Well tonight we have the honour of announcing a few things on BlogTalk Radio tonight. We will be talking to the wonderful Catfish McDaris about various things that you will just have to listen in to find out about.
Other than that, here are our offerings for NaPoWriMo. I do promise that very soon I will start writing proper blog posts soon. It was easier when I was depressed. I had too many thoughts then. At the moment I don’t feel like I have time to think about scratching my arse, never mind thinking about real things. Though I did have a semi-political conversation with a Labour canvasser on the doorstep before. I say semi because it was just after Keri called me to tell me we were having chippy for tea and I was a little excited.
I wish that was more true than it is.
Here is a poem. The NaPoWriMo prompt for today is to write a poem about a poem.
Sometimes when I write,
I wonder if there is any
connection between the thoughts
in my head and the movement of my
fingers over the keyboard.
I struggle to find connections between the
first line and end line.
The middle is a mystery.
Sometimes I get an itch in my brain when
my fingers cannot keep up with
with my thoughts.
Sometimes I only discover what I want to write about half-way through.
There are connections there.
This is must assume.
I think I write as I think. Disparate thoughts
that somehow makes sense but not in an immediate
Imagine seeing a letter box hanging on a last fraying hinge
then suddenly playing football in a brick-lined passage-way
between two terraced house forces its way
from the back of your childhood memories.
You know the two things are connected but it is
only after scratching around that you make that
Poetry should be about scratching for connections.
The reader’s brain should itch long after reading,
working the words round the cortices.
If the read reads then is not compelled to re-read,
the writer has not written, or at least, has not written well.
This is the connection I have made but hey,
that is just the connection of one poet
who did not know what he was going to say
at the start.
A memory of something slightly unsavoury
Stretches distasteful tendrils
Down my wanton spine
Which aches for sleep.
The faceless mouth of my alarm clock
Screams horrors into my dreams,
Saturated with the melting features
Of everyone I have known
And people I have yet to know.
The womb cocoon spits forth
Birds, all screeching and squawking for dominance
While I shudder my way into the
Morning hours where safety lies in the arms of my waiting almost husband.