the artist, this composition is constructed with an exaggerated dynamic and distortions of scale and perspective which is successfully distracted by the stylistic hand poses characteristic of much of her work. It is not known whether the gestures depicted are baseball related or are some masonic reference. This piece is unique among her works in that a modicum of good humour is displayed in the expressions of her subjects.

Van Dyck in Britain exhibition ends 17 May.

Cryptwriters Business Cards

I think it would be a good idea for us to have cards we can hand out at readings, which promote the website and the group. I have made this draft design at Vistaprint who are offering 250 cards for around £8 through Amazon (VAT and postage may be added) Sorry this is vague, but I would have to either order it or go back through the process of design to check the price. If we all wanted favourite pictures added to the design it is possible, just a bit more work.

Other opportunities include t-shirts and pens carrying the CRYPTWRITERS.INFO name.

Le Boeuf Sur Le Toit

Miranda's Left View

This one is of Dawson's heights and has a pinkish sky, with airliners strung across in a landing sequence. Taken to the left of the window, which gives you an idea of what is missing in between. There is more, to the left, but it was much darker. Again, click on it to see a larger version.

Miranda's View

This is the first attempt at a panorama of the London Skyline from the exclusive viewpoint of Miranda's room. With thanks to Miranda for allowing me access. Taken at 7.09pm on 29.04.09.

The sun was just to the left of the scene.

If you click on the picture you can see the panorama at a much larger view.

England and St George

Last week I sorted out a long term project; the accordion poem. This is not linked on the cryptwriters.info menu system, but nevertheless is there. You can have a look at it:
http://cryptwriters.info/accordion_poem.html
It is based on the Spry accordion menu which involves your interaction: click on each heading to expand the associated text. The body of the poem then slides into view from below. There are three verses; each has a heading. The Poem is my response to the England challenge.

Welcome!

Hi Cryptwriters!
First post, to see how it looks. Good Friday today, and the Horniman trip.
Have fun! I know you won't see this until it is made live, but anyway, here goes.