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Then to finish they went totally Irish with an Irish poet called Tim Cunningham who had a lovely accent but his Irish historical references were meaningless to the english, so a lot of his stuff went over my head.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